Darcy's Quest Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter One

  A nasty business, this quest for an acceptable wife, thought Fitzwilliam Darcy. It was a quest each season which involved surveying the new crop of debutantes, and entailed a succession of tedious balls and endless routs. In years past, he'd cast a jaundiced eye upon the young ladies and the games they played to capture his attention. This year, however, circumstances beyond his control dictated he select a wife and with no further delay.

  It was by no means of satisfaction he gleaned in realizing his search had come to an end. Indeed, he could not have found a young lady more perfect had he drawn up a list of what he did and did not desire in his wife. He twirled her about the dance floor in the ballroom of Netherfield Park, his gaze fixed on her countenance.

  Her eyes were remarkably fine, fringed with long dark lashes which emphasized their wideness to a nicety. Her other features were all that was pleasing: a small nose, and high cheekbones softly tinged with rose; a sensitive mouth, skin clear and silk smooth, and rich dark brown hair which shone with a healthy luster, the modish hairstyle showing her slender neck to advantage. Certainly a fine figure, too: slender, though never frail, with a promise of womanly curves beneath her simple white gown.

  Her manners too, were comely: demure, quiet, composed. A lady, to be sure, and a fitting mistress for his vast Pemberley estate. Her birth was low, but respectable, and if her dowry was not, the latter mattered little to one possessed of his great wealth of ten thousand a year. He envisioned her with his child, and found he liked the notion rather well.

  The recipient of his concentrated state shifted in apparent discomfort, bringing Darcy to an awareness of his open regard. She lost her timing, and though he escaped the ultimate embarrassment of stepping on her toe, his hand tightened on her waist. He held her a tad closer than necessary, righting their waltzing steps with consummate skill. He forced a smile, mentally labeling himself an ogling fool. Nevertheless, he managed a smooth apology, explaining his rudeness with the soft words, “You dance well, Miss Bennet.”

  Heat suffused her cheeks, and her eyes widened a fraction, though not with the girlish delight one might expect from a young lady who had received a compliment from a wealthy, eligible gentleman. She managed not to miss another step and to lift her lips in the semblance of a smile, but in truth, Miss Elizabeth Bennet was in an agony of distress.

  If there was one man in the whole of Hertfordshire, nay England, whose attention she had hoped not to attract, it was the proud Mr. Darcy. He was wealthy, eligible, and in search of a wife; Elizabeth found none of these attributes appealing. Worse, he was coldly handsome, formidable to a fault and displayed an attitude of such self-possession as to make her shiver. Should he offer, she feared she might not be able to refuse.

  Though her serene appearance remained unmarred, she was prey to a great deal of resentment. Blast this ball! Blast her mother's glee upon at last receiving an invitation. And blast Mr. Darcy! He put her nerves all about. Dread had gnawed her insides the moment he entered the room tonight, making straight for Miss Caroline Bingley. Her mother gushed with pleasure when that lady presented him to her daughter, thereby securing a waltz. Her father, too, had beamed with unconcealed approval as they made their way to the dance floor.

  Oh, curse the day she was born, the second eldest of five daughters who must marry well so that her youngest sisters might enjoy the honor of being presented to Society and her middle sister might have an education only money could buy. Having already rejected an offer of marriage from her father's heir, she had little options. Blast the fact they were so poor that all their hopes must be placed on her ability to find a wealthy match.

  But not Mr. Darcy! she pleaded silently. She possessed the courage to snub him, but the remembrance of the hope her parents placed in her was not to be rejected. Indeed, they had scraped together all their meager resources, staking them on the one chance that their daughter would capture such a man as Darcy.

  It mattered not at all that her heart was given to another, especially to someone in the militia and had but a modest income. What if he were the most handsome man of her acquaintance, with the most irresistible charm? Indeed, he rivaled Darcy's distinguished looks, but he was not wealthy, and the only life he could offer was that of a soldier's wife.

  Her fervent prayer had been that she would fail to receive a more eligible offer, which was precisely why she had studiously avoided Darcy since his arrival in Hertfordshire. Still, she had experienced his unwavering gaze upon her more than once, the same gaze she had so recently endured, and it never failed to send tremors of alarm along her spine. She'd even dreamed of black eyes measuring her, always cold and calculating.

  "Do you enjoy life in the country, Miss Bennet?"

  His quiet, cultured tones jolted her back to the present. For a moment, she stared blankly at the perfection of his cravat. She was conscious of his hand at her waist, searing her skin through her satin gown, and of the latent strength of his arms as he twirled her about.

  "Oh, yes indeed," she rushed to reply. "I must say I'm far more suited to country life." She shut her mouth then, not wanting to appear as nervous as she was.

  "Yes," he agreed. "I too prefer the life of the country gentleman as opposed to Town."

  They had something in common, she thought, as her lips lifted in a pretty smile. "And what passes your time in the country, Mr. Darcy?" she felt the need to inquire, though she hesitated to show any interest.

  "Dealing with my estate, mainly, though I do pursue other interests." An unsatisfactory answer, but it seemed he had no wish to elaborate. "Tell me about your family."

  It was more an order than a request, but her courtesy and upbringing demanded she comply. If anger flashed in her eyes, she hastily subdued it. While staring dutifully at the folds of his starched cravat, she gratified him with information of her four sisters.

  “And are the young ones still at home in...is it Longbourn?"

  How much more did this man with the cold black eyes know about her? Elizabeth found her voice, albeit weakly. "Yes. They are all still living at home at present. You may find it strange, but my parents have taken an active role in the upbringing of their children, going so far as to insist we all come together at dinner. Unless, of course, we're entertaining guests."

  "Commendable of them, I'm sure," he commented in the calm, cultured tones which emphasized his air of self-assurance. "I should like very much to do the same with my own children. It is my hope to find a wife with the same views as mine."

  Alarm flared and her eyes widened. She rapidly lowered her lashes, hoping it looked an act of modesty rather than concealment. The last bars of the music struck, and refusing a sigh of relief, she summoned every ounce of composure whilst her escort returned her to her parents.

  As expected, her mother was beside herself at the honor paid her daughter. Elizabeth dared not glance at her father lest he see the dismay in her eyes. Darcy favored her with a stately bow, requested a second dance for later in the evening, and almost succeeded in undoing her calm facade. She could but smile and nod, what with her mother near crowing with delight and her father rubbing his hands with pleasure.

  No sooner had he moved away, his spine straight, his gait smooth and graceful, than her mother turned to Elizabeth with ill-concealed excitement.

  "My lovely Lizzy!" she gushed. "To think! M
r. Darcy! Securing approval for the waltz! What an honor—so generous, so kind!"

  So rich, thought Elizabeth despairingly. He walked to the card room, making the fact that he'd singled her out more noticeable. After a week of watching her from the sidelines, he was now signaling his intentions. She must discourage him.

  "Well done, Lizzy." Mr. Bennet's gentle hand rested for a moment on her shoulder, squeezing slightly before falling back to his side. "Look, already you have envious mamas casting you acid glances. I'd say we're in a fair way to seeing our dreams fulfilled."

  "Surely it's too soon to hope, Papa?" she choked out, casting a furtive gaze about the room. She scarce noticed the misses and their mamas twittering behind their fans, casting hostile glances in her direction. She searched instead for a face she knew she wouldn't find: George Wickham. If only she could show her parents this night, indeed, this moment, where her heart truly lay.

  She couldn't marry Darcy, not when her affections, her love, were given to Wickham. He set her heart aflutter with his caressing blue eyes and flirtatious grin. Some might call him immature and reckless, but she considered such things slanderous. Indeed, they were part of his charm, making him romantic, dashing and full of life. Why, he had confessed his heart was captured, and he was all she desired in a husband.

  "I'm sure it is not too soon." Her father's words washed over her head as she gloomily contemplated the toes of her slippers.

  "To think," murmured her mother, satisfaction and hope lacing her tone, "that my daughter would snare the most eligible bachelor in the county is truly an answered prayer!"

  An answer to whose prayer? Elizabeth wondered, holding her chin at a proud angle lest it dare to tremble. The beginning of the quadrille brought them back together. She did all which was proper, lifting her lips in what she hoped would be construed as a shy smile in answer to the warm one he bestowed upon her. Her parents looked on; she must behave, must pretend she welcomed the attentions of this man, pretend she was enjoying this interminable dance, this eternal night.

  Eyes were fixed upon her, boring into her back, censuring her every move. She fit her steps to his, deciding she hated him. Hated him for noticing her, for dancing with her, for singling her out. She hated the intent she saw in his haughty eyes, the look of interest and purpose.

  She placed her hand lightly on Darcy's arm, allowing him to return her to her parents. As she sank into a curtsy, her gaze lifted to the diamond winking from his cravat, and then to his face, a face made all the more frightening by the warm interest she detected there. She watched him depart, a shiver creeping along her spine. Would she honor her duty, or would she honor her heart? She sent a prayer heavenward in hopes she wouldn't be required to make that decision.

  * * *

  Elizabeth stood at her bedchamber window. A shiny black curricle drawn by two high-stepping bays carried Darcy away from Longbourn. She felt as if turned to stone; only her hands, spasmodically clutching the folds of her gown, gave evidence of her inner turmoil. The past three days she had merely existed, suffering a tangible sense of impending doom. Wickham had been sent out of Meryton on an errand for the Crown, and Darcy had called each day, sending a costly bouquet the morning following their dance at Netherfield Park.

  Truly, she had tried to discourage him. Deciding Darcy would prefer a bride who gushed and fawned over him, she became just the opposite, polite yet reserved, insofar as her mother's eagle eye would permit. Having scarce spoken three sentences for Darcy's ears alone, and judging by the puzzled frowns she'd intercepted, she had imagined success was imminent.

  A playful jab in Elizabeth's side brought her wooden glance swinging round to confront her sister Lydia, nearly fifteen. Lydia threw her the mischievous glance of a maiden just entering the world of men, and tossed her head, sending a cascade of dark ringlets about her pretty face.

  “Lizzy," she said with a smile, "I think I shall call you Mrs. Darcy. That has a nice ring, doesn't it?"

  Elizabeth blanched, turning away with a rapid jerk. Escape seeming of paramount importance, her feet automatically took her to the door. Her fingers latched on the knob. In a second she was through the door, making for the stairs, the front portal and fresh air. She wished it were a bad dream, the product of an overwrought imagination. But even as she reached for a discarded bonnet lying atop a table in the hallway, she knew the nightmare was, in fact, reality. Mr. Darcy had requested a private audience with her father.

  "Lizzy, my dear," called Mr. Bennet from behind her, "I would see you in the library, if you please."

  “Yes, Papa." Her heart fell. Defeated, she turned obedient, if hesitant, steps in that direction. He shut the door behind her with a quiet click. She glanced at him, noting his aura of suppressed excitement. Her shoulders sagged, and had she not captured her bottom lip between her teeth, it surely would have trembled. Sinking onto a chair, she drew a deep breath, folded prim hands in her lap, and returned her father's gaze with a steadiness she was far from feeling.

  Beaming with unconcealed satisfaction, he took a seat behind his desk. After clearing his throat, he made his announcement. "Mr. Darcy has offered for you." His glee slipped its reins, and he threw back his head and laughed.

  Not by the flicker of a lash did Elizabeth betray her dismay. "And?" she prompted in a quiet voice.

  His laughter dissolved. His gray gaze flicked sharply over her. "And? Why, I have accepted his suit, of course. Did you think I would do otherwise?"

  "I'm not sure I should like to marry him," she offered in a tiny voice, lowering her head.

  His expression was the epitome of horror. Gaping at her, he clapped a hand to his brow. "My dear daughter," he wailed. "You shall be the mistress of a very fine home. You shall never know the insecurity which comes with the lack of wealth. He's offered a handsome settlement, more generous than I dared to dream. Your sisters will be secure. God has provided the answer to our every prayer, and you don't want to marry him?"

  Elizabeth knew everything he said was true. Mr. Darcy was a regular paragon of virtue, and many a young lady would envy the honor bestowed upon her. They, too, would consider her mad. Her mother, her sisters, one of them would understand the ordeal she suffered each time Darcy's cool gaze appraised her like a horse at auction. Did she have the breeding? Could she produce an heir? Would she grace his home with dignity?

  How could she marry that cold creature? A man who had never once trespassed the bounds of propriety by even subtly flirting with her? He watched her every move, as if checking them against his list of requirements for the wife of his exalted person. George Wickham loved her as she was. . .and he said such nice things.

  "I scarce know him, Papa," she said into the silence.

  "You shall have the remainder of your life to get to know him." Mr. Bennet emitted a disgruntled snort. "We know enough about him to be sure he's a decent sort of fellow. Sturdy, honest, generous. You know I should never give you to a man whom I considered unworthy. Had I the slightest cause to doubt his integrity, be assured I would have refused him. I have found nothing to fault.”

  "It's simply that I thought I might remain unwed for yet a while—" she grasped at straws "—I am rather young, and. . .he seems old to me, Papa."

  He swatted away her flimsy excuse with a wave of his hand. "Fiddlesticks and nonsense! You're twenty, past the age when many young women marry. And he's but a lad—scarcely eight-and-twenty.” His sigh was long and heavy. "Lizzy, he's taken his time in selecting a wife. You should be honored he's chosen you. Shows the man has good sense, if you ask me. Certainly more so than that ridiculous Mr. Collins."

  Shows the man is awfully particular, if you ask me, Elizabeth thought in silent rebellion. How could she live up to his expectations? And her poor, dear Wickham.

  "I thought perhaps. . .well. . . Mr. Wickham seems rather taken with me,” she said in a near whisper.

  ''Wickham." The name fell flat and empty from Mr. Bennet's tongue. "He's immature and reckless. He'd lead you a merry da
nce and leave you a poor widow. He hasn't the coin to secure your future. I would never consign a daughter of mine to such a fate."

  "Yes, Papa," she murmured. Oh, how Wickham's character was defamed, and he had shown her nothing but kindness. Even Papa couldn't countenance him as husband material. Wickham could never hope to compete with Darcy, not in breeding or wealth. And she would be a sacrificial lamb.

  A tapping sounded at the door. Her mother, her face wreathed in smiles, hurried forward and embraced Elizabeth. "Your father's told you the wonderful news?" she cried, surreptitiously wiping a tear from her eye. "We are so overjoyed, my love, so happy for you." She stood back, clapping her hands. "So pleased, I know you will be most happy, such a fine young man."

  Her sigh of pure pleasure was cut short by her husband's grunt.

  "She doesn't want to marry him." His statement was blunt and pointed.

  Her mouth dropped open. "Doesn't want to...why ever not?"

  “He's too old, she's too young, doesn't know him well enough—"

  "Don't be silly, Husband." Mrs. Bennet took up her daughter's hands, her face softening. "Oh, I do wish you were more sensible," she said to her spouse. “It's only natural bridal jitters. Why, when my papa informed me of your offer, I was quite beside myself for fear of certain marital duties!"

  Mr. Bennet wiped at his receding hairline with a large, serviceable handkerchief. He coughed, a discrete sound in the sudden quiet of the room. "Thought there must be some reason she wasn't swooning with delight."

  Mrs. Bennet, scarcely hearing him, gazed earnestly into her daughter's face, a face Elizabeth made sure had paled alarmingly. She hadn't yet considered those marital duties. "My darling, it's no great hardship, I assure you. But we shan't pursue that topic just now. I realize you must have time to accustom yourself to becoming a bride. But know that God never meant it to be a wretched experience, and indeed, it is not. Why—"

  "I thought you weren't going to pursue it?" said Mr. Bennet.

  "Yes, of course, but husband, I pray you will show some sensitivity to the feelings of our dear Lizzy."