My dear readers,

A friend told me recently that if this story was a romance I needed to make the story more steamy and if it was historical I needed to go into more historical descriptions. As for the historical aspect, I know it is far from perfect, but I do try to maintain accuracy. I already know that later on this story will undergo revision. That is just how I am. Always revising.

As to the romance factor. Call me old fashioned, but I have always felt some of the most passionate romances are those that take time to build. This is the love story of Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lady Grace MacKenna, but they both have aspects of their lives that they must confront on their own in order to grow and in turn be ready for their romance.

Those are my thoughts, but I would love to hear you opinion on the matter. I do read all my reviews and take into consideration every comment.

As always hop over to my blog. In honor of Valentine's Day I am taking a look at romantic love letters in history.

Faithfully,

The Author

Enjoy this installment.

Chapter 6: Where feelings awaken and mischief is made

Colonel Fitzwilliam was in and out of consciousnesses as fever ravaged his body. Between bouts of consciousness and feverish delirium Richard mumbled mostly incoherent nothings and only a small portion of what he actually mumbled was understood by Darcy. What Darcy was able to decipher was that a woman was assuredly involved in some fashion with his cousin's state. This Grace was obviously of some importance to his cousin which was of great interest to Darcy, as he had been waiting for a time when he would be able to reciprocate some of the amusement Richard had garnered from his predicament with Elizabeth.

It had become such a habit for Darcy to sit with Richard, that Elizabeth had to force him out of the Colonels sickroom; she pointed out that an experienced nurse was on duty and under her watchful eye Richard would want for nothing and should anything change they would be notified at once. While Darcy would have preferred to keep his constant vigil over his cousin's sick bed he also could not disagree with his intelligent Elizabeth's assessment.

It continued in much the same manner for a week before the fever broke; Richard mumbled incoherent nothings. Darcy continued to worry about what might have brought his cousin to this illness. What had been the catalyst? It came with much relief towards the end of the week when Richard finally opened his eyes. Blasted fool thought Darcy as he walked briskly down the hall to his cousin's room.

Upon opening his eyes Richard was greeted by the worried gaze of his cousin Fitzwilliam groaned, as he had just awoken and was still somewhat disoriented.

"Hello Cousin," said Darcy "you awaken and if you don't mind me saying so you look like hell."

Richard smiled wearily at his cousin. He felt like hell. His mouth was dry, he felt hot and his body ached; particularly an injury he had sustained from a bullet to his left thigh during the war. It acted up from time to time and it seemed to have decided to do so now. Ouch! Gritting his teeth in pain Richard allowed the nurse to help shift him into a sitting position. "Darcy" he rasped "If I could punch you I would."

Grinning Darcy took a seat in the chair beside the bed. Folding his arms across his chest Darcy studied Richard for a moment as if that one moment would reveal all his cousin's secrets. Darcy decided on a blunt approach since his cousin was a bit at his mercy having been laid up in bed for days with fever. "Who is Grace?"

Richard eyed Darcy carefully, feeling his head clearing and feeling more coherent than before. While Darcy was usually the stoic, proud and reserved one, Richard found himself in an impassioned emotional dance at being reminded of the flaming Irish beauty while in a most vulnerable state. Richard cursed silently as he too reflected Darcy's pose and folded his arms over his chest. Glaring at Darcy, much like an angered lion at having lost its prey, he pursed his lips and stared at his cousin. He had no intention of discussing the insufferable, yet intriguing, beautiful mess that was Lady Grace at the moment, especially when he had no idea what to fully make of her and the situation he now found himself in. He felt he needed further reflection and time to compose his emotions toward the lady before he shared his thoughts with Darcy.

It became a silent standoff between the two cousins, each refusing to retreat; each staring at each other with determined looks on their faces as each man could be as stubborn as the other. They were like two bucks whose horns were locked together in a battle to decide who would rule the forest. Richard shrugged in silent retreat before commenting that he was very tired and would like some rest. He tried to hold back a smile as he thought he had out maneuvered his cousin.

Darcy nodded but went for the coup de grace nonetheless as he reached the door. Turning, his hand resting on the doorknob, he said "You are going to have to talk to me sometime Richard because if you don't I'll make sure to write Aunt Catherine a nice, long letter about how much you would love to come to Rosings for a visit….a looooong visit." Darcy made sure to stress the last part before exiting the room.

NO! Anything but Aunt Catherine thought Richard in horror. Anything but the old bat whose only joy in life was making him miserable now that Darcy was married. Richard rolled over and groaned. Darcy did not play fair. He was incapacitated in this bed and he threatened him with Aunt Catherine. He should have remained at Matlock until the weather had cleared, but as he was not prone to following the dictates of Mother Nature he had figured that he could safely spurn her attempts to prevent his departure by impending threat. It seemed that she had shown him along with the good Lord. Richard realized, however, that he was far from tired. Still weak from his week-long illness, he realized he would be stuck in the bed for some time longer. Lady Grace invaded his thoughts like a tempest that try as he might he was unable to cast away. Lady Grace, her wit, her strength and her beauty were intent on invading his very being. Gah! He would have preferred the comfort of his battle torn mind because at least there he knew every move and consequence that was to occur. There were no surprises in his ghastly memories of bloodshed and death. He closed his eyes and the images of war came like a flash flood, a veritably painful onslaught, but Lady Grace it seemed was intent on inserting her infuriating presence into his mind whether he wanted her there or not.

If he was honest with himself he would admit that his pride at her sudden rejection had stung him, but he had devoted himself in his youth to his education and then to his military career. He had not much time to understand women and their emotional outbursts or lack thereof in Lady Grace's case. Lady Grace he found was like a bitter cold winter snowfall, that just when you thought there was enough sun to begin melting it a fresh snowfall fell again turning it ice cold once more. Where was her fire he wondered as he succumbed to his exhaustion and fell into a fitful sleep.

During the duration of the week that Quinn was home he watched his sister and he found that he became increasing displeased with what was unfolding in front of him. Their father had taken to discussing the future husband that was to be had for Grace and on the rare occasion that a question was directed at her she answered with a subservient "Yes, Father", "Of course Father" or "As you wish Father." Despite her outward subservient display Quinn could see the pain it caused her which was only confirmed to him one evening when he heard her soft cries behind her bedroom door.

It was clear to Quinn that his sister was slowly fading before his eyes. Being Irish his sister had always been pale, but her pallor had become almost ghost like, and she was entirely too thin. If his parents noticed her eating habits they did not say anything. While he believed much of his sister's illness had to do with her grieving heart it could not help, he believed, that their father planned to rid the family of what he called 'a stain on our reputation' by marrying her off as quickly as possible. If Grace was as ruined as his father believed then he bid him good luck finding a suitor for her.

Although the health of his sister and her subservient attitude unsettled him it was also clear to Quinn that parts of Grace's fiery Irish spirit refused to be stifled. There was still hope. Grace would disappear for hours from the house and becoming curious one day he followed her to a large meadow on the moors near the edge of the woodlands. When she arrived she would just sit for a time in the green grass and sometimes she would lay down and sleep, but not before clutching the mysterious handkerchief in her hand near her nose. What sort of hold did that ridiculous handkerchief have on his sister for she was always sniffing it like a curious cat that wasn't quite sure what it wanted.

It had become a habit for Grace to come to the spot she had first seen Colonel Fitzwilliam. The scent of cloves and allspice still lingering on the handkerchief seemed to bring her a mysterious comfort which allowed her some reprieve from her sleepless nights by allowing her enough comfort to steal away a few moments rest. They were the only moments of peace she seemed to be able to attain in the nightmare that had become her life. While she had steeled herself to her fate and had decided that she would not revolt openly against her Father's plans for her, she found it becoming increasingly difficult as her wild and willful nature became increasingly resistant to being censored.

One morning she snapped on one of her walks. She commandeered a large stick and letting out a scream as she proceeded to beat a poor defenseless tree with her club.

Whack!

Whack!

Whack!

With each blow she landed on the tree she screamed, even kicking the tree in-between whacks, and she continued on in this activity until she became so tired she could not but let her arms drop. Her breathing was heavy and she made an impressive sight, much like some battle worn warrior, with her hair wildly falling from her pins. Unbeknownst to her she was observed, Quinn had chuckled from atop the hill that gave him an accurate view of his sister's actions. Now, that was the Grace he knew.

The crowning moment for Quinn was one afternoon, while Lord and Lady MacKenna were out making calls; he caught his sister in the library perched regally atop Lord MacKenna's desk, casually playing with their father's snuff box. He raised an eyebrow as she met his eyes in a panic, but upon realizing it was him she relaxed. She looked at him innocently for a moment before she stood, picked up the box of snuff, walked towards the fireplace and shrugged before opening it and emptying its contents into the raging coals. There was a brief moment of sizzling and cracking as the snuff mingled with the fiery heat. Grace stood there for a moment before sauntering out of the library with a smug look on her face.

Quinn looked after his sister in bemusement. It would seem his mischievous sister had decided that while she may not verbalize her dissatisfaction with Lord MacKenna's plans for her, it did not mean that she did not intend to stand up for herself against his parental tyranny. Bravo Grace!

To add to Quinn's further amusement, their father had furiously torn up the library looking for his prized snuff, which he liked to indulge in every evening, but he kept checking to see if the box was still empty. However, the snuff was not the only thing to mysteriously meet its demise; their father's favorite scotch took flight from the bottle leaving it empty. However, it was the sudden disappearance of Lord MacKenna's favorite hunting rifle that sent him into a rage; he never was able to determine its whereabouts. Lord MacKenna now possessed an even more disagreeable disposition than before. Grace all the while played the innocent and helpless young woman; while her brother silently admired her accomplishing feats of reminding him of military elegance.

When it came time for Quinn to return to his ship, it was a sad day for Grace who had come to rely on her brother's presence. After she had seen her brother off, Grace returned to the refuge of her room. As she entered she took in the beautiful landscape from her window before turning towards the fireplace and the warmth it offered. She sat in the high-backed chair she kept nearby and then noticed a gift. It was beautifully wrapped in golden brown paper with a delicate red ribbon tied into a large bow. Grace fingered the paper before picking up the note tucked into the ribbon. Opening it up she read:

My dearest sister Grace,

It is with great sadness that I must depart from your company given the predicament you find yourself in, but I fear my profession has responsibilities which I must attend to.

My only hope while I am gone that you do not lose yourself as I do not wish to see you again as I have this visit. Although, your attack on that poor defenseless tree was a beautiful sight to see. I would like to see you whole and the bearer of much happiness.

I will leave you only with these last parting words. May you someday be able to take flight as every young LADY should be able to speak her own mind.

Affectionately Your brother,

Quinn

Grace smiled at her brother's words of encouragement before setting the note aside. Slowly and carefully, so as not to rip the paper, she unwrapped the mysterious present, a sense of excitement hit her, as she loved presents. It was a book and the smell of fresh leather hit her nose bringing her the comfort of familiarity. She turned over the book and opened the cover to reveal the title, A Vindication of the Rights of Women penned by Mary Wollstonecraft. Grace sat for some moments just running her fingers over the title, the phrase 'rights of women' running through her head like an excited child, before opening the volume and beginning her journey into the arguments set forth by Mary Wollstonecraft.

When Richard had recovered enough to journey downstairs he was able to enjoy the company of Darcy and Elizabeth which brought some comfort to his turmoil. His fever may have been conquered, but the rest of his problems had not been. However, he hid them well even from the man who was like a brother to him. So well in fact, that Darcy was almost able to forget that his cousin had not been so foolish as to journey in the rain to Pemberley, but there were daily reminders that it had taken place.

They were in the library partaking in an after dinner brandy, when Darcy became concerned with the quantity Richard was imbibing. Taking a closer look Darcy observed the dark circles under his cousin's eyes. Long ago those same eyes had been brightened by Richard's lively character, but they now bore a haunted look that it caused him to frown. "You seem different," Darcy remarked softly as Richard stood by the fireplace, casually leaning against the mantelpiece.

"War is hell Darcy." He took a drink. "You drink enough and hopefully you're numb enough to block out the horror." Richard looked at the fire, not at Darcy as he made this proclamation.

"You will be alright….won't you?" Darcy asked with an emotional reservation reminiscent of a curious cat which still was not fully confident that it wanted to test an approach toward moving water.

Richard paused before nodding apprehensively. "I honestly don't know, but I'm going to make a proper attempt at it." He gave a lopsided smile, which didn't quite reach his eyes. "I was actually contemplating matrimony," remarked Richard suddenly as he came away from the fireplace and sat in a chair and casually leaned back and took a sip of brandy.

Richard's words so shocked Darcy, who had risen to refill his glass, that the decanter slipped from his fingers and shattered as Darcy turned to stare at his cousin. "I beg your pardon?" Darcy cried.

The sound of shattering glass caused Richard to tense and almost spill the contents of his glass. That noise was so unsettling that it took him a moment to recover. He desperately tried to school his reaction until a more appropriate time; however he would not be able to run from the room this time. He hoped Darcy had not noticed his change in demeanor. Richard regarded Darcy as he took a sip of brandy to calm his emotions, pleased with diverting away from a topic he was not yet ready to discuss. He grinned roguishly. "I see I have your attention."

Richard was calmly drinking his brandy, which irritated Darcy even more. Beginning to recover from the initial shock, Darcy moved across the room. "You always swore you would die a bachelor. "

"Well that still remains true. She sent me away." Richard moodily looked down at the amber liquid dancing in his glass, a little to the left and it would spill in his lap.

"You mean you left?" remarked Darcy matter-of-factly being well versed in his cousin's ideas of bachelorhood.

"I am a man of propriety. She turned me away and I merely complied with the lady's wish."

Darcy furrowed his brow and looked askance.

"Alright," Richard sighed leaning forward in the chair and placing his elbows on his knees, "I turned back, but she turned me away, again."

"So," said Darcy slowly, "this is why you risked your health by riding in the rain? "

"Perhaps." Richard suddenly busied himself with an imaginary stain on his pants. He did not like the direction that this conversation was going; in fact he disliked the idea of talking about Lady Grace at all. She turned him away which meant she was not worth a second look.

"And would this lady," said Darcy smoothly "would she perchance be called Grace." Richard regarded Darcy silently. "You may have mentioned her once or twice in your sleep," added Darcy dismissively.

"Did I?" was Richard's careful reply. Bloody hell, who was he deceiving, she was worth more than just a second look; she was worth thousands more. Bloody woman was intent on making him miserable wherever he went. Blast it all.

"Yes, you mentioned her more than once." Darcy watched the play of emotions run across his cousin's face and became more convinced that something had occurred between Richard and this lady.

Richard loosened his cravat and took a long drink of his brandy. It was no use trying to decide what he thought of Lady Grace before speaking to Darcy. He would require Darcy's help in figuring out his dilemma. He just hoped that Darcy was easier on him than he had been with Darcy in regards to Elizabeth. "She's Irish." He gulped down some more brandy in apparent contest with Darcy who had just refilled his abandoned glass while Richard was on his fourth. "A real spitfire!" It appeared he was winning the contest as he took another drink of brandy. "She called me domineering. I didn't particularly appreciate that." Richard had worked himself into another moody emotional predicament, looking much like a puppy which had been caught in the rain. He took another long drink of brandy. She had dismissed him. The nerve of her!

Silence remained for some moments as Darcy remembered the first time he had seen Elizabethand how hard he had tried to deny his attraction to her. He had inevitably failed miserably, which given how much happiness he now felt with her by his side, was not such a bad result. It appeared that denial about ones feelings for a lady was a family trait. It must be something in the bloodline for how else would one explain the hardheadedness of the Darcy and Fitzwilliam men. However, that did not mean Darcy was not amused by the predicament his cousin was in, for while he sympathized, he was also looking forward to returning the favor of endless teasing that Richard had kindly bestowed upon him. Darcy observed Richard and grinned slowly. "No, I don't see you taking very kindly to her calling you domineering, but in the lady's defense she is right."

Richard glared at him. "I am not domineering."

"Come now Richard, you like to have your way." Darcy's mouth twitched as he observed the scowl that clouded his cousin's features. "Stop brooding Richard. That's my job."

Richard shot up out of chair, nearly spilling his drink, and began to pace. "I did not like being called domineering, but I did not mind it either. If it had been anyone else I would be angry, but not with her."

Darcy's bit back a smile. "So the Irish lass has claimed your approval then?"

Richard stopped and turned to glare at Darcy. "She's infuriating. She likes Thor more than me." If Richard had been feeling anymore dramatic he might have thrown up his hands for affect, but he was more interested in staring into the flames of the crackling fire.

"You're jealous of a horse Richard?" asked Darcy incredulously.

"Yes I'm jealous of my own damn horse. My own damn horse gets more affection from her than I do." Richard picked up his glass of brandy and threw his head back effectively emptying it.

Darcy was attempting to hold back laughter. Richard scowled. "Stop laughing" he bit out between clenched teeth.

"Richard" said Darcy failing miserably at holding back laughter "if you could just see yourself."

Richard sighed. Darcy was going to amuse himself at his expense. Well, given how much amusement he had garnered from Darcy's troubled path to happiness with Elizabeth it was the least he could do for Darcy. That did not mean he had to enjoy the experience though. He needed another drink.