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

He smoothed the hair from her face. “I have every faith that it will turn out well for us. Better than that, even, because now we have a child of our own on the way. If you’ve taught me anything, Amanda, it is that God has decided we are ready, He probably had this all planned long before we met. If He believes in us, who am I to argue? Get your cloak now, and I’ll call for our coach.”

***

It was nearly seven-thirty that evening when an exhausted Richard returned to the inn. He had sent a message to his father, contacted his solicitors, set into motion the purchase of a sturdy travel coach and horses, but he still had arrangements to make and needed to speak to the War Office, then have a long talk with O’Malley and see what he could set up for his old friend. He nodded his quick hello to the concierge who anxiously motioned him over.

“You’ve had a visitor, Colonel— a Grand Gentleman,” he said with feeling and pointed toward the overly crowded public dining room. “And might I say his is the finest Weston superfine with which I have ever had the honor to converse. He has been waiting for you, there at the table to the left of the fireplace, for several hours now.” As Richard looked in that general direction, he thought he saw a figure, a man relaxing casually in the corner. He thanked the concierge and cautiously entered the room.

His direct sight line was initially hampered by smoky candles flickering, by waiters running about and diners rising and sitting, by the numerous people milling about between the entranceway and the dining area. The overwhelming racket of chatter, laughing, and dining sounds distracted him while he bobbed his head around one person then the next as he moved forward.

About halfway into the room, the crowd finally parted, and he beheld the tall, dark, and exceptionally handsome English gentleman, his long legs crossed, his champagne-buffed black riding boots brilliantly reflecting the flames from the hearth. The dark green superfine coat (it really was magnificent) and subdued checkered waistcoat set off his brilliantly white shirt and cravat. One elbow was draped casually across the back of his chair while the other hand sensuously stroked the stem of a wine glass resting on the table before him. His eyes never left Fitzwilliam’s face.

He was the very essence of stylish nonchalance.

Except for his eyes. His eyes were the very black depths of hell.

“Why, hello, brat, fancy meeting you in this godforsaken place. Are you slumming with friends?” The colonel’s greeting for his cousin was accompanied by a cold smile, feeling as he was the wash of displeasure being directed back at him. “You’re looking well. Are those new boots?” God how he hated Darcy when he looked so pompous. He had an irrational desire to smack the back of his little cousin’s head. As he reached down to finger the magnificent, lapelled satin waistcoat, Richard shook his head. “By God, Darcy, you look nearly as fashionable as your butler. Well, aspire to greatness, boy. Who knows, one day you may equal the man.”

Darcy sensed his cousin’s belligerence, knew the man as well as he knew himself, and by the position of his jutting chin, realized they were dancing very near the battlefield at the moment. “Nice of you to say I am in good looks this evening. You, on the other hand, look like shit.”

Fitzwilliam’s gaze narrowed dangerously.

Darcy indicated the chair across from him. “Sit.”

His cousin yanked the chair back and settled heavily into it, crossing his ankle over his knee. “How terribly remiss of me to so offend you with my appearance. Apparently, however, my looks improve with frequency of contact, something to do with my famously charismatic personality.” Fitzwilliam’s counterfeit smile dissolved almost immediately. “Not to mention my heavenly blue eyes.”

Darcy never broke his stare.

“Are you drunk?” Fitzwilliam asked pleasantly.

“No, although I have been sitting here for hours, drinking and waiting, watching the time slowly tick on by.”

Darcy could outstare a corpse.

Fitzwilliam could not, and his color began to rise. He turned as a waiter passed behind him, unapologetically grabbing a tankard of someone else’s ale from the tray, enjoyed at least two large swallows, and then slammed it onto the table. A nearby woman screeched in alarm and threw her napkin over her head.

“Have you been enjoying your little holiday here?” The gentlemanly manner was ice cold.

“Oh, one cannot complain, really. The bathwater can be slightly tepid; however…” He was stopped in midsentence by Darcy’s incredulous bellow.

“Damn it, do you realize that the whole family is worried sick about you? Everyone has been frantic—your father, friends, even Wellington was alarmed!” Darcy’s fury had nearly pulled him from his chair, and he desperately attempted to regain his composure.