“Are you tired, Darcy? It is getting very late. Perhaps we should go upstairs to bed?” He was startled awake by Caroline’s husky tone.
“No, no, ’m fine, Caroline. ’M a bit sleepy, though. Oh, thank you. And just what is this brandy called?” He reached out his glass to the footman who had opened a new bottle. “It’s actually very good. Very smooooth. Barely feel a thing.”
“Well, that settles it. You will be staying tonight, seeing as you, my friend, are well into your cups. I’m certain Charles will be along by the morning.”
Doubt and suspicion struggled for a coherent foothold in Darcy’s well-oiled brain. His eyes narrowed at her, making Caroline begin to giggle. “Upon my word, of what are you afraid, Darcy? I am but a small, frail woman, and our history is long over, is it not?”
“Actually, Caroline, m’ dear, ’m afraid we really have no history.” Ha! Surprised her with that one. Darcy tried to keep his voice steady and friendly and his mind alert. She was still somewhere in that room. Had to be alert with Caroline, he remembered that.
“Well, then, you have no reason to refuse my hospitality. We are both of us adults, Darcy, and old intimate friends. If Charles has not returned by tomorrow, we can send a note around to see why he has been detained.”
It all sounded so very reasonable to him, the words she spoke ones of hospitality and kindness, so why did he feel so guilty? Ach! He was just so bloody tired. Darcy shook his head to clear the fog that had settled in, and rubbed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Is something wrong?” Caroline asked innocently.
“No, no, nothin’ really, Caroline. Jus’ wonder why Charles would ask me t’ come here and then leave. Are you certain Jane’s all right? Why would he leave Jane ’n city and come back here t’see me?”
“Well, I believe his problem is of a very personal nature, one that he felt more inclined to discuss here at Netherfield. Shall we retire?” Nothing was making sense to him, but Caroline never did make sense. He remembered that.
Chapter 17
Darcy had stayed in this house many times and had always had the use of this particular bedroom, so he relaxed and finally allowed himself to feel at ease. His first time here had been those long weeks when he met and fell in love with Elizabeth Bennet. During those early days, she had also stayed at Netherfield to nurse her sister Jane, who had become ill during a visit— that had been hard having her so near to him and then falling head over heels for her. Of course, there also had been the small problem of her hating the very sight of him. He had ached for her until returning the following spring, finally courageous enough to ask for her hand a second time after her initial rejection. Yes, this house had many powerful memories for him, but being alone in the place with Caroline should not be one of them and would be impossible to share with his wife.
He shuddered to think of her learning about this. The picture of three Lizzies boiling his head was replaced with one of her leveling a blunderbuss at his groin. Even though the images had changed, she was still cackling. If it was not so late, he would tie himself across his horse and escape to her father’s home. But Mr. Bennet was not home either; he was at Rosings, too. He was, wasn’t he? Darcy groaned and hiccoughed. His thoughts were tumbling around, rarely connecting or making sense.
Without thinking, he took another draw from the brandy bottle. Then another. I am worrying needlessly. ’Course I am. Caroline and I have both matured and gone our separate ways. She’s been ’gaged ’bout five times since we were together, at least five times, certainly enough times t’ have forgotten me. And she’s m’ dear friend’s sister, after all. Good ol’ Bingley. He convinced himself that perhaps he had misjudged her, and even if not, there was a lock on the hallway door that he had fastened and a chair secured beneath the knob. Ha! He chuckled to himself. She was crafty. He remembered that.
He sat heavily on the bed and unbuttoned his breeches. This is so unlike good ol’ Bingley, he reflected as he tugged off one boot, the momentum of the movement rolling him over on his side. “Oooops.”
He lay there, his cheek pressed into the sheets. They felt nice and cool against his skin. Don’t like mysteries. Like concrete things. Mr. Concrete. Mr. Drainage. I hope he and Jane aren’t having difficulties. (Hiccough) I would hate to be in the middle of that one. Ha! I have my own marriage to contend with, without trying to figure out another’s. He righted himself slowly, shaking his head to settle all the confusion. He tugged off his second boot, reverse momentum continuing him over, facedown onto the bed in the other direction.
“Oooops.” He began to laugh, softly at first and then loudly snorting as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Don’t snort, Darcy. Ha!” He nearly tumbled forward as he placed the second boot down very carefully next to the first, which had apparently moved, then stood to remove his shirt, pants, and smallclothes, staggering a bit. Respectfully holding the locket containing Lizzy’s hair, he tried several times unsuccessfully to kiss it, finally placing it reverently on the nightstand next to the bed. “Good night, m’little angel,” he whispered to his phantom wife.
He waved bye-bye just before he passed out.
He was dreaming of horses. Beautiful Arabians and Andalusians. It was a painting he had seen as a child come to life. They were charging toward him, but he was thrilled, not frightened. Suddenly there was his father’s beloved mount, Jezebel, another distant memory from his childhood. Jezebel had been a magnificent beast. She and the grand old stallion, Caesar, were both responsible for many of the current stock in the Pemberley stables, and they were both running to him, as if they were young again and alive. All at once he was atop Jezebel, enjoying the wind blowing through his hair. She galloped faster and faster, her sinuous strong legs moving beneath him, changing again into a huge bird that flapped her wings, and off she was flying, over Pemberley and over Netherfield and over Rosings.
I should return home, he tossed about fitfully once or twice, fighting the joy of shirked duty, but he felt so free. No worries about babies or stress or complications, only the soft, sweet breeze on his face, now the tender erotic sensation of moisture tingling his neck and back, the sensuous feeling of arms and legs wrapping around him, full breasts pressed against his bare back. Oh my, but he really and truly loved women’s breasts, was always guilty about his unseemly and unwavering obsession with them. It was indecorous and common. If only he could stop smiling. He grinned happily now at how warm and soft they were, like spongy pillows, firm and big. He imagined his Lizzy before him, slim once again as she was prior to the pregnancy, her breasts not the tiny delicate buds she possessed before but engorged with milk as they were now. He loved looking at them and touching them. Hell, he reasoned, this is my dream. I can think whatever I want. He hoped she would breast-feed the baby for a very long time, possibly twenty years or so.
His chuckle turned into a moan as he found himself becoming more and more aroused, and he began to force himself awake, forgetting completely that he was not at home.