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

The color was rapidly draining from Ned’s cheeks with his head bent down so far. He hiccoughed and nearly lost his footing again. “With this ghastly dress, it’s hard to tell if she even has bubbies.” He stumbled a bit and then plopped down on the floor before her. “I can’t even be assured she has lips. But, by God, I believe there is a true beauty hiding in these dowdy duds, if only she would raise up her eyes! Bunty, poke her shoulder. Make her look up.”

“I should indeed love to poke her, Ned—but in the shoulder is a bit perverse, even for me.”

The raucous laughter brought another soldier up, a major. “You two are making complete clodpoles of yourselves!” The major shook his head, and standing behind her boldly placed his hand upon her shoulder to keep her seated. “You are both far too into your cups to be of any service to this sweet young thing. Bugger off and leave her to me!”

Moments passed that felt like years while the whimpering in her head continued unabated and her heart pounded. Afraid to raise her eyes, she was flushed with embarrassment, only gradually realizing that the bawdy comments had ceased and the area around her was now silent. She held her breath, though, knowing that she was still not alone. Someone stood before her, a form leaning over her and large enough that it blocked out much of the light provided from the wall sconces behind.

She slowly looked up, first at his dusty and beaten-looking riding boots (My stars, what big feet ), and then at the muscled legs encased in white trousers ( Must be a lifelong horseman). She blushed, realizing that she should not be gazing quite so intently at those. Next came the impressive barrel chest, the fine masculine shoulders made broader by epaulettes wide enough to serve dinner upon, a scarlet military jacket with its sash, golden buttons, braids, and medals…lots of medals ( Oh no, another soldier! ) His gloved hand rested on the hilt of a beautiful dress sword.

When her eyes finally reached his face, she saw the kindest bluest eyes she had ever beheld, a prominent jaw with a crooked, easy smile, tousled muddy-colored blond hair… With a gasp, she realized that it was the celebrated colonel, the man she continually fantasized over, her hero from the street. She sat bolt upright.

Huh.

In stunned silence, she glanced around to see that the other men had fled, and she sat alone, staring up at that tender face. It was unbelievable, her shock and his sudden presence crushing her ability to speak.

Huh.

He spoke to her at length in French, appearing surprised when she blinked back in wonder. He laughed a little and straightened up, looked around the room, and then stroked his chin. He then began speaking in Spanish, and after that a language she had never heard before.

After running off the drunken soldiers with unsubstantiated threats and one menacing eyebrow, Fitzwilliam turned to the beauty before him and bowed. If he imagined she was lovely through a blinding sleet storm or from the frosted window of a carriage or from across a ballroom, she was breathtaking up close, staring at him like a fairy-tale princess awaking from a trance. A gradually awakening Sleeping Beauty, perhaps, her eyelashes slowly fluttering open.

Then, her full, red, luscious lips opened to pronounce what sounded like a muted “Duh?”

He winced. Oh, shit. A horrible fear gripped his gut that Darcy would be right again and she might be yet another brainless twit. He would never live this down. Never. His heart sank further as she revisited her first observation with an even louder “Duh?”

He spoke to her eloquently in French, apologizing for his boldness in approaching and for the inebriated officers, all the time admiring her beauty if not her conversation. She was beginning to blink more rapidly, at least, her squint appearing more intelligent, or was that just wishful thinking on his part? She certainly did not look Spanish, but he tried that, too. Her eyes opened wider. He finally tried Danish. She shrugged her shoulders. Perhaps the poor darling was truly mentally impaired.

“Well, I have run out of languages, beautiful one. Now what shall I do?” He turned around and searched the crowded ballroom. “Where the hell has Georgiana gotten to?”

Her hand immediately reached out and briefly touched his sleeve. She was terribly alarmed; desperate that he was about to leave. “Pardon me for being so forward, Colonel, but she should return here in a moment. I heard her mention that she needed to find her brother and cousin.”

Fitzwilliam spun around in shock. “You speak English!”

“No. I’m sorry, sir, I do not. I’m an American.”

Georgiana, along with her new dearest friend Emily, reached the laughing couple several moments later. “Cousin?” she whispered kindly and tapped his shoulder, but he was lost to the world, staring into the loveliest eyes he had ever seen, so that he felt nothing and heard little else.

“Cousin?” she repeated more loudly and with a bit more force, then flicked his ear sharply with a hard snap of her fingers. His wits quickly returned, and he turned to his left, stunned to see people surrounding them.

“Georgiana! How nice to see you. Whatever are you doing here?” Fitzwilliam looked genuinely surprised by the crush surrounding him, suddenly being encircled as he was by eight giggling, squealing little females. It was appalling. He then recollected sending Georgiana around for his introduction.

“What do you mean, ‘Nice to see you; whatever are you doing here?’” She looked curiously at him. The girls all squealed and giggled, batting their eyelashes and whispering to her their wishes for introduction. “You just sent me on a breakneck tour around this room, which was no walk in Hyde Park, I might add, in order to get you an introduction, and you end up storming across the ballroom like a man possessed!” Georgiana had an annoying tendency toward honesty, a habit of saying exactly what she was thinking the moment she thought it. Fitzwilliam briefly considered gagging her mouth.

“Well, I am sure I have no knowledge of what you are speaking,” he murmured then raised his brows in what he hoped would be some sort of silent communication to her to keep her unholy trap shut. “I happened to see this lovely lady being accosted by some anonymous soldiers and came to offer her my assistance.”

“You mean Ned Jeffries? And Bachman? I swear I saw Bachman sidle over here. I thought you knew them. Ooh! You did, didn’t you? Yes, of course, you were all on the same cricket team for several years, and didn’t Bunty play football with you and Brother at Harrow?”

Not wanting to eavesdrop on the two cousins’ whispered conversation, Amanda had been watching the excited debutantes with great amusement. They were bouncing up and down, awaiting their moment to impress the famous “Colonel of Waterloo,” edging Amanda and Emily farther into the background. When Georgiana finally began the introductions, the girls squealed anew, gushing and jockeying for closer positions. They preened and flirted, fanning themselves ragged, competing so outrageously that a scuffle began between them, and just when the whole situation threatened to get downright ugly, it was announced that Daddy Hill and Sir Frederick Maitland had just arrived. The herd stampeded in their direction.

“Fame is fleeting,” marveled Fitzwilliam and turned again to his Beauty.

Amanda laughed. “Thank you so much, Colonel, for coming to my assistance. I apologize if I have caused you any alarm.”

“Not at all, madam.” He took her hand and held it gently. “It is I who should apologize to you for the behavior of the younger officers. Often at these little parties, there is too much wine and not enough common sense.”