Darcy & Elizabeth (24 page)

Hoodwinked, But Not Hornswoggled

The day of their nuptials was a glorious autumn day both brisk and sun-kissed. Such fine weather heralded a propitious beginning for Colonel and Mrs. Fitzwilliam. They took leave of Pemberley in a festooned curricle, but travelled no further than Whitemore, where they were to transfer into a chaise and four, which was already affixed with their trunks. It had been a consideration to take their rest there and start upon their bridal journey the next day, but so anxious was Georgiana to begin her life with Fitzwilliam, she and Elizabeth saw to it the couple's leave-taking was more immediate.

Although it had been at her urging that they journeyed to Bath, once upon the road Georgiana grew ever more apprehensive. She despised flippant society and she had often heard Bath called a city of great fashion. She expressed her reservations to him and Fitzwilliam patted her arm in reassurance. He explained that Bath had seen its day as the epicentre of all that was wonderful. It was by then populated by middle-ranking citizens, invalids, and aging maidens desperate to find a match.

“Those of fashion have moved on to Weymouth, Brighton, and Ramsgate,” said he.

Although he did not notice a visible reaction from his new wife, Fitzwilliam immediately regretted that reference. Ramsgate had been the scene of Georgiana's near-elopement with her mercenarily-inclined seducer, George Wickham. Wickham had only been foiled by a most fortunate intervention by Darcy. In the wake of his blunder, both Fitzwilliam and Georgiana fell temporarily silent.

“If you dislike the society, perchance we should travel on to Bristol,” Fitzwilliam offered.

Georgiana shook her head. The reminder of Wickham was all she needed to steel her resolve. She would weather whatever befell her at Bath with good humour. She would not allow her own disorder to sway her from the ambition of hurrying her new husband's return to health. Although she applied poultices and embrocations of all kinds at all times, there was little that could be done but wait for his eye to heal. But his leg needed tending beyond what could be found in a medicinal bag. She repeated their reason for choosing Bath to him then.

“Cheltenham, Bruxton, and even the iron-impregnated water of Tunbridge Wells—none suits our purposes. Your leg must be immersed in warm springs to lift the impurities.”

“You should not have to use your honeymoon to nurse an invalid,” replied Fitzwilliam.

Georgiana considered whether that remark from him was any part self-pitying, then dismissed the notion. If it had been, it would have been the first of that type she had heard him utter. She knew it might have not been a particularly romantic notion to choose one's honeymoon design as a health retreat, but she was determined to put her husband's well-being before titillating her own amorous inclinations. She would have assured him of that, but her verbal acuity was not sophisticated enough to allow her to form a reply that was not suggestive.

As they travelled, most of their conversation was centred upon readdressing their choice of destinations and reassuring themselves of the rightness of it. All other discourse was stilted, barely more than observing the passing of certain landmarks. Due to the length of their honeymoon trip, they incurred taking their first night as man and wife at a small inn. Regrettably, its only night-lodgings were on the second storey. Thus the exertion of climbing the stairs added to the protracted anxiety incumbent on such occasions bid Fitzwilliam altogether spent—quite unrelated to any activity of an erotic nature. If Georgiana was disappointed, she bore it with composure, shushing his apologies whilst tucking the covers under his chin with motherly tenderness. If this, particularly in relation to his overwhelming air of discomfiture, did not bode well for the future of this nascent marriage, neither dared acknowledge it.

***

When they did at last reach Bath, the colonel was once again exhausted from the jostling of their coach. It fell to Georgiana to see to their accommodations, servants, and trunks. He was fast asleep by the time arrangements had been compleated. Hence, her second night as a married woman was passed much like her first. She did ease herself beneath the bed-clothes and as near as she dared without waking him. She lay in that attitude for some time and gazed lovingly upon his countenance before finally dousing the light. If her dreams were unhappy, it was unapparent, for she awoke refreshed but beside herself in anticipation of escorting Fitzwilliam to the vaunted baths. She had held fast to the notion of the propitiousness of these treatments as if they would render some miraculous balm, renewing both his strength and his spirits. Of more sober judgement than his wife, Fitzwilliam was altogether willing but not so certain as she as to the healing properties of a tub of water.

So anxious was Georgiana to repair Fitzwilliam, they ignored the architecture of this grand city and betook themselves directly to Molland's. By this late hour there were throngs of the quasi-fashionable preceding them. Fitzwilliam was not in uniform and, as they did not make themselves or their circumstances known, the colonel and his wife respectfully stood aside whilst those stricken with gout went before them. In less than part of an hour, either the actual good his soak did or the expectation of it, Fitzwilliam's spirits were revived considerably. He veritably whistled as they made their way to the apartments they had let. His valet aided him into his dressing-gown, but upon this occasion he experienced the considerable triumph of managing to gain the bed on his own. Therefore, he had ample time for reflection whilst he anticipated his new wife's coming to him.

The colonel was a gentleman, and as experienced as he was with the logistics of physical congress, he was unlearnt in the ways of love. He had led a circumspectly lusty life, not unlike his brothers in arms (and only a little less circumspect than the exceedingly circumspect copulatory life Darcy led prior to his connection with Elizabeth). In that he held absolutely no recollection of their first sexual congress, he was apprehensive as to just what should be his course on the second. (Or even if there should be a course.) Indeed, the entire situation was most vexing. He was a well-seasoned man who had bedded his share of lovers. It seemed to make no sense how he had managed to impregnate Georgiana without any memory of it whatsoever. Gnawing on this mystery with great concentration for some time, he still remained in compleat bewilderment.

Upon the occasion of Georgiana's apprising him of her condition, she used little in the way of implications. Had she not made it clear that her situation was due to his interfering with her, he would have been seconding Darcy in pursuit of the scoundrel who had. He had not doubted her assertions for a moment. The only possibility was that the copious amounts of laudanum that attended his sick-bed rendered him not only an unscrupulous Lothario but an amnesiac as well. He simply could not, for the life of him, recollect when it might have occurred. Or how.

He knew he must have; Darcy was clearly angry at him. He was sufficiently ashamed of himself for taking advantage of such a delicate flower of a girl. Thoroughly ashamed. Therefore, inquiring after the particulars of the act that rendered unto him a wife was absolutely insupportable. When he gazed upon Georgiana in all her blonde serenity, he truly despaired of not remembering. Perhaps one day that sweet memory would return. It must have been lovely.

Whilst he waited in the nuptial bed, he did not ponder these complexities long. He ceased puzzling over them when he felt Georgiana slide beneath the coverlet. He had lately come to the conclusion that he might be exempt from those acts expected of a bridegroom. It was his understanding that many ladies would not consent to connubial affections during gestation—others were happy to engage. He remained undecided on how to approach this dubiety—whether he should put out his arms, or await hers.

Her scent was trifling, but tantalizing—tantalizing enough for that alone to arouse his interest. He turned to her and took her into his embrace. Simultaneously, they realised then that he lay upon his bad leg. She slid from the bed and trotted to the other side. It occurred to him that she was indeed willing for some liberties to be taken. By then he was quite ready to take them. In silent urgency, he bid her hurry—her scent, he wanted again to bask in her scent. Again, she moved beneath the bed-clothes and to his side. This time she raised her lips to him to be kissed. It was a timid kiss, so Fitzwilliam kissed her again. He supposed that if it were his duty as a husband, he would do what was asked of him.

They kissed once more, this time Fitzwilliam's eagerness fought a pitched battle with hers. Her alteration from passive to active participant allowed what may well have begun as a duty for him to transfigure into something mightily akin to passion. As his leg was bound and somewhat immobile, thus, his progression was not as he would have liked. But the small moan that escaped his lips was not born of pain. However, she thought otherwise and arose on one arm in alarm.

“No,” said he.

Before she lay back, she employed a small shake of her head, one that loosed her tresses in a very fetching manner. The gaze they enjoyed answered a number of unasked questions—all in the affirmative. The kisses that had begun so tentatively escalated and he allowed his hands the audacity of exploring her sylphic figure. Once satisfied he knew what pleasures lay beneath his fingers, he gently slid his hand down her thigh to the hem of her gown, signalling that the time was at hand for carnal union to commence. She lay still as a stone, but he could hear her breath coming in increasing little pants whilst he slowly drew himself upon her. His progress, however, was hampered by his bandages which continued to drag against the covers. He threw the bed-clothes back with growing impatience. His bad leg began to throb and his other foot cramped. He leapt from the bed and stood unaided, but swaying as he endeavoured to stomp the spasming into submission. Georgiana sat upright, her countenance awash with concern.

“It is nothing,” said he. “Just a cramp. All is well.”

But he did not think all was well whatsoever. Perhaps all was for naught—perhaps he could not please his young wife. Perchance he was a broken excuse for a man, never to make love properly again. In a frustrated snit, he lay down, the back of his fist to his brows, his resolve wilting with his arousal.

For the smallest moment there was silence in the room save for the tortured breathing of both parties. One might suppose that what Georgiana did next implied a certain degree of impatience with her lover's boudoir resourcefulness. More likely, she simply saw that rescuing the situation fell to her. Regardless, up she rose, casting aside her gown as she did. It was an economical manoeuvre—swift and decisive. So decisive was it, Fitzwilliam's attention was garnered forthwith. (If he was astonished, he spoke not a word of it.) She thereupon pulled herself atop of
him
. She once again gave a shake of her head, scattering her tresses across her ivory shoulders.

He was dumbfounded.

Fitzwilliam had always believed that when he married, unless he had the good fortune to marry a widow who bore him affection, his wife would be a consummate lady. In that he believed she could not be both a lady and temptress, he had held out little hope that his marriage would be sensually fulfilling. Gentlemen taken as husbands under such monetary arrangements were not chosen for the pleasure of their company. They would be used only as the means to procure a future generation. To put it plainly, he would be put out to stud. Some gentlemen found their characters unimpugned by such an arrangement.

When it had come to pass that, for whatever reason, his intended was the most consummate lady, Georgiana Darcy, his anticipation was not excited on that account. He believed that fortune had only shone upon him to the point that he knew her to be personable and not some hopeless shrew. He understood that he had somehow compromised a lady and, as a gentleman, was fully prepared to pay the price of that indiscretion through a marriage of duty. However, from his recent vantage, her prospects (and thus his) improved dramatically.

As she sat atop him, totally and unabashedly undraped, he gazed upon her body in all its lithe glory. He did not want to liken her to a horse, but, quite frankly, as a cavalry man there was nothing he held in higher esteem than fine horseflesh—and he saw her as that then. But not as a brood-mare; she was a wild Arabian, long, aristocratic, and wild. (That it was she who rode him was of no concern to his imagery.) Although the voluptuousness of her action was undeniable, she gave herself to him for all that followed. He was most pleased. He was most pleased the better part of the night.

Morning, however, brought back to Fitzwilliam's countenance that same troubling bewilderment. For after their night of nuptial bliss, the dawn brought an altogether new puzzlement. The morn's unrelenting light revealed to him stains upon the bed-clothes. These were unlike those fluid traces of amours past. They looked for all the world to be blood-stains. It was he who spied them, not Georgiana. She had arisen before him, slipping carefully from the bed so as not to wake him. Nonetheless, he could hear her as she left for her toilette. She was singing softly, some faintly familiar melody, clearly unbothered by any complaint. Had she not been so carefree, he would have been alarmed that their abandon had done her and their unborn harm. He left the bed still unconvinced that she was altogether well.

However, when he happened to espy her doing the maid's office of pulling those same bed-clothes from the mattress, her gaze met his. She smiled shyly at him before she continued on with her work. She then gave a slight shake of her head, but her expression was one of amused contrition. In that moment his bewilderment lifted. The truth settled over him that until the night before, she had been a virgin.

Remarkably, the realisation was one that was not entirely disagreeable.

He knew he should have been angry, but he was not. She looked again upon him with unadulterated adoration so that he could not find it in his heart to be even a little cross. Inwardly, he had a laugh at his own expense. This sweet innocent had compleatly duped him—Colonel Geoffrey Fitzwilliam, Cavalry Commander, winner of dozens of campaigns both on and off his horse. Happily, he found that being hoodwinked by Georgiana was not at all unfavourable. But he thought that she should not go unpunished. The single retribution he could conjure was to make certain that if she did not come to the marriage bed carrying his child, he would make it his mission in life to see that she was when she left it. Georgiana was not of a mind to argue that penance in the least.