The Trouble with Mr. Darcy (37 page)

As the sun crept toward the horizon, tired tempers flared and irritable cries grew more prevalent. Then Deborah Daniels stopped mid-step, crumpling into a heap onto the grass soundly asleep with thumb in mouth, leaving no doubt it was time to retire to Darcy House!

The Easter week festivities of 1820 ended minutes before midnight when Darcy bid farewell to Gerald Vernor and Albert Hughes after winning the last billiards game. He joined his sleeping wife in bed, the beautiful and fragrant white lilies not put to use that night, and his sleep was not darkened by unpleasant dreams. Attentiveness to any possible threat was instinctual, so he was not lax during the week. Yet the best diligence in the world may not successfully halt a threat that comes from within.

***

Geoffrey, Come tonight at ten o’clock while they are distracted by guests. I shall leave the gate unlocked. Prudence

With an evil grin marring his handsome face, the reader of the hastily scribbled note reached for the candle, applied the flame to the scrap of paper, and watched as it caught fire and burned down to ash.

It is almost too easy, and exceedingly pleasurable, he thought.

He sat back in the hard, wooden chair, eyes staring sightlessly at the roughly hewn wooden rafters of his rented rooms. Clamor from the streets bustling with Easter revelers drifted to his ears, but he paid no heed. His thoughts were consumed with weightier musings.

For too long he had been thwarted in improving his prospects and gaining the respectability he was due. His charm and education gave him an advantage for periods of time, but inevitably something went amiss. Numerous times he came close to winning fortunes while gambling or in a business proposition. His military career had crumbled and prestigious employment eluded him.

The source of all his woes traced directly to Fitzwilliam Darcy.

George Wickham grabbed the bottle of wine, lifting it into the air as if toasting. “To Darcy, my former playmate once as close as a brother. Soon you will be repaid for your envy of me and the spiteful treatment in the wake of your father’s death.”

He drank deeply while thinking of the past and the future.

While Darcy inherited Pemberley and everything that came with the estate, Wickham was purposefully thwarted and left to rot in mean conditions. Darcy seemed protected by angels, increasing in affluence and felicity, whereas Wickham grew despondent. His hatred grew exponentially with the disappointments.

After his discharge from the army, he wandered aimlessly and accepted any available job that provided for their needs. Oddly his only contentment was Lydia. She was a receptive wife, easily controllable and willing to do his bidding as long as he reaffirmed his undying love thirty times a day. Her housekeeping skills were nonexistent, but her personality did entertain and lighten his mood. Mostly she was as sexually insatiable as he, so the need to seek pleasure elsewhere did not drain their fragile finances.

Finally, he manipulated his way into a middling position of power at the inn in Devon. It was a comfortable situation and he almost forgot to be angry with Darcy.

Until he crossed paths with the Marquis of Orman.

Naturally he had heard of the duel and Orman’s humiliation. Gossip of such magnitude reaches even the dregs of society, but military personnel especially hold duels in high esteem no matter how loudly the Church cries out. Yet aside from shaking his head in disgust at Darcy escaping injury or justice once again, he dwelt upon it no further. He had no idea that Lord Orman had settled in Devon.

A purchasing trip to Newton Abbot for the annual cheese fair and a necessary visit to a local brothel led to a chance remark. His paid bed partner, a delicious young trollop not a day over sixteen, commented on the “relief in entertaining a nice gentleman whose parts work like they should, and body isn’t a mass of scars and twisted bones.” He had found the comment amusing, then intriguing as the girl continued to chatter, and finally breathlessly exciting as a wealth of possibilities flew through his devious mind.

Overnight Wickham’s resentment regenerated and he was alive with seething ire ready for an outlet. The mystery of why Devon, a part of the country he had no previous connection with, suddenly made sense. It was meant to be. Finally, he believed the fates were aligning in his favor. The threads of serenity gained in the previous months frayed beyond repair and his despair transmuted into euphoria.

Gaining an audience and earning the trust of the Marquis took months. Wickham learned patience as plot upon plot formed in his mind. Eventually, through constant persistence born of faith, he weaseled his way into Orman’s presence and a mutual partnership of hatred and revenge was forged.

That Orman was on the fringes of insanity was obvious from the outset. But this was to Wickham’s advantage. He immediately comprehended the possibility of a future beyond dealing with Darcy, and an unstable, crippled, and debilitated man of riches was a gift from God to his way of thinking. Wickham’s duplicitous nature and scheming intellect quickly laid the foundation for indispensability, embezzlement, and, if necessary, blackmail. Yes, indeed, his future was secure.

Once he dealt with Darcy, of course.

Orman simply wanted Darcy dead and did not care how it was done. Storming Pemberley with shotgun blazing was his initial idea, one that took Wickham weeks to rebut. He argued for restraint and the need to learn the man’s habits and schedule. Wickham envisioned greater possibilities and had to constantly remind the maniacal Lord of this fact. The Marquis’s salivation over Darcy being in Hertfordshire—and Wickham having free access to him—was difficult to counter, but Wickham had worked too hard for too many months to act hastily.

He watched and connived for the best solution to hurt Darcy the most and reap the best lasting benefit for him. Knowing that Pemberley was nearly as unassailable as a medieval castle, he turned his attention to London. He spent hours in surveillance of Darcy House, learning the routines of the staff and searching for any weaknesses in the regulated Darcy chain of security. He cataloged each person he saw to ensure that none of them were familiar and, in that respect, he was also fortunate since his past visits to Darcy House were rare and long ago. Mr. Travers was the only one who may remember him, but the butler was easy to avoid since he rarely left the house.

Fully aware of his power over weak-minded, foolish women, Wickham had intended to charm a maid as a possible way into the mansion. Several ideas were formulated, but Mrs. Smyth was a surprising boon. Following her to the market at Covent Gardens on that fateful day was a sheer whim, one undertaken merely to learn more of the staff’s actions. His impulsive introduction was brilliant and he was exceedingly proud of how it was working to his advantage. Once that relationship was established, his pathway to success was obvious. Finally, he had convinced Lord Orman of the plot’s victory, needing only to wait until the Season in Town.

His smile turned to one of sheer lust, groin automatically responding to his imaginings of the pleasure to come that night. Never would he have suspected that his manipulation of the housekeeper would lead to where it had. She proved to be a valuable asset in a host of ways, the bedroom a bonus he received as further indication his plan was bound to succeed. Geoffrey Wiseman’s courtship was considered respectable, so the staff members were comfortable with his occasional presence.

Jumping to his feet with a youthful vigor, he decided to splurge and dine at the Queen’s Diadem. He would dress in his best suit and order the most expensive item on the menu. With a satisfied stomach and a long night of Prudence Smyth’s enthusiasm satiating his other appetite, his strength would be at optimal levels for the momentous days ahead. Perhaps he should bring her a gift, he mused, a trinket to soften her further, although she was quite pliant after they made love and more than willing to rant against her employers. He chuckled, imagining that after a week she would be especially vociferous, providing him with the final details required to carry out his revenge. Better yet, he thought, groin tightening almost painfully, she will be wild in her rage, finding an outlet with a partner more than willing to transfer angry passion into wanton abandon.

Yes, it would be the best Easter of his life.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

Disturbing Disclosures

The Monday following Easter dawned as most did these days. That is Lizzy was woken just before the sun made its appearance by the gentle ringing of the dampened bell installed near her side of the bed, alerting of a hungry infant. Some mornings the faint chime roused Darcy as well, the drowsy father asking his wife to bring Michael to the bedchamber for light play before they all returned to sleep for another hour or two. However, most mornings were like today in that he remained asleep, oblivious to his wife’s leaving and returning.

Lizzy fed Michael, a task that took about thirty minutes before he was surfeited and once again asleep at her breast. It was difficult to leave him in these moments of tranquility, his angelic face peaceful as she rocked him. There were times when she simply could not bear to return him to his cradle, opting to stay awake and croon as they swayed together with his warm body pressed to her chest.

This morning, however, Lizzy discovered that her thoughts drifted to the vision of her handsome husband as she had glimpsed him when she cautiously arose to answer Mrs. Hanford’s summons. Therefore, she did not hesitate in laying Michael back into his cradle, sparing only a few minutes to caress and bestow another kiss to his silky forehead. She returned to bed, the glow of golden sunlight illuminating the edges of the heavy curtains and brightening the gloomy chamber. Darcy was precisely as Lizzy had left him: soundly asleep with respirations deep and regular, sprawled on his back with the lightweight coverlet pushed down to below his naval so that his muscular, hair-covered chest was exposed. One hand rested above the coverlet on his abdomen; the right extended and laying in the depression where her body had been as if his subconscious knew she was gone from his side. As always, his full lips were parted, lashes heavy on stubbled cheeks, and hair mussed. To his wife he was the embodiment of sexiness and desire.

She stretched by his naked body, one hand commencing the familiar journey across the hard planes of his chest. She pressed her breasts against the heat of his flesh and placed moist kisses over his neck and jaw. His breath’s cadence altered until it matched her accelerated pace, and his muscles instinctively responded to the tactile stimulation even if his mind was primarily unwitting.

“Fitzwilliam,” she breathed against his ear. “Wake up. I want you.”

“Lizzy.”

She smiled at his sleepy response. He
never
called her “Lizzy” unless utterly overcome with passion or drowsily reacting to unconscious incitements, such as now. Darcy slept deeply and was slow to gain full awareness, especially when the rousing techniques were pleasurable and smoothly integrated with his dreamy musings.

His half-sleep state did not inhibit him responding in a number of physical ways, however. He turned slightly toward her, seeking the soft, curvy body with hands reaching to cup her breasts for titillating manipulation and a leg lifting to lock around her hips and pull closer. With eyes yet closed, he nonetheless aimed true, locking his lips onto hers for a prolonged, heated kiss.

“Hmmm… Are you awake now?”

“No.”

“No matter. Stay asleep, my darling, and fly through your dreams as I love and adore you.” And with that declaration she firmly pushed him backwards until he again lay flat and commenced a thorough, provocative investigation of all available places.

Darcy smiled with satisfaction. He was awake, of course, his mind no longer fuzzy from sleep, but rather happily dazed with rising sensations as his unparalleled lover worked her magic upon his body.

He
loved
when she woke him this way and took control! She knew every inch of his flesh better than he, knew precisely how to touch him and play over his body until his ardor rendered him weak with desire. At these times, her passionate nature was unleashed, her abandon a special thrill that lifted his fervor tremendously.

She was so beautiful! Her figure was lithe and sensuous in the pale light with her unbound hair cascading crazily over her slender shoulders with random tresses brushing over her lush breasts. He rested one hand lightly on her hip and spread the other over her belly while observing her glory and sensing every frenzied motion.

He knew—moments before she grasped his wrist and thigh with clenches strong enough to cause bruises if he was not sturdy enough to withstand the pressure—that she was ready to succumb to the spiraling vibrations. She arched over his knees and released a cry of extreme delight with his name interwoven. Every ounce of his considerable restraint was called forth not to ride the tide with her, but his wish was to first savor her happiness. Only when she collapsed onto his chest, shivers and gasps wracking her body, did he take control.

He rolled her over and resumed a gentle rhythm of loving, whispering sweet endearments and erotic phrases. His passion reverberated through his body and transmitted into hers as she progressively reacted with rekindled desire.