Darcy and Fitzwilliam: A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer

She nodded and allowed some of her tension to disperse. “Good. I don’t know that I’d be up to traveling right now. It’s been quite a day.”

“I went to the house, and they said you had already left. Why didn’t you wait for me? Did your mother-in-law return unexpectedly?”

She picked lazily at strands of Harry’s hair and grunted. “We evidently had another miscommunication concerning time.”

Knowing his protest of innocence would be futile, he let it go. “I dismissed the coach I had hired to take us to Portsmouth in the morning. I told him I would send a message when to return. I think it best if we cross over to Copenhagen as soon as possible, though. I have several friends still living there. And then, when you are safely delivered, on to America, perhaps.” Her returning smile could not disguise growing apprehension, and she sighed. He was giving up so much for them—his career, his family, his friends… his very country.

“Here, come up and sit by me and let me take care of you now. You look like you’re about done in.”

She stood slowly and settled into the seat next to him, snuggling under his arm and resting her head on his shoulder. Pulling her closer, he leaned down for a kiss, first lightly on her forehead and then deeply upon her mouth, their tongues stroking slowly and gently, thoroughly caressing each other.

Chapter 7

It was two hours later, and Darcy was strolling around their bedroom, unwilling to return his son to the family cradle. He was enraptured with the small, sleeping bundle in his arms, so warm and soft and defenseless. This was his heir, the man who would carry the Darcy name and heritage and fortune into the future, the comfort and pride of his parent’s old age. It was heavy baggage for such tiny shoulders, but Darcy would be there to help his son every step of the way, every moment he was needed, until his last breath. He kissed the little head, enjoying the innocent scent unique to babies, his life already in forfeit, never to be the same.

Lizzy kept drifting off to sleep, however, unable or unwilling to concentrate on her husband’s excited chatter, so he made his way soundlessly down the stairs to the front parlor, where he found his cousin sleeping. Both Richard and Amanda were snoring disgracefully, and the colonel did not immediately respond to Darcy’s initial gentle requests to awaken. Finally, an exasperated Darcy gave the bottom of his cousin’s boot a very hard and swift kick. “Fitz, you pathetic sloth, wake up and meet your new cousin.”

“What!” Fitzwilliam awoke with a start, snorted and then gasped. He shook his head to clear it from sleep. “What time is it?!”

“Half past three in the morning.”

“You bloody bastard! You’re lucky I didn’t have a… a pistol in my hand or… a sword… sharp object… lightning-fast reflexes… lethal…” His snores resumed before his head fell back onto the settee.

“Wake up!” Darcy hauled off and kicked his boot again, much harder. “Get up, you imbecile. Meet my son.”

Fitzwilliam’s eyes finally blinked open and focused on the bundle in Darcy’s arms. Yawning broadly, he slowly stood, hoisting the still-sleeping Harry higher onto his shoulder. “Never tell me this is the brute that woke up the entire of Mayfair with his bellowing?”

“Hellacious, wasn’t he?” Darcy beamed as he pulled back the blanket.

“Well, I’ll be damned. What’s he calling himself these days?”

“Bennet George Darcy.”

“Benny Darcy?”

“Good God, no! Sounds like a public-house proprietor. We’ll call him George.”

Fitzwilliam was very impressed, already feeling the bonds of family for the tiny fellow. “He’s rather immense to have come out of our little Lizzy, isn’t he?” he whispered. “Ooh! Look at that head! Fitzwilliam proportion head—very promising. He’ll be a brilliant scholar.”

Darcy nodded proudly. “Yes, and Lizzy assured me that this is our last child and that I can never touch her again.” By the smile on Darcy’s face, Fitzwilliam knew she would soon be required to revisit that declaration.

“God, but he looks a great deal like your father, doesn’t he?”

“That’s because he’s bald.”

“No, don’t be absurd. Look at his nose and the drool on his chin. Uncle George is stamped all over this face. I think I’ll get him a little powdered wig for his christening.”

“You would be godfather, you know.”

“The immense good fortune of this child just keeps accumulating.”

Darcy laughed. “The doctor examined him and Elizabeth and said they are both splendid.” He tenderly kissed his son’s head. “Although, I could have said as much.”

“I’m surprised you allowed that glorified barber anywhere near them after this evening.”