Karen Wasylowski - Darcy and Fitzwilliam - A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer

She gasped and spun around, looking first at his chest, which was eye level, and then turning her face up higher, her eyes wide with surprise. She smiled her recognition instantly. His heart stopped. When he spoke, he raised his voice over the wail of the wind. “I believe you dropped this, madam.” He then warmly smiled back at her. Those huge eyes were a breathtaking almond shape, the deepest, darkest brown imaginable and innocent as a baby doe’s, fringed with long, thick black lashes. Delicate dark blonde brows arched above them like willowy, graceful caterpillars. Her skin was smooth as porcelain, creamy and flushed, the rosy red tint of the freezing wind accentuating broad, high cheekbones. Her nose was not the tiny button of an English miss but strong-looking and slightly wide. He stared at her lip’s full, soft moist form and nearly began to salivate, actually forgot to breathe. The whole effect was exotic, exhilarating.

Taking the bag, she nodded in thanks and was just opening her mouth to speak when a muffled threat barked from within startled her, commanding her to enter the carriage. The footman quickly approached and took her hand, forcing her to step up onto the coach steps while the driver leaned toward Fitzwilliam to apologize. “Sorry, Colonel, sir,” John Coachman yelled into his ear. “’Er Royal ’ighness ’ere is in rare temper today. Let me shake your ’and again, though, sir. ’Tis a honor, sir, a honor, and one that I shall lord over me mates tonight!”

The old tabby angrily pulled the carriage door closed once the beauty was barely within and then bellowed for them to be off immediately, furious that they were scandalously late for somewhere already. John Coachman tested and secured the door, touched his hat respectfully toward the colonel, and jumped up into his seat.

Fitzwilliam stepped back as the carriage jerked forward and started moving, making a turn at the end of the square and then once again slowly crossing his path. He watched it closely, his eyes searching within, his heart pounding against his ribs when he saw she was looking directly back at him, clasping the bag to her bosom and smiling in thanks. It was her eyes that seared him, melted into him, creating an emotion that sent intense waves of heat rushing throughout his body. When the carriage moved quickly away, only the back of her bonnet showed in the window.

“Look at me, love,” he whispered, willing her to turn around so he could see her again… and then she did. He had never been so affected by a woman before in his life, nor had he seen a face so beautiful and so unique and so riveting. She watched through the back window and continued staring at him until the carriage was out of sight.

It seemed then that the world around him had been sitting in a sort of muted shock, as if a new day gradually was dawning in his conscious mind. He continued his watch long after the coach passed from view. When his heart started beating again, he harrumphed and pulled his collar up to hold tightly around his neck, blowing out the breath he was suddenly aware he had been holding.

What in bloody hell was that? He tried to shake off the emotional bond that seemed to have sparked to life between them. This is ridiculous , he snorted. Too much cheap claret at lunch . He laughed to himself, willing his nerves to somehow stop trembling. It wasn’t until another carriage passed by and someone he knew called out a greeting to him that he roused himself and continued on to Darcy’s.

“And where’s our Little Behemoth? I hope she’s not lodged herself within some doorway again.” Fitzwilliam stood gratefully before the roaring fire and rubbed his raw, cold hands briskly together. Elizabeth had become very, very pregnant of late. They teased her mercilessly. She was immense.

Without raising his eyes, Darcy motioned upward with his pen, in the general direction of Lizzy’s private sitting rooms. He was ensconced at his desk, surveying the reports spread upon it, reports brought to him that morning by the estate manager of his massive holding, Pemberley, in Derbyshire.

“Unfortunately, we had a bit of a disagreement at breakfast. Apparently LB is questioning the fairness of this whole pregnancy situation and at present is hosting a lively protest in her room. She and Georgiana have finished off two boxes of chocolates, a dozen scones, and are now into the peach tarts.”

Fitzwilliam laughed while he turned the chair across from Darcy around and straddled it, happily accepting the coffee handed him by the butler. “Thank you very much, Winters. You are a prince among men. It is bloody freezing out there.” He turned his attention back to his cousin as he sipped the hot drink. “Well, I don’t mind lending my support for her escape as long as the peach tarts hold out.” He tilted his chair forward to clutch an uneaten sandwich from Darcy’s plate. “Perhaps you can provide us with some type of hoist.”

Darcy abruptly looked up from his paperwork. “You are excessively tardy, as if that surprises me. Never tell me you’ve been at Wellington’s all day? I thought it was only to be a breakfast meeting.”

“Yes, well, it started out that way, but as usual, the breakfast meeting stretched into a chatty luncheon visit. We wasted an awful lot of time as he shaved this morning. I think the man is part ape; in fact, I’d swear to it. I could see his beard growing while I ate my Jerusalem artichokes. Put me off my feed for a while, I can tell you.”

Darcy’s snort served as his opinion regarding that possibility when he belatedly pulled his now empty plate back from within his cousin’s reach.

“And how is his good wife?”

“An idiot. Say, Darcy…”

“I hate to admit that was my impression, also, poor dear. Still, she has some basis for her arrogance, you know, comes from very good stock, wonderful bloodlines. If she was a horse, I’d admire her fetlocks and the astoundingly broad fullness between her eyes. By the way, has he finished remodeling his new townhouse? I’d say he bit off a bit too much with that one. Good location, though, excellent for resale.”

“Who cares? I say, Darcy…”

“Bingley heard that he’s resigning his commission. Is that true? Smart move if he is. Mark my word, he’ll be prime minister one day.

“Gad! Can we forget about Wellington for one moment, please? Good Lord, he puts his little breeches on one leg at a time, just like you and I. Now, try to pay attention. I wanted to ask you about that woman who lives across St. James square. You know who I mean—the old beastie with the hairy mole on her chin—lives in that house across from Aunt Catherine.”

Darcy shivered in recollection. A ruder, more snobbish, social-climbing harridan did not exist in all of London. “Yes, she’s lived there for years—name is Pennwalt or Pensky or Petterson. She’s an absolute horror. What on earth would you want with that old woman?”

“Didn’t she have a son that died a few years back? On the Hamilton yacht wasn’t he… when it sank… or some such accident?” He settled his chin on his folded arms, surreptitiously eying leftover biscuits.

“Yes, I believe she did have a son who drowned, but not on the Hamilton boat.” Darcy didn’t bother to look up from his writing. “Sit up straight—you’re going to break the legs on that chair, lurching back and forth like that! It’s like having an elephant bouncing on a twig.” He slapped at his cousin’s hands. “And stop grabbing at my food, you thieving bastard.”

Fitzwilliam grunted. “You’re sounding more and more like Aunt Catherine, the older you get, did you know that? Even beginning to look a bit like her. What else do you know about the matter? I mean the hag’s son.”