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

What did he mean—could not be anyone else? Was she that undesirable? Even if she did regret this ridiculous lie, she could not retreat from it now. She yanked her hands free from his grasp and crossed her arms over her chest. “I beg your pardon, Colonel? You cannot honestly be calling me a liar?!” Her tone was icy cold.

“Yes, I can, and a pathetically poor one at that.”

“Well, well. Colonel Fitzwilliam, I am not accustomed to having my words doubted in this way, or in any way, for that matter!” She was suddenly livid. “I can assure you that I am involved with another! Oh yes! He is a respected physician, and I know him very well from chapel on Sundays. In fact, I go often to his hospital to volunteer my services to the poor. Yes, we are very involved! I am involved unto the brink of receiving and accepting his offer!” Ha! That told him. She pulled and tugged at her dress then ruthlessly yanked locks of falling hair and seemed to pin them directly into her skull. He half expected to see rivulets of blood stream down her forehead and neck.

A disbelieving Fitzwilliam was becoming exceedingly annoyed. “Really? Is that a fact? How very interesting. Come, who is it, then? I insist on knowing his name. You say he is from the hospital. Very well, I am there often to visit my men. I am certain I know him. Well, speak, woman, who is this mysterious man you cannot live without? Tell me— if you can ! Is it Mr. Cannon? Mr. Braithwaite? Sir Michael Siemons?”

“Sir Michael is nearly eighty-five years old!”

“Madam, after this encounter, I have every confidence in your ability to raise the dead. Now stop bamming me, Amanda! You are hardly the sort of female to be on the brink of betrothal to one man while passionately making love to another! I am not some young buck just come to town.”

This was the outside of enough! Even if he was absolutely correct in his appraisal, why would he not think another would want her? She believed herself to be attractive in certain lights—true, those lights needed to be very dim and at least twelve feet away. The nerve of this arrogant turtleback or lobsterfoot or whatever he is. Her Yankee temper flared red-hot, and she twitched around like a netted fish, unable to stand still in one spot. “Please stand aside. I am returning home.”

“Who is it? Anthony Milagros?” Please don’t let it be Milagros . He had met Milagros and liked the man, but Milagros was tall, dark, and elegantly handsome. Most women he knew adored him. Suddenly he loathed the man. When Amanda’s head snapped up at the name, Fitzwilliam’s temper detonated. “So it is Milagros, is it? I might have known you would be like all the rest, drooling over some goddamn oily Latin type. Well, he is handsome and rich, I’ll give you that!”

It was at that moment that Darcy came out onto the balcony, a concerned look on his face. “Is everything all right? You two are making a bit of a racket. People are beginning to become alarmed…”

“Get out!” they shouted in unison. Seeing the furious looks on both their faces, he immediately spun around on his heel and made a hasty retreat inside.

“Well!” She furiously patted her hair down on both sides. “I have never been so insulted nor so abused in my life! Colonel Fitzwilliam, I would appreciate it if you would never attempt to speak with me or contact me again!”

“Believe me, Lady Penrod, that is the farthest thought from my mind! You shall have no cause for further alarm on that front! The joy of the evening to you, madam!” Fitzwilliam released his hold on Amanda’s arms so suddenly that she almost fell back against the wall. His fists rested upon his hips as he turned his body angrily away.

She threw down his coat and stormed off.

There was dead silence on the balcony.

Darcy had time only to retreat a few steps into the shadows of the ballroom, coming forward as soon as Amanda ran past, her head lowered. He came to stand just within the balcony doors. “Jesu, Fitz! What in hell happened out here?” Darcy ran his hand through his hair as he walked slowly toward his cousin.

Fitzwilliam looked out over the garden, unable for once in his life to torment his little cousin. “We were passionately in love—for a few minutes, anyway. One of my longer relationships.”

Darcy chuckled. “I take it the earth moved?”

Fitzwilliam barked out a laugh. “Well, I’ve never heard my anatomy called that before, and yes, the South of France did wave.” He grunted mirthlessly. “Shit! Give me a moment, Darcy. At present I am in no condition to walk through that room. Is Georgiana all right?”

“She’s fine, merely her usual distress at being among such a large crowd. This promises to be a trying come out for us all.”

Fitzwilliam saw the bottle of wine and two glasses in Darcy’s hand. “I hope that’s liquor you have there and that it is intended for me.” Reaching over, he brushed aside the glass his cousin proffered, preferring the whole bottle. He took a long, hard draw.

“Did I come out here too early or too late?”

“Damned if I know.” Fitzwilliam exhaled loudly and took another draw from the bottle, finally remembering to pour some into Darcy’s glass. They stood in silence for a while.

“She claims to be promised to another. Can you credit that? Promised to another when we were…” He looked quickly away before he continued. “Well, forget the rest of that. I just cannot believe this has happened! Something is very wrong.”

“Did she say who the man is?”

“Dr. Anthony Milagros.” Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes. Darcy winced, knowing Milagros’s attraction to the opposite sex.

“Go after her, man!”

His cousin considered that recourse for only a brief moment then shook his head. “Never, brat! I am a confirmed bachelor, my own man, set in my ways and too old to change.”

“You are only two and thirty. My own father was married at four and thirty. You have years left. Do not give up so easily.”

“Goddamn it, Darcy, I do have some pride.”

“Oh, you stupid idiot. When it comes to love, pride always takes second place.”

“I have never had to chase a woman, never , and certainly have no intention to begin now!” With that, Fitzwilliam stormed away. “Beg for that harridan! Ha! I have not enough interest in her to even pursue this any further. End of discussion.”

Fitzwilliam leaned against Darcy’s carriage, an angry lover assessing his rival’s townhouse, the freezing rain fueling his fury. And the townhouse was an awesome sight, more a mansion, one of the largest, grandest homes in London, exceeded by few others, including Darcy’s and Catherine’s. “Shit. I knew the bastard was rich, but not this rich.”

His loyal batman and driver, O’Malley, grunted his opinion. “Ah, well, don’ be so hard on yerself, Colonel. Ya have good points—God bless me, even a busted clock is right twice the day. No, truly. Yer a good horseman, the very best I’ve ever seen, and yer kind to unfortunates… and ya have grand teeth. Oh, the fancy doctor may be filthy rich, an’ dark and handsome an’ all, and irresistible to the ladies, and…” Fitzwilliam’s cold, hard stare stopped the litany of Anthony Milagros’s greatness.

Unable to tear his eyes from his colonel’s O’Malley took a large swig from his flask and trembled violently from the potent brew. He took out his pipe. “I’ll not say another word. Me lips are sealed.”

“Bloody hell…” Fitzwilliam cursed as he made his way across the road, and then again as he opened the gate. He began the climb up the granite steps, hissing “shit, shit, shit,” on each one. He looked around as he approached the massive and elaborate double-door entryway. “Bloody hell.” Fine, money evidently will not influence him. I cannot possibly kill him. What are my other options? He pounded on the door knocker.