In the Arms of Mr. Darcy

Chapter Eleven The Court of St. James

The horses turned the corner onto Grosvenor Square, hoofs clomping loudly on the perfectly laid stones as Mr. Anders tugged slightly on the reins. The well-trained animals slowed in response, the vehicle’s occupants noting the deceleration but not needing that clue to know they were nearing the end of their journey.

“Look, my darling. There it is. Darcy House. Your other home and where we shall stay for a while. Thank goodness, as I am weary of dragging you from place to place.”

Lizzy kissed the crown of her sleeping son’s head, her softly spoken words apparently unheeded by the oblivious four-month-old infant but clearly not by her husband. Darcy leaned forward slightly in his seat across, furrows rapidly creasing his brow.

“Are you feeling unwell, Elizabeth?”

Lizzy smiled, shaking her head as she met his concerned eyes. “I only meant that I am pleased to be settling in one place for an extended spell. And into a house that is ours. No offense to Lady Catherine’s hospitality, but extensive renovations to Rosings will be required ere Anne and Raul have a baby.”

Darcy relaxed once again into the plush cushions. “Indeed. Fortunately, they have time. As for renovations, I am confident that Darcy House has been remodeled to my specifications. Alexander will discover a comfortable chamber to sleep in near ours as it should be.” His tender gaze rested upon his son, nestled warmly against Lizzy’s chest under a thick blanket. “He will have plenty of time to recuperate and grow stronger before we return to Pemberley.”

In fact, both mother and child were the picture of health. Lizzy’s expressed desire to stay in one place was purely driven by an internal need for familiarity. Darcy House may not have been “home” in the same respect as Pemberley, but it came close.

The object of her musings was now in plain view. The washed white stones and wide sash-paned windows reflected the bright April sunlight, casting a virtual glow around the house where it majestically sat across the grassy park in the middle of Grosvenor Square. All the townhouses fronting the Square were stately, Darcy House not more or less so, but it was the only one with a stunning combination of marble and glass in vast amounts. The wrought iron barriers to the basement quarters and balconies on the upper levels were polished until gleaming, not a hint of rust evident for the Master to see. All debris had been swept away from the gutters and pavement walkways, and a new carpet runner padded the marble steps leading to the vivid blue front door. The windows were open, allowing the fresh breezes of spring to ruffle the curtains and cleanse the interior air, carrying floral fragrances from the lush blooms growing inside the ornate flower boxes underneath each sill.

It was a picture of welcoming perfection, just as Darcy expected.

Mrs. Smyth, the housekeeper of Darcy House, stood in the ground level morning room watching the sedate approach of the rich Darcy coach. She stood with back straight, chin lifted, and hands clasped loosely in front. No overt sign gave away her state of mind except for the persistent spasm behind her left eye that caused the orb to twitch rhythmically. She knew without a doubt that the house was prepared for the arrival of her Master. Her superior expertise and knowledge of Mr. Darcy’s expectations allayed the bulk of her trepidation. It should have completely quelled her fears. It always had. But that was before Mrs. Darcy joined the mix.

For five years, Mrs. Smyth had been housekeeper of Darcy House, a position she valued, and it had been bliss. Mr. Darcy was frequently in Town during those years, but usually alone and so reserved that one hardly knew he was present. He rarely hosted any parties and then they were minor affairs with a small number of guests. His demands were few, mainly ones of preserving order and quiet. He was exacting and intense, not in any way foolish or to be trifled with, but since Mrs. Smyth was an excellent, scrupulous manager, they never clashed.

From the day she heard of Mr. Darcy’s shocking engagement to the country girl of no family or connections, she had sensed a dark cloud creeping inexorably over her existence. As a city girl born and bred, Mrs. Smyth considered anyone outside the regions of civilized London as suspect and on equal par with the dregs of Whitechapel or Wapping. That Mr. Darcy, a paragon of Society, would marry such a woman was beyond her comprehension. She had assumed that Miss Bingley would someday be Mrs. Darcy, or at least some lady like her. That would have been the correct course, the sensible choice, and Mrs. Smyth saw no logic to his hideous error in judgment, suspecting as many did that there must be some sort of witchcraft or trickery at work from the obviously money-seeking upstart.

Upon her first meeting of Miss Bennet, when Mr. Darcy brought his fiancée and her dowdy father to Darcy House during their engagement, Mrs. Smyth’s worst fears were realized. Miss Bennet was plain and drab, dressed in ugly gowns of no style and poor workmanship, with hair and body unadorned in any way. She smiled constantly, vulgarly showing all her teeth, was animated and noisy, and laughed incessantly. Grudgingly, Mrs. Smyth admitted that Miss Bennet carried herself with grace and that her manners were adequate, but those positives were overruled by her improper boldness and teasing informality with Mr. Darcy.

Mr. Darcy was clearly besotted and subtly altered. He smiled too much and laughed aloud. His eyes followed her every move. And worst of all, he welcomed her impertinence and returned her banter! It was frightening to observe and Mrs. Smyth prayed daily that something or someone would intercede and break the spell. Unfortunately, that did not happen and the marriage took place. Mrs. Smyth was relieved when Mr. Darcy informed the staff that, after the wedding, he would immediately be retiring to Pemberley for the winter, not to return until late spring. She rested in the conviction that the naturally inhibited, staid, and domineering Mr. Darcy would shake off the shameful enchantment after months of forced confinement behind the walls and snow-laden landscape of Pemberley. He would recognize his vast mistake, and indeed if it was too late to reverse the blunder, surely he would rectify the damage by grinding the presumptuous nobody down into the submissive, proper wife she should be. Perhaps then, Mrs. Smyth thought, there would be hope for regaining the Darcy reputation and salvaging the future.

That hope was dashed within days of Mrs. Darcy’s first season in London. The housekeeper’s painful, disgraceful humiliation yet resounded through her mind. The subsequent weeks of bowing to Mrs. Darcy’s demands were fresh wounds that gnawed at her serenity.

All of London Society had apparently forgotten the embarrassing background of Elizabeth Darcy, but it did not sway Mrs. Smyth’s opinion. She would not forgive. Or relinquish her belief that, although Mrs. Darcy displayed a newfound class and elegance beyond what she had ever imagined possible, there was a lacking propriety and borderline crassness to the Darcy household that had not existed prior. The addition of the boisterous, coarse Dr. Darcy, surely unacceptable if not for the negative influence of Mrs. Darcy, cemented her judgment.

Numerous times after slimly escaping dismissal she had contemplated seeking employment elsewhere. But, in the end, even with the detriments, she was in an esteemed position of power in a prestigious household. Her wage was substantial, her quarters generous, and her freedom liberal. Their tenancy last spring was trying but short, the family then departing to reside the bulk of the year at Pemberley.

So Mrs. Smyth went about her business, blessedly alone in her supremacy. She had almost forgotten the past indignities, but the looming presence not only of Mrs. Darcy and Dr. Darcy but also an infant escalated her distress. Any miniscule hope that matters may have changed, that Mr. Darcy was not as dotty over his wife after a year, were shattered when the orders came through regarding the nursery. Who had ever heard of an infant sleeping within earshot of the master suite? With bells installed to wake if needed? Quarters for a nanny but no mention of a wet nurse! It was unbelievable. Too unbelievable to fully comprehend, so she assumed it was a puzzle and she was missing a piece.

Thus, her dread had risen substantially until the dratted tic occurred with alarming frequency. The arrival of Mr. Darcy’s valet and Mrs. Darcy’s maid, along with the nanny three hours ago alerted the entire household to the impending appearance of the family. Everyone was on high anticipation, the heightened energy palpable even though they went about their duties with cool efficiency.

Mrs. Smyth waited until the last possible moment, watching the carriage halt and the footman leap down to open the door. She heard the front door of the townhouse open as watchful servants descended the steps to assist with luggage and passengers. Dr. Darcy disembarked first, his skeletal limbs encased in an outlandish foreign outfit of shocking maroon, the toothy smile and piercing blue eyes sweeping over the house sending chills up the housekeeper’s spine. She involuntarily backed up a step, but he turned toward the carriage to assist Miss Darcy before spying her staring out the window.

Ah, Miss Darcy. Finally, a true lady of breeding and gentility, Mrs. Smyth thought. She noted the hereditary elegance and nobility apparent in how Miss Darcy moved, in every tilt of her head or lift of her fine-boned hands. Impeccably dressed, hair arranged flawlessly, smile understated, figure tall and gently curved, skin ivory—in all ways the image of a lady.

Next came Mr. Darcy. Mrs. Smyth sighed, her hands clenching involuntarily. Never, not once in even the remotest way, had Mrs. Smyth considered Mr. Darcy as anything other than her employer. For the same reasons that she was so appalled by his choice of bride, she never fancifully or poetically dreamed of him falling in love with his housekeeper. Leave that nonsense to the ridiculous novelists who imagine such a horrid development romantic! She knew her station in life and embraced it fully. Nevertheless, as a woman in her early thirties, she assuredly recognized a handsome man and could readily appreciate the view.

As always, his stature, masculine physique, strongly chiseled facial features, and absorbing sapphire eyes stirred her womanly instincts. It was a purely lustful response, and she knew this, instigated as much by the specimen of prime manhood before her as by her internal urges so tightly controlled. It was rare, but there were those times when she missed her husband. Or rather what he had roused in her. She sighed again, allowing the feelings to wash over her briefly as she gazed upon her master.

As quickly as they came, they disappeared. Mr. Darcy was a man of astounding presence. He wore his authority, eminence, and rank as an aura discernable to all. He was so far above her, a reality that brought no anger or bitterness but instead a sensation of peace. This is how the world was supposed to be—people keeping to where God had placed them in the proper order. Grasping beyond where one was born only brought upset and strife; it disturbed the flow and caused chaos.

The burn of suppressed passionate lust ebbed, replaced by the burn of irritation. She clenched her fists tighter, observing as Mr. Darcy turned toward the carriage, reaching in and grasping onto the extended hand and elbow of his wife. He said something, his face lighting with a smile as Mrs. Darcy came into view. Typically, Mrs. Smyth noted with a grimace, she was laughing. Her dark eyes glittered with mirth, and her full lips curved into a beaming smile displaying her teeth whitely against the crude tan of her skin and ruddiness to her cheeks. The housekeeper swept her eyes over her mistress, admitting grudgingly that she could find no fault with Mrs. Darcy’s attire or figure or hairstyle. But the shock of seeing the infant clutched against the woman’s chest was stunning.

Mrs. Smyth caught her breath. When the nanny had arrived with the personal servants and not the infant, Mrs. Smyth had been surprised. Fleetingly, she had wondered who was caring for the child, but put the thought aside in the haste of last minute preparations. If asked, she probably would have answered that the wet nurse was caring for the babe, or that it would be swaddled tightly and contained in a carry basket of some sort. Seeing it now with tiny bare feet emerging from the bottom edge of the blanket that Mrs. Darcy held over the body, the round head and pink face pressed against its mother’s full bosom was astonishing. Obviously the squalling, probably smelly baby had been held and cared for squarely in the midst of them! The idea was revolting, but then Mrs. Smyth did have to admit honestly that she knew nothing about babies, praise the Maker for that miracle. Nevertheless, it was exceedingly rare, as even she knew, for offspring to be so boldly displayed, let alone carted about.

She shook her head, inhaled deeply, and steeled her spine. “Only three months or so,” she murmured aloud, repeating the words again to etch the fact firmly in her mind. With a final sigh, pat of her palms to ensure every hair was secured into the severe bun, and harsh rub to the persistent tic, the housekeeper moved toward the foyer to greet her Master and Mistress.

“Excellent, Georgiana. Remember to casually sweep with your right hand as you rise and grasp onto a few folds, the train will move to the side, and you will be able to back away faultlessly. Small steps though. If your heel snags it will be easier to remedy if you are not off balance from a large stride. Very good. Try it again, Elizabeth. As Georgiana has done.”

“Thank goodness the ridiculousness does not extend to the footwear,” Lizzy muttered. “If I had to don jewel encrusted shoes with three-inch heels and attached feathers I am certain I would fall on my derriere.”

“You shall be marvelous, my dear,” Lady Matlock placated, continuing the instruction in her dulcet voice.

The three women stood in the Darcy House ballroom spending their fifth day in a row practicing the choreographed maneuvers required when presented to the Prince Regent at the Court of St. James. Lizzy and Georgiana were granted permission to be presented to the sovereign by Lord Chamberlain, and the ceremony was scheduled for that afternoon. Darcy never doubted the entitlement. As the wife of a wealthy and esteemed landed gentry with a venerated ancestry, an introduction at Court was an expectation.

It was quite probable that the Georgiana of a year prior may have collapsed in fear at the idea of entering St. James’s Palace, embarrassing the Darcy name by paralyzing nervousness when the time came. Her limited experiences in social milieus while touring Wales and on Twelfth Night partially paved the way; however, even with that minimal exposure to Society, she seemed to grasp readily the pomp involved. She wore the wide hoop skirts and layers of fabric with natural ease. Not once had she erred in her curtsy, her limber body bending into the deep genuflection and rising dozens of times over without the slightest waver or misstep. She masterfully handled the three-foot train, the yards of lace and braided rouleau edging the delicate satin and tissue gown flowing over the curves of her body fluidly as she walked. It was awe-inspiring to observe her graceful command of the protocol-ridden ceremony and unwieldy costume. Even the laughable extravagance of the court-ordered attire with velvet torque adorned with pearls and three ostrich plumes waving a foot over her head did not seem as amusing on her lithe figure.

Moreover, the lifelong immersion in protocol, ease with aristocracy, and natural elegance of the former Lady Madeline Hamilton, daughter of a Marquess and now the Countess of Matlock, was a soothing balm. For weeks, Lady Matlock prepared Georgiana and Lizzy for their presentation to the Prince Regent and his court.

Lizzy observed her newest sister with a mixture of proud adoration and irritation. She felt ungainly and absurd in the heavy dress. It was a feeling that persisted no matter how often she was assured of her beauty and agility. Her constant muttering and flippant comments did not hide her anxiety from Lady Matlock or Georgiana, both of whom ignored her grumblings and offered gentle encouragements.

“I look nine months pregnant,” Lizzy lamented to her husband as he greeted her in their bedchamber an hour later.

“You were stunningly gorgeous when you were nine months pregnant and are stunningly gorgeous now,” he replied with conviction.

Lizzy huffed and shook her head. “How am I to ever believe you when you claim I am beautiful upon waking in the morning with my hair a tangled mess?”

“Very well,” he laughed. “You are merely pretty and highly desirable when freshly waking beside me. Dressed in such lavish attire, you are stunningly gorgeous. I have qualified my assessment. Does this convince you?”

Lizzy bit her lip, glancing down and blinking furiously as she smoothed invisible wrinkles from the gilded moss-colored crepe falling in leafy overlapping layers over the flexible hoop underneath.

Darcy stepped closer—as close as was possible with the full gown interfering—and gently lifted her chin. “My love, trust me. You are indeed a vision of loveliness. Madame Lanchester is the best modiste in London for Court dress. She would never create a gown that was not flattering to the wearer and perfect for presenting to His Highness. I know it is an unusual cut and weighty, but you truly are beautiful.”

And of course it was true. Madame Lanchester was a visionary genius, managing to design gowns that included the abundant arrays of flowers, jewels, rich embroidery, tassels, braided rope, lace, and so on that was requisite, but in an airier pattern that was both lighter in weight and delicate.

For Lizzy, she had gone with rich tones of beige and green that complimented her chocolate hair and bronzed complexion. The bodice was tight, lifting her bosom higher than normal. She further accented the cleavage with a décolletage of starched lace edging a wrapped darker green and beige rope that was then gathered into a knot at the shoulder, puffy sleeves cascading in a veil of satin and crepe to the middle of her upper arm.

The skirt of Chinese crepe as thin as tissue paper was cut into ten hawthorn-leaf shapes, the natural crinkles within the mossy fabric simulating veins. Each “leaf” draped alternately over the petticoat to the floor creating a train of foliage with thin gold braid “branches” connecting. The fawn-colored satin petticoat was adorned along the sides and back with ruffles of blond lace, but the front panel was smooth. The crepe leaves parted just below mid-thigh to reveal a painted garden of flowers and foliage painstakingly detailed with hand-stitched tinseled threads.

The entire ensemble, including the lavish headdress with ostrich feathers and dangling lappets in the same gauzy green crepe, was exquisite. Odd to be sure, with the hoops a fashion accessory from eras past, but magnificent nevertheless.

Darcy chuckled, indicating his suit with a wave of one hand. “Besides, compared to me in this ghastly outfit, you are understated and almost boring.”

“That is absurd and you know it,” she retorted acerbically. “You are more handsome than I have ever seen you.”

“I daresay I can counter with the identical argument. Do you not also profess my attractiveness upon waking with hair awry and face stubbled? Therefore, your assertion is suspect.”

Finally she laughed, if a bit wavering, her voice lifting into her typical teasing tone. “In this case, I confess you have caught me in a falsehood. You are most handsome with hair awry and face stubbled, and unclothed I must add. In this case, you are merely highly attractive. But you are wrong about the outfit being ghastly. Fairly ostentatious, perhaps, but not a total disaster.”

Ceremonial court dress for men did not cater to the whims of fashion and fanciful Queens, thus little changed over the decades. But the protocols and requirements were as stringent. Lizzy had been absolutely flabbergasted when Darcy had donned the suit kept protected in the deep recesses of his wardrobe. It was indeed ostentatious but splendid. Tailored in an older military style, the satin lined jacket of midnight blue velvet sported long tails in a curved fashion, reaching to the knees. Both the jacket and matching waistcoat were embellished with thick braids of gold twisted into elaborate patterns along the cuffs, tall collar, and edges. The shirt, breeches, stockings, and shoes were purest white. Polished buckles of gold and inlayed clear rhinestones adorned each shoe and suspender clasp, the buttons similar in extravagance. The total picture was one of baroque excess, fanciful and pretentious in the extreme, and thus, utterly at odds with Darcy’s innate reserve. Yet somehow he managed to wear it with an aristocratic comfort, even the lacy cravat floridly tied into a pouf clear down to mid-chest not as ludicrous as one would imagine.

Lizzy shook her head, reaching to toy carefully with the ruffled cravat. “It is extremely unfair actually. You wear this frippery, an antiquated affectation, and look regally urbane and suitable. I am a player in a costume.”

He bent, kissing her polished lips gingerly. “Nonsense. You are my wife and dressed as you should be. However, I know this is not your real concern and I want you to know how deeply I appreciate you suffering this agony on my account. It is more than just a duty for me, as you know. To hear your name, Elizabeth Darcy, called by Lord Chamberlain; to see you standing in Court before the Prince; to know that my excellent wife is formally acknowledged before all in Society on the Court List will be an exalting experience for me. I am honored that you are my wife, Elizabeth, and want the entire breadth of England to witness my good fortune.”

“But, Fitzwilliam, that is precisely why I tremble as never in my life! What if I fail you in some way? Stumble or curtsy inadequately or…”

“Elizabeth, if I imagined for one tiny second that you would do any of those things, my pride and confidence would not be so towering. It is distinctly because I am certain of your worthiness and inability to fail at anything you set your mind to that reinforces my belief in your success. Now, come, we cannot delay. His Royal Highness does not yet know it, but he is about to be introduced to two of the most exquisite women in his kingdom.”

Lizzy nodded, bravely lifting her chin and smiling. Darcy was not fooled, but he also knew his wife well enough to be sure she would find her inner fortitude and perform brilliantly. He was well aware of her faults, but he equally understood her strengths. At the moment she was a bundle of nerves, and for good reason, but his Lizzy never succumbed to a challenge.

Georgiana and Lady Matlock waited in the foyer with Lord Matlock. Lady Matlock wore an eye-boggling gown in cream satin with uncountable yards of trimmings and appliquéd flowers draped over the wide hip pannier hoops of her youthful presentation. The latter was dressed in his ceremonial garments, elaborate as Darcy’s, with the addition of a powdered wig. It wasn’t strictly called for, the Prince Regent largely responsible for the decline in the fashion for wigs. But Lord Matlock had his moments of reverting to past norms, such ceremonial appointments one of them. Lizzy groaned, noting how all three of them, along with Darcy, wore their formal vestments with panache.

Two carriages were required, as there was no possible way three women with voluminous skirts could fit into one coach, no matter how spacious. Darcy rode with his wife and sister, Lord and Lady Matlock leading the way to the palace.

The warmth of April was not stifling, but edginess kept the fans fluttering. Lizzy was no longer muttering. In fact she was silent, an unusual state, so Georgiana contributed to the idle chat that passed the time through the crowded London streets.

“Is this the same suit you wore at your levee, William?”

“No, dear. That was a long time ago. I was eighteen, same as you, when presented to His Majesty King George III. Thus I was not at my full growth, at least in the width of my chest. I was to my full height, but far thinner and not as broad. Besides, father ordered my garments. I was merely required to show up for the fitting with no say in the matter. This ensemble is tame compared to his idea of proper dress. It was one of the few times in my life when I actively hated our father.”

He said it with humor, all of them laughing, but neither woman doubted his severe annoyance in being asked to wear an outfit so showy while battling his own nerves. He went on to describe his levee with embellished drama, his dry humor easing the tension in the atmosphere. By the time they finally reached the end of Pall Mall and joined the line of waiting carriages on Cleveland Row as they were slowly admitted through the Palace Gates, Lizzy had gotten a grip on her emotions. In fact, she had entered a state of dreamy peace. Everything was crystalline in clarity while also feeling as if seen on the vividly painted surface of a canvas. Almost as if she were observing the events on a successive series of pictures while they happened to someone else.

St. James’s Palace sat on what had once been the site of a Norman Era leper hospital for women dedicated to St. James the Less. Thanks to the covetous eye of Henry VIII, who saw the fair fields of Piccadilly as too beautiful to be wasted on dying women, the site was arrogated and a stately manor house was erected along with a lush park. The palace itself was commissioned by Henry, but would not fully become the official Royal residence for some hundred years during the reign of William III in 1698. Even after the disastrous fire in 1809 that destroyed a large portion of the palace and with the current lavish renovations to Buckingham House by John Nash, the Prince’s favored architect, St. James’s Palace remained as primary residence and administrative center to the monarchy.

The Tudor-style red-brick structure surrounded four enormous courtyards, the northern entrance facing Cleveland Square the main gateway for visitors. The massive gates of black iron flanked by two turreted polygonal towers were open but heavily protected. The dozen soldiers stationed at the gate, wearing brilliant red uniforms and holding wicked shotguns with razor sharp bayonets, assessed each carriage as it passed. The guards meticulously reviewed the necessary documents, ensuring the seal of Lord Chamberlain, and visually searched each vehicle before allowing entry into the courtyard. Additional soldiers lined the walkways and stood by the doors, their eyes unblinking and bodies rigid, each ready to jump into action at the slightest sign of a threat. Servants and palace functionaries kept traffic moving at a steady pace and provided hasty service to the visiting dignitaries. The tri-weekly presentations of debutantes and ladies of Society, known as Court Drawing Rooms, and the Levees for the gentlemen of the Realm followed standard formats that rarely varied. Attention to every conceivable detail and possible variation was expected to be accomplished without mishap or delay.

Lizzy’s bizarre serenity kept her from ogling as she might have been tempted to do. Instead, she gazed about the courtyard with calm interest. She noted the minor areas of disrepair amongst the overall impressiveness of the structure, the concentrated grandeur that encompassed everything from the servants to the gleaming windows with their brocade curtains to the sculpted greenery to the scrubbed stones, and the hushed stateliness of the gentry in their opulent garments as they walked with measured enthusiasm into the State Apartments facing the gardens of St. James’s Park to the south.

She held to Darcy’s forearm as they followed the line of people. He offered support and comfort merely by his steady confidence, but with each step, Lizzy felt her insides relaxing rather than tying up into the tighter knots that she had anticipated. Occasionally, there was a face she recognized, someone who would nod politely or utter brief words of conversation. Darcy, of course, knew everyone, and engaged in casual discourse as they ascended a stairway of tremendous elegance and entered the armory.

The walls of the ancient guardroom were lined with daggers, muskets, and swords. Lizzy’s fascination with history was piqued, her pace instinctively declining as she swiveled her head to inspect the collection of ancient weapons. She felt more than heard Darcy’s muted chuckle and gazed upward into his serious face. Only a hint of a smile appeared on his lips, but she noted the twinkle in his eyes and also knew why he was laughing at her. They were so akin, she and her spouse, both adoring the study of antiquities. She knew he experienced the same desire to pause and examine the specimens, but of course that was impossible. Here, the Yeoman of the Guard strategically stood to ensure the passageways were kept clear and the traffic flowing. Halting to study as if in a museum was out of the question.

The Tapestry Room was the next chamber. Here, they did stop, and Lizzy would have over an hour to inspect the beautiful weavings and relics of King Henry VIII. There was nothing to do but wait until called, the order according to rank. The windows were opened to the cooler air without, but the heat from the enormous chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling and candelabras blazing hundreds of candles added to the generated warmth of pressed bodies. Nevertheless, restrained conversation passed the time. The residuals of her nervousness dissipated as Lizzy noted two points that greatly eased her: the abundance of giddy, blushing, and clearly terrified young ladies who looked near to fainting and thus placed her minor nervousness into perspective; and the reemergence of her inborn spunkiness and wit as she chatted and bantered with the other guests.

Several times, she noted Darcy’s proud eyes upon her, his constancy and faith reassuring her further. By the time Georgiana’s name was called, Lizzy’s only discomfort came from the increasing pressure within her breasts from the need to nurse Alexander.

Georgiana was pale but composed while her dress was properly arranged by Lady Matlock, and she then began the solitary trek down the corridor to the drawing room Presence Chamber. Lady Matlock turned to Lizzy, smiling encouragingly as she silently straightened the flowing skirt and brushed over the fabric. Lizzy again sensed the strange detachment washing over her, her heart beating slightly faster than normal but otherwise her head clear. She did not glance at Darcy as she exited the Tapestry Room, preferring to focus on the next few minutes.

The corridor was short, covered with a rich red carpet runner that stifled any footfalls, reaching Lord Chamberlain just in time to witness Georgiana completing her perfect backward retreat with a final curtsy before turning gracefully and exiting the room. She looked at Lizzy and actually winked! Lizzy nearly burst into laughter but managed to restrain herself at the last moment. Yet something about seeing her shy sister being so impish in such a situation was the final blow to any shreds of nervousness that remained.

She lifted her chin and with a saucy smile handed the printed card with her name etched in fine script upon it to Lord Chamberlain. An assisting gentleman performed a final straighten to her train while in a loud, strong voice Lord Chamberlain declared, “Elizabeth Darcy, née Elizabeth Bennet, wife to Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire.”

Later, Lizzy would have the oddest recollections of the ethereal moment when she was presented to his Royal Highness the Prince Regent. She vividly remembered the crimson velvet and gold lace covered throne sitting upon the raised dais with a canopy of identical material surmounting. For all her life she would smell sweet violet and primrose and envision the bouquets artistically place about the throne room. She would retain only vague images of the numerous royal attendees and could not recall what His Highness wore, but she sharply saw the bright blue of his eyes that were similar to her husband’s and the faintly feminine mouth that lifted in a genuine smile.

He was rather ordinary in appearance, not handsome or remarkable, while also exuding a presence that was unlike anything she had ever experienced at the same time. There was power and majesty that rippled the air about him, an aura of ancient heritage and eminence that awed her. He did not seem as bored as she would have imagined he would be, the ceremony surely excruciatingly tedious from his perspective, and his eyes flickered with polite interest as he watched her execute the proper genuflection. Perhaps he hoped for at least one young lady to topple over, just to bring some excitement to the proceedings! Lizzy did wonder if this were the case as his eyes were distant when she rose, flickering briefly toward a small food-laden table set into an alcove across the room. He did not move a muscle, waiting with regal dignity as she played her part flawlessly, spoke the well-rehearsed words, curtsied to the other royalties flanking the throne, and then swept the train into her right hand as she initiated her smooth retreat.

All in all, the brief seconds before the Prince himself were rather anticlimactic. An attack of hysterical giggles threatened to overwhelm her as she glided back down the short corridor to the Tapestry Room. The sudden rush of relief was unparalleled, her body flushed and head swimming as she entered the room and instantly sought out Darcy. He stood where she had left him, talking with Lord Matlock and Lady Matlock, a ruddy-cheeked Georgiana holding onto his arm. His face was typically composed with only the tiniest of creases wrinkling his brow as indication of his emotions. The second he engaged her eyes he broke out in an atypical grin, his own relief as evident as the exalting pride which lifted his shoulders incrementally higher. He murmured a hasty pardon, crossing to Lizzy with such an expression of joy that for a moment she actually thought he would forget himself and pull her into his embrace. He did nothing of the sort, naturally, stopping short and fluidly raising her gloved fingers to his lips for a firm kiss.

“May we leave now, dearest? I failed to liven the atmosphere by tripping or losing my cap when I bowed, but I may soon incite scandal by leaking all over this ridiculous gown.”

Darcy coughed a laugh, grinning sidelong as he offered his arm. “Indeed, let me take my two favorite women home. I have cause to celebrate and I do intend to, especially after the guests depart,” he finished in a low voice, his meaning unmistakable. It would not be until the night was long over, warm and satiated in bed with Elizabeth pliantly draped over his body, that it would occur to him that for the first time ever, he had not been self-conscious and flustered while at Court.