A Perilous Match

Prologue

Hunsford, Kent

J ust… breathe.

Left foot, right foot. The shine of his boots in the lingering dusk. The soft, muffled crunch of the gravel with every footfall carrying him further away from her .

Concentrate. Breathe. A steady gait. One foot, then the other.

The click of the parsonage door closing echoed in Darcy’s brain, keeping pace with the rhythm of his pounding heart.

Breathe.

In the far distance, a cart lumbered down the lane towards his aunt’s tenant farms. Then, heavier horses’ hooves moved in the opposite direction towards the London Road. London. God, why had he not kept to his original plans? A quiet Easter with Georgiana at Grosvenor Square. Perhaps the opera. He’d have been safely away from Elizabeth Bennet. He would not have proposed, and he would not made an absolute fool of himself.

Dear God, he thought of her features, her tear-stained face marked by anger and hurt—a stern rebuke directed towards him.

I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.

Darcy looked up towards Rosings’ imposing facade and wondered whether the Collinses were still entertaining his aunt, and whether it would be prudent or even possible to slip through a side door or the servants’ entrance. He had neither the patience nor the fortitude to meet his aunt or her parson.

Your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others were such as to form the groundwork of… so immovable a dislike.

An immovable dislike.

Immovable.

The woman he loved, the only woman he had ever really loved, hated him. She had hated him from the beginning. Every look or gesture or word from her—how different did every moment now seem in the light of this backwards glance.

He wanted to hate her. He wanted to forget her. And then, in another moment, he simply wanted her to see that he was not the villain she had painted him. Certainly not in regard to Wickham, whom she had so championed. Even in the moment of his proposal.

Oh God. He did not want to believe that she had fallen under Wickham’s spell, but she would not be the first gently-bred woman to have done so. Should he write to her about Wickham? Warn her? Would she even believe him?

Well, he should at least attempt to disabuse Elizabeth of the notion of Wickham’s good character. He could not leave her vulnerable if it was in his power to prevent any injury to her. Whether she would believe him, was outside of his control.

Oh God, he felt sick. Was this heartbreak? The heavy tightness of his chest, the labouring breaths, the roiling sickness in his gut. How near it was to physical pain.

Breathe.

He would not succumb to maudlin thoughts. He would not become a lovesick fool.

He was Fitzwilliam Darcy, Master of Pemberley, grandson of an earl and a marquess. He would conquer this—he would. This pain was only striking because it was raw.

Unaided by torches, Rosings loomed larger, more forbidding in the late light. He saw that the Collinses were taking their leave, lingering on the front steps as Mr Collins treated his wife and her sister to a litany of praises for Lady Catherine before leading them to the footpath to Hunsford.

Darcy took a deep breath and stepped into the shadows until they were safely out of sight and elected to take the entrance by the portico where he might avoid any interview with his aunt regarding his absence. It was a precious piece of cowardice, which he would not acknowledge.

He swung open the seldom-used heavy door, the squeak of its rusted hinges echoed down the hall towards his aunt’s favourite drawing room. He cursed and was only slightly relieved when rather than his aunt, his cousin Richard appeared and quickly met him.

His cousin’s expression was full of anxious expectation and for a brief moment, Darcy feared that Richard had known the true purpose of his outing. He had told no one of his wishes, even Richard from whom he seldom kept secrets.

“Forgive me Richard,” Darcy began, “I have a pressing matter of business…”

However, he got no further because his cousin ignored the blatant attempt to escape upstairs to his chamber.

“An express has just arrived for you,” Richard said. At Darcy’s clear alarm, he explained, “Georgiana is perfectly well, I assure you, but it does concern your Darcy family.”

“Where is it?”

Richard grimaced. “Aunt Catherine has it in her possession. I believe that she means to make another appeal on Anne’s behalf based on its contents.”

Darcy rolled his eyes. “I will never marry Anne.”

“Yes, I know, Fitzwilliam, but Aunt Catherine is determined.”

Darcy swallowed a groan. “You might tell me now, so that I may be prepared for my aunt’s offensive.”

Richard’s expression turned severe, “Your uncle, the Marquess of Dorset, has died.”

“Not so surprising given his health, it hardly warrants an express.”

Richard raised an eyebrow.

Darcy bristled. “You know we were not close and he hated my father for inheriting Pemberley. He always favoured Phillip, because he always favoured Phillip’s father, Morris.”

“Nonetheless, he has died, my lord, and Pemberley is reunited with its title.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Richard appeared just as stunned by the appellation. However, with his soldier’s forthrightness, he went on, “Against all odds, Fitzwilliam, you are now the fifth Marquess of Dorset.”

Shock briefly replaced Darcy’s despair and he did not think of Elizabeth Bennet at all. His heart beat wildly as he followed his cousin into their aunt’s drawing room. His mind ran along unlikely scenarios that brought the marquessate to his feet.

“How is this possible?” he muttered.

“You must read Phillip’s account for yourself, Fitzwilliam,” Richard said, as a footman opened the door.

His aunt stood upon Darcy’s entrance and dropped to a curtsey with glistening eyes. Nothing could have proven the news more than the triumphant gesture of his aunt and her rather self-satisfied smile.

“Never has a title found a more worthy bearer, Lord Dorset,” she said and gave him the express.

There were two letters, the first being an announcement of the Marquess’s death as well as his two immediate heirs. It was evidently meant for a more general knowledge and the second, thicker missive full of personal details.

This letter was creased in such a manner that suggested numerous readings and Darcy cast a disapproving glance at his aunt for the blatant invasion of his privacy. However, Lady Catherine only raised an eyebrow. He quickly skimmed the contents and then read it more slowly a second time, still little able to credit its contents. One whole line of the Marquessate wiped out in a single week? Even if Darcy was not fond of his uncle or his cousins, the knowledge grieved him.

His cousin Phillip’s hand was unusually hurried and uneven.

Fitzwilliam,

I have just now left the bedside of our late, lamented uncle, the Marquess of Dorset. It cannot be surprising to anyone that he is gone, though the manner of his death and how you came to be the new Marquess will no doubt shock you as deeply as it has shocked me.

As you know, the Marquess’s health was such that it was felt necessary to remove him to Town for the easier access to physicians. However, Thursday last, my uncle took a turn for the worse, and the stale and unhealthy air in Town has shown us what an unwise decision had been made. I was obliged to send for his son the Earl of Swynford by express. The Earl and his son left immediately and would have been expected in Town within two days; however, instead Swynford’s valet appeared at Dorset House to relate the terrible news that the Earl and his heir had been killed in a carriage accident outside Reading.

I was obliged to relate this unhappy news to our uncle, who did not at first appear to comprehend what had befallen him. He stared dumbly for some minutes, and after a long silence and unsuccessful attempts to rouse him, I sent for the physician. He continued many more hours the same, but appeared somewhat improved by the morning, and would converse with us and ask about the accident and what arrangements had been made. The bodies, of course, will be taken back to Ashburn, where they will lie in the chapel before their burial. I have sent an express ahead to our cousin Lady Swynford and her daughters and await further instruction of their wishes.

I felt it prudent to delay sending an express to you in Kent until I had a better understanding of the effects upon the Marquess. Although much affected, our uncle appeared to rally for another day and even discussed the possibility of returning to Ashburn to comfort his son’s widow and his granddaughters, though his physician doubted the wisdom of such travel after his shock. In the end, the argument was for naught.

I had retired for the evening, leaving the Marquess to the care of his valet and physician, and was not long asleep before I was roused by my own valet again. Our uncle the Marquess had been listening to his valet reading psalms when he suddenly cried out and pressed a hand to his chest and began to sweat profusely. When I returned to his bedside, he was still in this state and unable to catch his breath. Dr Winston could do little else but open another vein and ply him with wine for his own comfort. However, the Marquess was not long sensible, and after a few indistinct utterances, he expired.

I have not sent a message to Georgiana as I felt that you would wish to be the bearer of such tidings. Besides the news of such a family tragedy and its effect upon her soft heart, she will little like the expectations of a greater role in Society that your new position demands. I felt that such condolences should come from her brother.

I will remain at Dorset House and begin the preparations to take our uncle’s body back to Ashburn. It was his wish to be buried in the chapel there. I do, however, urge you to return to Town as soon as possible and to meet with the solicitors and various stewards who have already begun to bombard the household here.

I will await your further instruction. Please know that I shall do whatever may be of assistance to you at this time.

Yours, etc.

Phillip Darcy

Lady Catherine hardly gave him a moment to digest the awful news.

“I know that it is a shock, nephew, and I feel for you in this moment of loss. However, we must go forward, and we should not neglect the fact that your first days as the new Marquess will be watched by all. It has been a very long time since the Marquessate of Dorset has been in young hands and there will be many in Society coveting the chance to be the new Marchioness of Dorset.”

Darcy only stared and was somehow surprised by this fresh instance of his aunt’s naked ambition. He had never been blind to her faults, but this … this was beyond the pale of anything he had ever experienced, and he could not allow her train of thought to continue. Understanding now Richard’s warning, he interrupted, “Aunt Catherine, let me be clear, I will not tolerate your interference in my personal affairs, including your reading my private correspondence. My uncle’s death is a private family matter.”

Lady Catherine stated. “I am your family!”

“A private Darcy matter, entirely unconnected to the Fitzwilliams.”

Perhaps it was rather insensitive and callous to make such a statement, but then Lady Catherine’s obvious machinations were appalling. The Marquess had only just died and she was angling for and envisioning her daughter to be the next Marchioness.

Lady Catherine glanced again at her daughter, whose attention remained upon the book in her lap. She would not return the look until her mother’s gaze was upon him once more. Anne briefly met Darcy’s eyes and nodded encouragingly. She had never desired their union either.

“Really Fitzwilliam,” Lady Catherine scolded, “I am your mother’s only sister, and I have only ever wanted what is best for you and for Georgiana. I only want to see my dearest sister’s children thrive and to carry out her wishes for them.”

“I do not believe that your understanding of my mother’s wishes coincides with my own understanding, Aunt. I fear we will never agree on this point and there is little to be gained in discussing it this evening.”

She huffed, but was unable to maintain her pique, and in another moment, she stepped towards him in an unexpected gesture of affection. Her eyes teary and her expression full of genuine fondness, she took his right hand and pressed it.

“Thirty years ago when Anne came to me with the news that she was to marry George Darcy, I felt that she would make an excellent marchioness and lamented the fact that your worthy father was only the second son,” Lady Catherine said. “I do not rejoice in any death, but I cannot deny that it pleases me to see my nephew ascend to the role that should have been his father’s had merit determined who succeeds, rather than birth order.”

Lady Catherine did not often remind Darcy of his beloved late mother, though her expression and tone presently was very like her, however unlike Lady Anne’s general disposition and values. He was suddenly lonely for his mother’s advice and company in a way that he had not been since he had learned of her death while at school in Eton and had been obliged to comfort himself all the way back to Pemberley with only Wickham and his cousin Phillip Darcy to share his sorrows. He wondered what her reaction would have been to the news, though he knew that she held little affection for the Marquess. She would have been, no doubt, proud of his succession, though he doubted that her immediate interest would have been in his marriage.

Richard recalled him from his melancholic thoughts with a well-timed tease, “Careful, Aunt, in all this talk of merit, someone might take you for a radical.”

Except for a swift disapproving glance, Lady Catherine did not respond to his goading.

Darcy took the moment to excuse himself, as little comfortable with his aunt’s outward affection as he was with her ambitions, and desirous of making his own travel arrangements, he retreated to the relative sanctuary of his rooms. He hardly knew how to feel in the tumult of the day’s events. The news of his uncle’s death and his sudden elevation muted somewhat the pain of Elizabeth’s rejection, but he could feel it still tugging at the ragged edges of his heart.