Love Unsought

  Love Unsought

  Kay Bea

  Copyright © 2020 by Kay Bea

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Christina Boyd and Justine Rivard

  Cover Design by Ardent Artist Books

  ISBN 978-1-951033-47-7 (ebook) and 978-1-951033-48-4 (paperback)

  For Larry, who believes in me even when I can’t believe in myself.

  I love you.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  The Adventures of Miss Olivia Wickham

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Kay Bea

  London 1807

  Fitzwilliam Darcy stood at the balustrade looking down on the crush of people in the ballroom. Women draped in silks and lace moved elegantly around their partners, gloved hands almost touching as they passed. He smiled contentedly when the sounds of the orchestra reached his ears as he searched for a particular face amongst the dozens in the room. His grin broadened on seeing her blonde curls, and he thought for a moment she might have looked up and smiled in his direction.

  “Darcy, you look as though you could best old Bony himself tonight.” Richard Fitzwilliam joined his cousin. “You are actually smiling. What secret do you hide?”

  Darcy turned to Richard, his smile broadening to encompass his entire face. “Lady Arabella has consented to be my wife.”

  “Lord Rawlins’s eldest daughter?”

  “The same. She is perfect—lovely, accomplished, kind.”

  “Not to mention her connexions,” Richard said.

  “How droll, yet I must concede the point. Her family was certainly a consideration in her favour.”

  “And regarding family, have you informed them, or am I the first to know?”

  “I shall return home to tell my father after the contracts are drawn up. Assuming he has no objections, we will be married from Pemberley in two months’ time.”

  “I expect your father will be pleased. You have finished Cambridge and found a wife all in the same year!” Richard clapped his cousin soundly on the shoulder. “What more could he wish of his son?”

  “What he always wishes”—Darcy’s countenance darkened at Richard’s words—“that I were more like George Wickham.”

  Richard leaned on the banister. “You still have not told him of Wickham’s proclivities? What in hell are you waiting for, Darcy? Wickham’s antics are going to land him in gaol. The blackguard will not stop until he is arrested—or killed—by an angry father or husband. Surely your father cannot still believe in Wickham’s innocence?”

  “My father sees only what Wickham wishes him to see. The undeserving wretch is all affability and charm when he is at Pemberley. He has been careful not to meddle with the servant girls. He is allowed the household credit so there are no debts to the local tradesmen. And he abstains from gaming whilst in the neighbourhood. Anything I say sounds like a whinging, neglected schoolboy desperate for attention.” Darcy took a deep breath, sighed, and turned to his favourite cousin. “Enough! I will not have Wickham’s shadow cast a pall over this evening. Come, let us return to the ball. I find myself in want of a certain lady’s companionship.”

  Finding his lady, Darcy bowed slightly. “Lady Arabella, may I present my cousin, Major Fitzwilliam. Richard, Lady Arabella.”

  “Major, I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Mr Darcy speaks highly of you.”

  “The pleasure is mine. I hope you have a place yet remaining on your dance card, for I should not like to think I have missed the chance for your company.”

  “You compliment me, sir. I shall reserve a set for you. Mr Darcy tells me you have recently returned from France. What a fascinating life you must lead. Tell me, have you had many…adventures on the continent? Do you protect all the ladies with your sword?”

  “A soldier’s life is not terribly fascinating, and only those who have never seen battle would call it an adventure. I dare say life away from war offers much more entertainment.”

  “And what entertainments will you pursue whilst you are in town?”

  “The usual, I should think.” Hearing the musicians at their instruments, he bowed and said, “And now, if you will excuse me, I must find my partner.”

  As she watched the major leave, Lady Arabella said in a low voice, her breath warm on Darcy’s neck, “Your cousin is all politeness, Mr Darcy. We must invite him to Pemberley for Christmas.” She gave him a winsome smile and placed her hand on his arm.

  “Whatever you like, my dearest.” He took her hand in his and lightly brushed the knuckles against his lips. “I believe we are engaged for La Boulangere?”

  “We are, kind sir.” As Darcy led his lady to join the other dancers, he was gladdened to see her sparkling eyes and demure smile.

  After the set, he escorted Lady Arabella to a torch-lit balcony overlooking a small garden. He was gazing up at the stars when Lady Arabella stepped close to his side. “The night air is refreshing, is it not, my love?” She breathed quietly into his ear.

  Darcy startled at her nearness. “Arabella, we should not…” He reached for her arm, thinking of his father’s displeasure should the engagement be announced before he was consulted.

  “Oh, surely we will not be in so very much trouble? After all, we are soon to be married.” She placed her gloved hand on his chest.

  He could smell the faint hint of rosewater, and her skin glowed in the candlelight. Darcy’s heart raced with desire as he placed his large hand over hers and looked at her a long moment. He wanted to kiss her right there on the balcony with the moon shining down and the sounds of the orchestra drifting into the night. He was not immune to her many charms and, in fact, was near the breaking point. She would, after all, be his wife in a few months’ time. They would not be the first couple to indulge themselves so. But he was determined not to disgrace Pemberley or the Darcy name.

  Arabella pressed herself along the length of his body and placed one arm around his neck, wrapping her fingers in the curls at his nape. “Fitz, my darling,” she whispered into his neck, “I cannot wait. I love you. Please.”

  Darcy shuddered with desire and bent his mouth to hers. Their kiss was at first tender, then passionate. But before lust overcame reason, Darcy held
Arabella away from himself. “Bella, I am as anxious as you, but we cannot.” He raised his hand to her face but stepped back with great effort. “It is because we wish to be married that we cannot be seen in this manner. We would not wish for any scandal. Come. Let me get you some punch.”

  Darcy grasped Arabella by the arm and turned to walk back through the doors. He could sense her resistance at first, but he was firm in his resolve, and, in the end, wondered at her countenance as she followed. He had expected to see rejection, or perhaps injured pride. But the rage he encountered in her eyes was unexpected.

  Three days after the ball, Darcy called on Lady Arabella at home. He had spent the intervening time taking care of estate business on behalf of his father and had no earlier opportunity of seeing her. He hoped she would be more herself. It was a fine day, and he had arranged with Lord Rawlins to surprise Arabella and her sister with a walk in Hyde Park. That evening he had invited Lord Rawlins and his daughters to join him in the Darcy box at Covent Garden as well.

  Darcy patted the pocket of his great coat, feeling the package there. He had a jewelled hair comb for his lady. He rapped lightly on the door, and a footman showed him to the morning room to wait. As the minutes stretched before him, Darcy began to pace. Could Lady Arabella still be angry with him? Perhaps her delayed attendance was punishment for his three days of neglect.

  After a quarter of an hour, he went in search of his elusive love. Not having encountered a servant, Darcy made his way to the garden. He stepped onto the terrace and followed the sound of feminine laughter. Thinking to surprise the sisters, Darcy softened his step.

  He rounded the corner and, through the plantings, could see a couple intimately entangled near the garden gate. “We must stop. He will be here any moment,” the woman insisted. He recognised Lady Arabella’s voice.

  Darcy could not hear the man’s reply, but he saw as the couple exchanged a heated kiss before he saw the man’s back slip through the gate. Cold fury dripped from Darcy’s voice as he spoke. “I see I have come at an unfortunate time.” He made a slight bow in the lady’s direction. “I beg your pardon.” With those words, he turned to leave.

  “Oh, Fitz, if only I could capture your expression. You truly look put out.”

  Darcy strode towards her, struggling to master himself. “You are much mistaken, madam. I merely regret intruding on your privacy. I would not have called had I known you were entertaining another gentleman.” Darcy could feel his heart grow colder with every word spoken. “You comprehend, of course, there can now be no contract or understanding between us.”

  Arabella’s eyes widened, and she looked up at him. “Things need not change between us. Do not be such a prude, my darling. My father’s spies have certainly informed him of my actions by now. When he returns, he will believe it was you in the garden with me. Our wedding will be advanced, and all will be well.” Arabella coolly straightened her gown as she spoke.

  “Have you lost your senses?” Darcy asked with plain outrage. “I have discovered you with another man! You have betrayed me. I cannot trust you, and I shall certainly never marry you.”

  “You did not really think me in love, did you? But now it does not signify! As I have been hopelessly compromised, you shall have to protect my honour and marry me.” Arabella carefully replaced the pins in her hair as she spoke.

  Darcy noted the cold calculation in her eyes and wondered if he had ever known the creature who stood before him. “Honour? Do not flatter yourself. I would never allow a woman such as yourself to darken the halls of my family home. You may reap your own harvest.”

  At that moment, Lord Rawlins came thundering into the garden, his butler not two steps behind. “Darcy! What the devil!” He broke off mid-sentence as he came upon them. He looked first at Darcy, impeccably attired and trembling with rage, then at his daughter with flushed face, loose hair, and wrinkled gown.

  “What is going on here, Darcy? I trusted you with my daughter!”

  “It appears we have each misplaced our trust, sir,” he said before going on to tell Lord Rawlins of seeing the dark-haired man in the garden and Arabella’s behaviour at the ball. Lord Rawlins’s face grew first pale, then increasingly red as he listened to Darcy’s account. Arabella’s countenance blanched with every word of his account, and he hoped her father would see the truth of his tale.

  When at last Darcy had finished, Lord Rawlins turned first to his daughter. “Is this true, Arabella? Have you behaved in such a shameful manner?”

  Darcy thought Arabella might attempt to dissemble, but she quailed under her father’s glare and nodded her head. “But it is not as it seems, Papa. I do still wish to marry Mr Darcy.”

  When Lord Rawlins spoke again his voice was barely controlled. “Mr Darcy, I offer you my apologies on behalf of myself and my abysmally foolish daughter. I am deeply ashamed. You are, of course, released from your engagement to my daughter.”

  “Papa! You cannot release him from our engagement! You must not!”

  “Silence, Arabella! You can have nothing to say that I wish to hear.” Lord Rawlins turned his attention back to Darcy. “I am certain you have long since desired to withdraw. I have no right to ask anything of you, but I shall. Please keep these unpleasant circumstances quiet for as long as possible.”

  “You may be assured of my silence on the matter.” Darcy could only imagine his father’s disappointment and disgust if Pemberley were to be attached to such a scandal. He was grateful his cousin Richard was the only one with whom he had shared his news.

  As the gentlemen had nothing more to say to one another, Darcy returned home. Once arrived, he made immediate preparations to ride for Derbyshire. Town no longer held any attraction for him.

  Such was Darcy’s haste to depart London that he did not take time to read the letter he found waiting on his desk from his father’s new steward, Stephen Tilson. Instead, he tucked it in his greatcoat and resolved to read it when he stopped for the night.

  All day as he rode north, he was consumed with why Arabella had been set on marrying him quickly, or at all, when it was clear she held no real affection for him. Finally forced to rest, less by the falling sun than by an exhausted horse, Darcy took refuge at a roadside inn. Having left his horse in the care of a well-tipped groom, Darcy applied to the innkeeper for a hot meal and a room. Once in his room, he removed his coat and boots, loosened his cravat, and sank his long frame into a chair before the fire. Pouring himself a glass of brandy, he watched the flames and thought of all he had lost that day. When at last sleep threatened to overcome him, he moved to the bed and collapsed.

  Darcy left near sunrise the next morning, thinking only of the sheltering embrace of his family estate. He wanted to be home. He did not care if he would face his father’s censure. At Pemberley, he would find healing. He would laugh with his sister and ride Perseus through open fields. He would swim in the lake and help his father manage the estate, and he would forget. He would forget her smiles, her laughter, and her flaxen hair. He would forget the sight of her hands upon another. He would forget her lies and her cruel words: “You did not really think me in love?” At Pemberley, Darcy would remember who he was.

  It was not until the next night, on his final stop before reaching home, that he recalled the letter which had been neglected in his pocket since leaving town.

  Pemberley

  Dear Master Fitzwilliam,

  I write to urge your immediate return. Your father has taken ill. His fever worsens, and this morning, he lost consciousness. He has not yet awakened, and his physician begins to worry he will not recover.

  Miss Darcy will not leave his side.

  Come quickly.

  S. Tilson

  All at once, any thoughts of love, lust, and betrayal fled his mind. His father could not die. Not now. Not yet. Darcy leapt to his feet, dressed, and hastened down the steps. He quickly made arrangements for a fresh horse, saying he would send someone from Pemberley to fetch Perseus, and raced for home. H
e gave thanks for the moon lighting his way and prayed he would not arrive too late.

  Pemberley welcomed Darcy in the hours before dawn. Even in his anxious state, he could not help but feel relief to be back on his family’s lands. Here dwelt every good memory in his life. Over that hill was the best place to fish, beyond those woods lay the pond where he learned to swim as a boy, his mother’s favourite picnic spot, and the oak that was planted in his grandfather’s time. The majestic stone house stood quiet with only a few candles glowing from the windows. He did not pause to take this in but acknowledged the feeling of belonging that emanated from his soul. As he came through the front doors, he was met by the butler.

  “Welcome home, sir. We have been most anxious for your arrival. Your father is still abed.”

  “Thank you, Warwick. Has he awakened?”

  “No, sir. He remains unchanged.”

  “Does Wickham remain at Pemberley?”

  “No, sir. He departed only days after you did.” Darcy was thankful for that. At least he would not have to concern himself with the reprobate.

  “And Miss Darcy?”

  “She remains at his side, sir.”

  Darcy hurried to his father’s rooms. On opening the door to the great man’s chambers, he took in a scene that would stay fixed in his mind for the remainder of his life. There in the bed lay his father: grey, still, shrunken, and frail. It did not seem possible that the hale and hearty man of Darcy’s memory could exist somewhere inside the fragile shell before him. Next to the bed, her feet curled under her and a book of their father’s favourite sonnets open on her lap, Georgiana dozed in a chair. Her head drooped to one side, and her golden hair fell softly across her face, making her look much younger than her eleven years. The remains of a late-night tea could be made out in the sputtering candlelight, and an apothecary’s assortment of tinctures and powders littered the bedside table.