The Trouble with Mr. Darcy

Chapter Twelve The Plot Thickens

A beaming Alexander proudly gifted his father with the slimy amphibian clutched in his tiny hands, rushing forward as Darcy knelt and showed the appropriate enthusiasm in his son’s acquisition. He listened attentively to the tale of how the boy had chased the toad into the reeds and toppled into the river during the hunt. The fact that he was wet with muddy smeared cheeks and grass clinging to his damp curls mattered not. Darcy hugged him, praised his bravery, declared the toad by far the most amazing toad in all of England, and immediately set to the task of providing a temporary home for the pet, after Lizzy replaced the wet gown for a dry one.

A wooden barrel was found in a shed by a baffled groundsman. The Netherfield cook grudgingly gave an old pie pan for a pool after stating firmly that she did not want it returned. Together father and son searched for the best rocks, grasses, and leaves.

“Toss the grass over there, Son. That’s it. Now he has a nice bed to lie on if he wishes.” Darcy arranged three large stones to form a type of shelter for the impressive sized toad who squatted on a large, flat rock. Darcy crouched next to the barrel with Alexander standing beside as he taught about toads.

“He will probably stay on the rock, or burrow into the grass or under the rocks, but he might go into the water too. However, toads, unlike frogs, prefer to be dry. He probably was not all that pleased when you fell into the water.” He laughed, kissing Alexander’s cheek. “They are nocturnal animals which mean they are most active at night.”

“Like bats, Papa?”

“Very good! Yes, just like the bats we have near Pemberley. So smart you are, my sweet.” He ruffled the dried curls, face flooded with paternal pride. “Remember how we watched them that one night? Flying through the trees?”

Alexander nodded. “Mama so mad.”

“Yes, a little bit only. It was past your bedtime and she worries. That is what mothers do. But it was fun, was it not?”

Alexander nodded again, glancing upward with a smile for his father before turning his attention back to the placid toad. “He sick, Papa?”

“No. He is fine. Toads do not really do much, Son. They sit around most of the time and eat bugs.” Alexander grimaced. “Spiders and worms too. Give him one of those fat earthworms Mr. Hale brought us.”

Alexander dutifully took a wiggling worm from the jar given them by Mr. Hale, one of the stablemen who was also an avid fisherman. He plopped the juicy specimen right before the toad’s nose, but the bulbous eyes never blinked. “He not hungry now,” the toddler declared authoritatively.

“Perhaps he will eat it later. Fear not, Son, he looks to be fat and healthy.” He reached one finger to smooth over the bumpy skin. “Feel how soft he is, Alexander? The warts over his skin will not hurt you, although some types of toads can be mildly poisonous. See these ridges here behind his eyes?” Alexander nodded, one tiny finger rubbing over the mentioned spot. “They are glands that secrete a poison so that predators will leave the toad alone and not try to eat him.”

“Poor froggy. No one eat you now.”

“No, he is safe enough here. And he is not a frog, my sweet, but a toad. Someday you will know the difference.”

“I keep him forever, Papa? Please?”

“I am sorry, Son, but no. He must be returned to his home tomorrow.” Alexander’s eyes welled with tears, lower lip pouting and quivering. Darcy hugged him to his side, and then pulled him onto his knee and kissed the crown of his head. “Do not be sad. He needs to be where he is happy. He probably has a family who needs him, maybe parents of his own. You would not want to be away from your home, away from your mother and me, would you?” Alexander shook his head emphatically. “Well, neither does he. Tomorrow, after Aunt Kitty’s wedding, we will take him back to the riverbank where you found him. You will have time to play with him before we have to say good-bye. All right?” The toddler sniffed but nodded.

“Let’s say good night to your little pet. I better get you up to nanny and your bath before we both get into trouble. Before bed I will read you the Grimm Brothers’ tale of a frog prince and the story of the frog plague from the Bible. How is that?”

He nodded again and said good night to the toad, wishing him sweet dreams. Darcy smiled and chose not to remind him what “nocturnal” meant. Alexander gave one last gentle pet to the amphibian, which chose that moment to extend his sticky tongue and snatch the worm before it slithered out of reach, yanking it into his mouth in one neat movement.

Alexander squealed in delight, eyes shining up at Darcy. “See that, Papa?”

“Yes, I did. Now you will not have to worry if he is hungry. Give him a few more worms for the night, Son. Very good. Now, to your bath! You smell like a fishy, muddy boy! If I were a big fish I would think you dinner! Yum!” He slung the giggling, squirming two-year-old over his shoulder, playfully placing nibbles along his chubby arms and waist while making yummy sounds all the way into the house.

Most of the Netherfield residents had gone to Lucas Lodge for a dinner party that evening, leaving only the Darcys and Daniels to dine in solitude since both young mothers needed to remain close to their babies. Darcy sensed Lizzy’s distraction even when rhapsodizing over Alexander’s toad and when she requested retiring early, pleading a headache, he knew all was not well. He was disturbed but refused to leap to false conclusions and trusted that once the children were asleep she would share whatever was troubling her.

Lizzy reclined on the chaise with Michael at her breast. She wore her usual dreamy expression as she gazed into her baby’s face, fingertips caressing over the velvety skin and minute knuckles of his clenched hand. Comfortable in his privacy attire of only trousers and loosened shirt, Darcy sat cross-legged on the floor with Alexander. The youngster was scrubbed clean, smelling of sweet castile soap and fire warmed towels, dressed in a crisp white sleeping gown and stockings. Several errant curls fell over his forehead and into the intent blue eyes that were focused on the assortment of brightly colored marbles arranged before their knees.

In one of his many forays into the dusty attic storage spaces at Pemberley, Darcy had discovered his old collection of marbles. Most of his childhood marbles were of clay or stone, but he and Alexander had since added a number of colorful glass specimens to the mix. Whenever they ventured near a shopping district they searched for marbles. It was a quest, with Darcy seeking used spheres with a history or made of rare materials while Alexander was instantly drawn to the bins of multihued, shiny glass marbles.

Darcy did not yet teach any rules of actual marble play, instead keeping it a simple matter of knocking one marble into another for the fun of making them roll about the large wooden board he had constructed expressly for the game. However, Darcy was learning that his son had inherited his competitive and exacting nature. Alexander would clap with joy when he managed to hit another ball hard enough to cause it to tumble over the flat surface’s edge, but most of the time his face was screwed up in deep concentration, the tip of his tongue in the corner of his mouth and brows furrowed as his tiny fingers attempted to aim and launch the marble with the proper technique as learned from his father. Darcy loved that his son studied his actions and mimicked his facial expressions and gestures, but it also made him aware of the reflexive mannerisms Lizzy had been teasing him about for years now!

“Excellent shot, Alexander! Right off the board. Well done! I think you are beating me tonight.” He ruffled his son’s hair, Alexander beaming with pride. He reached his small body across the board to retrieve the stray marble, one knee nudging the corner and setting the marbles to rolling crazily.

“Oh! Sorry, Papa.”

But Darcy was laughing as his large hands spread to prevent the marbles escaping too far while stabilizing the board. “No problem, sweetling. They needed to be rearranged anyway. In fact, here is a new game, let’s jiggle the board and see how many we can keep from falling off.” His broad grin was met by a smaller identical one and with laughter they set to their new game. Alexander’s enthusiasm for the new game brought him to his feet, marbles flying everywhere, and he launched bodily into his father’s arms.

Darcy was prepared and caught the soft projectile but feigned surprise and weakness by falling onto his back with a loud, “Oof! You are so strong, my son! Knocked me right over!”

It was a familiar type of play, Darcy instantly continuing the game by lifting the boy high into the air with sturdy broad hands spanning the tiny chest. Alexander stiffened, extended his arms perpendicular, and locked his knees.

“Flap your wings! That’s it. What bird do you wish to be today? Hawk? A fearless eagle?”

“Falcon, Papa. A pergin like Mr. Holmes has.”

“Excellent choice. Then hold your arms still, soar and glide.” He swung his arms, side to side and up and down, Alexander smiling and laughing. “No laughing! Be fierce! Raptors frighten their prey and terrify with a piercing gaze. Show me your peregrine scream, Son. Outstanding! If I were a mouse I would be petrified.”

Alexander set his face, attempting to be scary, but it was difficult especially as Darcy kept tilting him downward and bestowing glancing kisses to his face.

“Papa, no! I am hunting. Must be brave. Am I a brave boy?”

“The bravest boy who ever lived. Indeed you are. You killed the ugly spider that scared nanny last week. Remember? So very brave.”

“I told the man I was a brave boy. Not ascared of ducks like Michael.”

“What man?”

“The man on the horse. Mama not like him.” He frowned but then the smile returned. “He say ducks lay eggs in the bushes! I can hunt like brave fox too.”

“Yes, of course you can,” Darcy murmured. He glanced to his wife where she sat curled on the sofa with eyes closed and cheek resting on Michael’s head. The baby was asleep, cuddled against her upper chest. Her face was calm, but without the usual expression of blissful serenity that she typically wore in these moments of maternal relaxation. Darcy’s earlier intuition that something was not quite right with his wife came back in a rush as Alexander’s innocent remark sent cold shivers up his spine. “The man on the horse” could be anyone considering they were in Lizzy’s childhood home, but Darcy knew who it was.

He pulled Alexander to his chest, the toddler protesting for a second before nestling into the warm security of his father’s wide torso and embracing arms. His thumb instinctively entered his mouth.

“You are a brave lad indeed, but also sweet and loving and so precious. My son!” Darcy whispered fiercely, hands caressing firmly over the tender flesh that comprised his firstborn and heir. “I love you with all my heart, Alexander.”

“I lub you too, Papa,” he mumbled around his thumb.

Darcy closed his eyes so that other senses would dominate. He felt Alexander’s fast beating heart, the heat from the tiny body, the muscles tough but pliantly melting onto his torso, and the steady and deep respirations that tickled his neck. He relished the sensation of Alexander’s jaw movements against his left shoulder with each rhythmic suck on the thumb and the plump fingers that stroked the hair by his ear and the linen of his shirt. The springy curls tickled Darcy’s nose pleasantly with each breath, the incredible silkiness comforting as he placed gentle kisses onto the youngster’s head. The hardy two-year-old was so vibrant and alive, his energy nearly inexhaustible and health superb. His presence in their lives was a constant fount of joy and Darcy loved him with a love that was different than what he felt for Elizabeth, but no less powerful.

He squeezed him tightly, Alexander wiggling and giggling. “Papa! Squeezing my air out!”

Darcy gave another noisy kiss before loosening his grip. Alexander lifted, bright blue eyes meeting his father’s worshipful gaze just inches away. “Time for sleep, Son. Tomorrow is an important day for Aunt Kitty and you must again wear your suit.” Darcy smiled at the frown that fact elicited. “It shan’t be too horrible. And remember, you and your cousin Deborah get to spread flowers. Will that not be fun?” Alexander nodded, although his expression was one of dubiousness. “Now, kiss?” Alexander brightened, inclining to the pursed lips and giving a firm kiss accompanied by a loud, playful mwah.

Darcy launched upward abruptly. Alexander shrieked in delight, the noise and movement alerting Lizzy that her two favorite men approached.

“Bedtime for sleepy boys,” Darcy said with a smile, placing Alexander on the ground. “Is Michael satiated?”

“Utterly stuffed to the brim. He has already burped and regurgitated the standard amount, so your shirt should be safe.”

He leaned over to take the baby and paused to cup Lizzy’s cheek with his palm, concern in his voice and expression. “Are you well, beloved?”

Lizzy pressed his hand against her face and then turned to kiss his wrist. “I am fine, dearest. Just tired mostly, but we need to talk when you return.”

“Very well. I shall be swift. Come to papa, sweetheart boy. There’s my littlest lamb. No, no, stay asleep.”

“Story first, yes, Papa?”

“I promised and have the book right over there, Alexander.” He pointed. “Grab it on the way out. We will use your Bible for the story of Moses.” He turned to his wife, smiling crookedly. “Tales of the Frog Prince and frog plagues.”

“Ah! Of course.”

Lizzy sat on the edge of the bed brushing her waist-length hair when Darcy returned. Wordlessly he sat behind her while she relinquished the beautiful walnut-handled boar bristle brush gifted to her the past Christmas by him. The mother-of-pearl inlay brush given to her on their wedding night by her new husband had lost too many bristles to be functional, but was tucked into her traveling trunk to be repaired once they reached London. Darcy had provided his wife with several fine brushes since then with no intention of halting the ritual of brushing her lustrous hair. His love for her hair was birthed on that long ago day at Netherfield when she arrived after a three-mile walk to nurse an ill Jane. Her hair had tumbled freely down her back, vivacious and wild, framing her rosy face in a way that was altogether unique. It captured his soul then and the effect brushing her hair had upon him, both arousing and soothing, had not diminished over time.

He clasped the wavy tresses in one hand and passed the stiff bristles through with the other, the sensations flowing through him. Her hair crackled with life, a few individual strands rising as if prepared to fly away while the bulk fell heavily onto his palms, all of them glistening like liquid chocolate with multiple hues of brown. The subtle fragrance of lavender reached his nostrils and he bent to inhale deeply from the mass located at the nape of her neck and bestowed a lingering kiss to the sensitive skin before resuming the task.

“Is your headache entirely gone?”

“Just a twinge in the temples. Nothing significant. It has been warm here compared to home. I think it took my body by surprise.” Her right hand caressed over the muscled thigh pressed into hers, eyes closed while he brushed and massaged her left temple with firm fingertips.

Silence descended for some minutes with neither wishing to disturb the intimate experience. Finally Darcy broke the quiet, his voice a resonant whisper. “I doubt it the sun that caused your headache. Tell me what distressed you, love. Who was the man on the horse? Wickham?”

She gasped, stiffening in surprise. “How did you…?”

“Alexander. He mentioned a man you did not like who told him he was brave. And something about ducks and eggs. Not sure about that part.” He smiled, trying desperately to internalize his anger and fear. “What did he say to trouble you so?”

Lizzy turned, took the brush from his hand, and dropped it forgotten onto the floor before grasping his warm hands within her own. “Fitzwilliam, please, I beg of you, can we talk about it later? I promise I shall tell all and I assure you it was nothing of any great significance. But right now I ache for you to just hold me and make love to me. I need to feel your protective strength and devotion surrounding me.”

She leaned in to initiate feathering kisses over the exposed surfaces of his neck and breastbone, hands seeking more flesh as she gradually peeled the linen away from his chest.

There was something indefinable in her eyes and the tone of her plea that disturbed him tremendously. He knew her thoroughly and her dismay went beyond what seemed likely from an encounter with Wickham, no matter how rude he may have been. Vulnerability or weakness was rarely seen in his strong wife, so he briefly contemplated staying her sensual assault to question her distress. However, her skilled touch was already causing his ardor to rise, and furthermore, he intuitively understood that she needed the special consoling and security that came from their bonding as one.

Gently he clasped her face, lifting away from his chest so he could gaze into her eyes, pouring his love and trust in a look. Then he bent to her mouth, kissing with the lightest of pressures over each lip surface. Tiny suckles, airy grazes with the tip of his tongue, dainty nibbles with his teeth, and minor exhales brushing over her sensitive skin designed to arouse and tranquilize.

Rapidly his alarm diminished. Allaying her anxieties was all that mattered now and he would happily assume the dominant role needed to confer the fortitude she currently lacked. He moved to her neck, applying the same tender nibbles and suckling kisses, while his competent hands roamed with firm pressure over her shoulders and arms. Her dressing gown ties were released, the supple fabrics yielding easily and falling to pool at her waist.

He withdrew to gaze upon her. She was flushed, breathing with the heaviness of beginning passion, breasts firm and rising with each inhalation, expressive brown eyes half lidded. He adored this moment in their lovemaking, when the eddy of burgeoning desire transformed her into his transcendent lover. Elizabeth Darcy, his wife, was a beautiful woman and he never tired of observing her, but the current of happiness and masculine fervor that surged through him in response to her igniting sexual excitement was beyond measure.

He pulled her gauzily draped legs over his, simultaneously reclining her onto the waiting pillows. Gracefully he shifted their bodies toward the middle of the generous Netherfield bed, burrowing deeper into the crisp cotton sheets covering the soft mattress. Propped on one elbow with fingers idly playing with the cascading tresses of her hair, he removed the pretty gown and robe and tossed them onto the floor, his hands caressing and stimulating. His burning scrutiny leisurely scanned the figure spread alongside him. Hunger shone from his eyes and he licked his lips much as a predator anticipates his hunted meal although love and protection drove his appetite. “Fitzwilliam,” she murmured, arching into his arousing touch in expectation and desire.

That was his signal, so he bent and kissed her hard.

Their lovemaking took many forms and often she was the leader while he blissfully remained passive to her pointed assault. Typically, she welcomed and yearned for his masculine virility to be at full peak and in command. He had long since relented any fears of crushing her svelte body with his athletic build, knowing she was more than capable of handling his weight pressing into her and his forceful maneuvers as they loved. His prowess so vigorously expressed drove her to heights of insane arousal, and her wanton response was a potent impetus for him.

Tonight she asked for his strength and devotion, both easy for him to give. So he held on to her lips with the penetrating kiss and rolled onto her body until his clothed form swathed her utterly. Lizzy flung her arms over his shoulders, snaking the right under his shirt with hand pressed firmly onto the ridges of his spine below the dip between his shoulder blades. The left clutched his head, fingers twined through his thick hair and holding downward pressure as she returned the feverish kiss with equal intensity.

Never ceasing the delicious attention to her mouth, he grasped her legs and drew them over his waist before traveling his hands with a steady pressure over her silky skin from hips to waist to rib cage and the soft swell of flattened breasts. Long minutes were devoted to titillating play as their passions raged and hunger for more overwhelmed, until Darcy released a guttural groan and gasped her name hotly against the tender space below her earlobe.

“Fitzwilliam, you have far too many clothes on.”

“Indeed you are correct,” he responded to her whispered words, chuckling breathily. Inhaling deeply to calm his pounding heart, he rose to kneel amid her bent knees. With a sensuous smile he released the remaining clasped button on his shirt, unfastened the cuffs, pulled the tails from his pants, and drew the garment over his head. He then flourished it over his head and pitched it into the darkness beyond the faint lamplight before removing his trousers in the same languid, seductive way.

Darcy arched one brow. “An improvement?”

Lizzy merely nodded while her eyes raked approvingly over his manly torso with lust and yearning unmistakable. Suddenly no longer in the mood to be a passive spectator, she threw her legs about him and tugged. She lifted to meet his advance and shouted his name as waves of pleasure thrummed through her body at their joining. Gleefully she submitted to the furious pace her husband set.

Stamina was one of many marvelous attributes Darcy possessed, along with a divinely gifted ability to cater to their fluctuating passions as they made love. He discerned every sigh and moan, infallibly reacting with a blend of power and tenderness to best please her. With a masterful touch he provided all that she needed.

Every sense was acutely alive in a manner that differed from any other situation. In a beautiful paradox they could vividly feel the sensations in each nerve of their own bodies and differentiate the multiple points where their skin met, while also melding into a single entity ablaze with pleasure until attaining a summit of exquisite glory and tumbling over together.

Lying in a heap of pliant flesh, Darcy made no move to leave the warmth of his wife’s trembling body, and Lizzy had no wish for him to roll away. Instead, they absorbed the residual tremors and bursts of energy as they exhaled soft sounds of love between gentle kisses. The final shivers passed and he then lifted to smooth the hair from her face and look into her eyes.

“You are amazing, Fitzwilliam. As my lover and as my husband. You are the only man who comforts me and offers unassailable protection.” She impishly added a tight squeeze to his rear for emphasis. “But mostly as my lover. I still fear I shall perish someday from how you set my heart to bursting.”

Darcy felt a glow of egotistical satisfaction. All his accomplishments as the Master of Pemberley, or in any area of his life, paled in comparison to being able to ceaselessly gratify his wife. He knew that in some respects that was typical male arrogance and accepted that his manliness and virility were essential to his being. Yet knowing without the tiniest doubt that she attained pleasure of the highest order through him was the true test, and he thanked God daily for the competence to do so.

He nuzzled his lips and nose over her soft skin, and huskily murmured, “I desperately desire to fall asleep with you in my arms, best beloved, which is all the greater reason why we should rise. Let us sit on the sofa, sipping brandies while you share what happened today.”

Minutes later he had stoked the fire, poured two half-glasses of fine cognac, and settled their naked bodies onto the plush sofa nearest the blaze. A quilted coverlet draped over the legs lying across his lap and her back resting against the couch’s arm.

She sipped the sweet liquid, caressed the strong fingers laced between her thinner ones, and smiled into his alert eyes. “It is as I said before. He said nothing of any significance or that was particularly disturbing. My distress was in the incident happening at all because I abhorred telling you of it.” She halted the retort with her fingertips to his lips. “Do not say it, Fitzwilliam, as you should know I would never entertain the thought of withholding information from you.” She ran one fingertip over the creases furrowing his brow. “What I abhor is being the bearer of any news that will unsettle you. Even something as benign as delivering a newspaper that announces one of your horses losing the St. Leger.”

“That was hardly benign,” he grumbled irritatingly, still steamed over an episode some months old. “If Lord Hessing had employed a modicum of sense or listened to any one of us at the Jockey Club he never would have allowed Schreiber to jockey Lady Beth. She could have won and should have if the fool…” He stopped, frown erasing at the amused expression on her face. He shook his head, eyes closing briefly. “Very well, point taken. I shall attempt to contain my temper and listen calmly.”

“Thank you.” She leaned for a kiss to his cheek, launching into a complete narration of the Wickham encounter, as best she could recall it.

Darcy was unmoved by Wickham’s slurs against his personality, grudgingly acknowledging a certain truth to some of them. Nor was he disturbed by the false allegations as to the motive for their marriage. The truth of their mutual love was far too ingrained to be vexed by such ignorance and evil, although hearing Elizabeth’s firm reaffirmations was pleasing. He was angered that his sons, mostly Alexander, had been subjected to such lies, but Elizabeth assured him that Alexander was too young and too devoted to his parents to be influenced by vague words from a total stranger.

What incensed him the most was the insolence in presuming an intimacy with his wife and son! He could easily strangle Wickham for that alone. Yet he knew it was precisely this reaction that motivated his childhood playmate to choose the words he did. Try as he might, Darcy could find nothing overtly threatening in talks of gardening and ducks and eggs at Hyde Park or inherited personality traits. The encouragement to Alexander to break the rules or cause mischief was annoying, but Darcy knew his son well enough to know that was unlikely. He interpreted those remarks as nothing more than Wickham wishing to aggravate his nemesis and bring turmoil into their family felicity.

In the end he was forced to agree that there appeared to be no nefarious scheme attached to the encounter. He would remain cautious to be sure, but refused to permit his ire to erupt into full-blown fury. As Lizzy had wisely observed several days ago, his rage led to discord between them, which led to a victory for Wickham. The idea made his blood run cold, and he reflexively pulled Lizzy into his body for a tight embrace.

“So in the end he was Wickham in top form,” he spoke into her hair, “spouting lies for the pure enjoyment of it.” He released a harsh laugh, tipping her backward to once again rest against the pillowed sofa arm. He stroked over her cheek, gazing intently into her eyes. “I suppose we both expected it. At least I knew he would not be able to resist cornering you for a few barbs in hopes that our love was not as strong as it is.”

“Mr. Wickham, I am saddened to admit, likely has no concept of love. Despite my assertions to the contrary, he is probably congratulating himself on reminding me of how impossible our relationship. If it pleases him to do so it matters naught to me. We know the truth and neither of us would convince him otherwise even if we wished to try. But it is sad for Lydia to be bound to such an unfeeling man.”

“Is that what yet troubles you?”

“Partially, of course. I would wish more for my sister despite knowing how foolish she is.” She sighed. “But, no, there is more. Although now, here in the safety of your arms and after the marvelous expression of our love and this discourse, my vision seems all the more fanciful and ridiculous.”

“Elizabeth, I do not understand.”

“After we returned to Netherfield I was upset. We went for a walk, all of us, and I told Jane about Mr. Wickham. It helped to talk to her, unburden myself to a degree, but I was so dreading causing you any pain. I will confess, William, that for a few moments at least, I wished we were not always so honest with each other. But it was only a fleeting, cowardly thought as I longed to share the burden with you, knowing that you would ease my heart.”

“Just one of the jobs I gladly discharge, beloved.”

“I know and I love you for it.” She paused and inhaled deeply, her voice muted as she resumed. “It is like a dream that seems so real when you first awake with heart pounding and the sensations vivid. But then the more you try to bring the images into precise focus they become hazier still and slither away until all that is left is an impression that lacks clarity or power. This is like that. After I told Jane, as I was yet wrestling with my emotions, I looked across the meadow to a parked carriage. It was just sitting there, alone, not ominous in the least. Then, for a breath of time only, I imagined I saw a face.”

She was staring into the distance, brows wrinkled with concentration. Darcy examined her closely, but she did not appear to be anxious. Rather she looked confused and mildly irritated.

“I cannot think for the life of me why I would imagine him at that moment. There is no connection whatsoever, except that they are both men who have caused us pain in profound ways.”

“Who? Who did you imagine?”

She turned back to him, peering unblinkingly into his baffled eyes. “The Marquis of Orman.”

Darcy drew in a sharp breath, lips pressing together until nearly invisible, and the spasm that jerked through his jaw was marked. “Are you sure?” He choked out in a low growl.

“No! William that is the point! I am the exact opposite of sure. I could not describe what I think I saw if my life depended on it! That is what gave me a headache and has distracted me all night. Not Mr. Wickham, but the struggle to bring coherency to what is now only a vague impression of a person we shall never forget. I knew I had to tell you, but it does seem rather stupid since I cannot recall the tiniest detail that lends credence to speaking his name.”

“Yet his is the name that surfaced in your mind when you saw… whatever it is you saw. Why?”

“I do not know! Except that, if you examine it from a certain perspective, they are, as I said, men who have caused us pain. Perhaps on some unconscious level dealing with Mr. Wickham has unearthed frightening memories of Lord Orman.”

“Tell me what you saw, as much as you can recall.”

“A carriage, plain and nondescript, sitting on the road some distance away. No movement from the coachman. I did not think much of it initially. Then I detected movement from within. A hand, I think, holding a walking stick and tapping on the ceiling to alert the coachman. William, it truly was the barest glimpse. Perhaps not even that. Did I see a face? I want to say I did, but all I remember is pale flesh holding a cane, a flash of gold, and dark eyes. Orman’s name seared through my brain and I doubled over in pain. That part was real. The pain. But Alexander was there with dandelions, and Mrs. Hanford and Jane expressing concern, and as quickly as it was there it was gone. The carriage too. Lost in the dust and I saw nothing else.”

Darcy had risen from the sofa and was standing stiffly before the fire, his face etched with perturbation and fingers fidgeting. “You may judge it nothing of import, Elizabeth, but I do not. It has been years since your last nightmare of Orman. There is no logical reason for you to conjure his name or image unless something you saw in those fleeting seconds reminded you of him. Granted, that is not proof it was him, but I will not assume it of no consequence either. You are not typically a fanciful woman.”

“What did you last hear of the Marquis’s activities?”

Darcy shook his head curtly, voice hollow in his abstraction. “Rumors mostly and I do not attend to gossip. I know he was ill and weak for a long time. Talk of the extensiveness of his injuries varied, many wildly incorrect, as I know since I was the one who inflicted them. No one has seen or heard from him since he left Derbyshire. He retreated to his estate on the southeastern border of Dartmoor and apparently never leaves. He has not been to London at all. I heard once… Wait!” He pivoted sharply, face gray and drawn. “Wickham lives in Devon! What part again?”

“Exeter, I believe, but that is north. It is too coincidental, William.” But the faintness of her tone belied the assertion. She suddenly recalled the vague comments by Lydia, as she and Jane had discussed just that afternoon.

“I do not believe there is anything coincidental about it. Rather, it is rational.” His voice rose, words rushing over each other. “News travels eventually over the breadth of England. Wickham hears of the incident with Orman, learns he resides miles away, and plots a course of revenge with the one man in the entire country who can not only fund it but has more hatred toward me than he does.”

Darcy was pale and rigid with rage. Wrath caused his heart to pound painfully and every muscle to ache from clenching. His voice was flat and icy cold. Lizzy jumped up, crossing to where he stood immobile, and grasped his face between her hands, forcing his darkened eyes to meet hers.

“William! Get control of yourself! You are leaping pell-mell into unfounded conclusions. No!” She interrupted his response before it was uttered. “You listen to me. All you say could, and I stress could, be a possibility. But my frayed vision is not proof of anything. Nor is Wickham accosting me for ludicrous maligns against you.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging fiercely and pressing her warm body into his chilled skin.

“Elizabeth,” he mumbled from the depths of her neck, “I cannot ignore this.”

“I know. And you should not. But nothing has really changed. Tomorrow Kitty will be married and the day after we will leave for London. Once there you can exert all your considerable influence to discover what, if anything, is really going on with Mr. Wickham and Lord Orman.”

“We need to know for certain. You do understand this, dearest, do you not?” His eyes pleaded with hers, hands steely where they rested on her waist.

She nodded. “Of course…”

But he was already looking over her shoulder, eyes haunted as he drew inward, seemingly forgetting her presence. “I should have killed him when he was under my blade. Swift and conclusive. I was a fool to leave him alive, more dangerous than before.” He paused, inhaling expansively. His brow creases deepened, his timbre low and questioning as he asked, “What could they be planning? Orman has few friends and none who are idiotic enough to collaborate with him. Especially against me. A scheme to damage the estate? Pemberley? Wickham would love that!”

He paused again but quickly shook his head. “No, that is unfeasible. Wickham knows nothing of Pemberley finances or management and the Manor is too well protected. Orman does not have the wealth or influence to damage the estate. They cannot harm me in that way.”

Lizzy gasped, fingertips digging into his shoulders. “He would… he would not try to… injure you? William! I…”

Darcy was abruptly alert and focused, fully aware of her trembling and panicked eyes. He shook his head decisively, cupping her face within his cool but sturdy hands. “Do not fear for me, love. I can take care of myself and am extremely cautious and vigilant. Besides, that is not Wickham’s way or Orman’s for that matter.”

He wiped the tears off her cheeks with tender thumbs, studying her eyes in an attempt to convey confidence and assurance. But as he gazed into her frightened eyes his essence grew colder and an agonizing tightness banded across his chest. Neither Wickham nor Orman may comprehend love and family devotion from a personal perspective, but as a result of their individual dealings with Darcy, each was wise to the depths of his emotions for his loved ones. Memories of how Wickham plotted and attempted to destroy Georgiana in an effort to wound him flashed through his brain.

“The boys!” He pivoted so precipitously that he almost tripped over his own feet. Recovering instantly, he grabbed the carefully folded robe that Samuel always placed on the chest at the end of the bed and had one arm within the sleeve and was turning back toward Lizzy before she had taken a breath. “They are staying here, with us, tonight and tomorrow night. And you three will not be allowed out of my sight for a second. Do you understand?” The robe was on, if not yet belted, and his hands were gripping her upper arms painfully. She had rarely seen him so intense and would not have been able to disagree in the face of his exigent command if she had wanted to.

He did not wait for a reply or a nod of assent. Her consent was not necessary. He was telling her how it would be, not asking for her opinion. He strode to the door, throwing it open, and was halfway down the hall before properly concealing his nakedness. He did not care. Nor did he acknowledge or apologize for the near heart seizure he gave Mrs. Hanford when he aggressively hurtled through the nursery door. He glanced to both sleeping bodies assuring their reality and safety, crossing toward Alexander’s bed. He spared a rapid visual exchange with Lizzy, who he knew was following, and gestured curtly toward Michael.

Alexander was tight in his embrace, vibrant flesh and strongly beating heart pressed into the bare skin of his chest, before he permitted a slight easing in his coiled terror. In a coarse rumble he informed Mrs. Hanford that the boys would be sleeping in the Master’s chamber, offering no other explanation. He turned to Lizzy where she stood with Michael clutched in her arms, brushed over the baby’s plump ruddy cheek with his knuckles, and then grasped his wife’s hand, leading back to their bedchamber in as much of a whirl as the entry.

Not until the four of them were nestled snug and warm under the goose down duvet did Darcy breathe freely. Alexander had barely twitched during the relocation, now curled in a tight ball beside his father and sharing the wide pillow. Darcy closed his eyes and kissed the soft forehead, fingertips smoothing over the disorderly curls while he inhaled deeply of the fresh scent emanating from the toddler’s skin. He drew back a few inches, fingers caressing to the open mouth where a slack hand with moist thumb poised on the plump lower lip. Darcy smiled. “I love you, my son,” he murmured, bringing the chubby fist to his mouth for another kiss. “You are safe with your father.”

He rolled carefully onto his back, looking over his shoulder first to make sure there was plenty of space between his body and Michael. Lizzy’s delicate hand ran over his arm, tugging, letting him know it was safe. Naturally, Michael had stirred during the displacement but was easy to calm at his mother’s breast. Lizzy gently patted his back to assist the release of trapped air, but her gaze rested on her husband’s face while she continued to stroke over his arm.

Darcy captured her hand, fingers lacing with hers, and pulled it in for a lingering kiss to her knuckles and light sucks to each tip.

“Relieved, my heart?”

“Marginally,” he responded. “Tomorrow I will construct a pallet with blankets and pillows near the fire so we can place the boys there and give us more space. Darcy House is unassailable unless one mounts a siege, and I am in command and know it is secure. I doubt I shall sleep well until then. If then.”

Lizzy did not admonish him for overreacting. The incident that afternoon remained hazy at best, and her mind shrank from contemplating the potentials if Darcy’s conclusions were correct. She simply could not deal with it and shamelessly relegated the task to her vastly competent spouse. Knowing he was in absolute control, feeling the potency that radiated from every pore, hearing the sobriety in his voice, observing the steadfast reliability in his blue eyes, and having been witness time and again to his supreme dependability and keen intellect was enough to allay her fears.

“I apologize for alarming you with my melodrama, dearest. In the light of day I may feel a bit foolish for reacting so. But I confess I breathe easier knowing you are safe within my reach. I could not bear anything happening to you or our children.”

Lizzy nodded, smiling her assurance in his capabilities and understanding of his fears.

“Sleep now. Your eyes are weary.” He brushed over her cheek, fingers yet entwined with hers, and touched her eyelids until they closed. “Sleep. I will watch over our sons. I love you.” His voice dropped to a whisper, murmuring loving devotions until her respirations were regular.

He watched her sleep, eyes frequently drifting to the tiny body of Michael cradled against her breast and the long-limbed form of his firstborn sprawled to his left. Every muscle ached with fatigue, but he would not fall into a troubled sleep for a long while.