Chapter XI
Hell is the Heart of London
"I hate London," Fitzwilliam Darcy growled to himself as he walked along a busy sidewalk outside Mayfair. "I hate it." With disgust, Darcy kicked a piece of runaway garbage out of his path and continued his walk. "It's dirty, and it's crowded, and it smells like - Oh, I do beg your pardon, ma'am," he said, quickly sidestepping an old woman carrying a rather frighteningly large cane.
He had done it. He had convinced Bingley to stay in London, perhaps permanently, just as he had told Caroline he would do. And Darcy had felt so utterly sickened with himself afterward that he had thought it necessary to get a little fresh air to mollify his roiling stomach. It was too bad, he thought peevishly, that the air in London was far from fresh.
He simply could not erase from his mind the mental image of the utterly crushed expression on Bingley's face when Darcy had told him that it would be for the best to avoid creating an attachment with Jane Bennet. That the woman did not share his feelings for her.
But it was the truth, was it not? And Bingley deserved to have the truth told him, heartbreaking though it may be. Darcy owed him that much, didn't he? After all, the two of them had been the best of friends for years.
Since their first year at Cambridge, to be precise.
When Darcy had caught some of the wealthy, titled boys dunking Bingley's head in a chamber pot.
He had beaten the three buffoons quite severely, of course. Darcy had given one of them a black eye, another a bloody nose, and then had granted the third gentleman a sore jaw and a kick in the arse for good measure.
Perhaps I should have gone out for boxing, Darcy thought.
After the threesome had run away with their tails between their legs, Darcy distinctly remembered Bingley's first words to him:
"I had only wanted to be liked."
From then on Darcy had stood firmly beside Bingley as his greatest friend, confidante, mentor, assistant - always looking to his friend's safety first. Safety from cruel words, from spiteful people, and even - safety from women.
Bingley would one day find a worthy woman who returned his love; and if Darcy had to muck about London for a hundred years in order for him to do so, then so be it.
As Darcy proceeded to shift his weight in order to push aside another piece of filth, there was a sudden tap upon his shoulder.
"Darcy, you old fool, what are you doing in your least favorite city on earth?"
At the sound of the familiar voice, Darcy turned, encircling the shoulder-tapper in a manly embrace - a hug that was warm, but not too warm. Room temperature, perhaps. "Max, you idiot!" Darcy exclaimed with a teasing grin.
Maxwell Fading took Darcy by the shoulders and gave him a hearty shake. "Fitzwilliam Darcy, you have not changed a bit! What has it been? Four years?"
Darcy grimaced. "Perhaps five."
"No, don't say that!" Max groaned with a dramatic hand over his heart. "It makes me feel so…damned…old." Max Fading had always been quite the actor - or, perhaps, quite the melodramatic - during their days at Cambridge. He was of a medium height - Darcy could see quite easily over the top of his head, - with chocolate brown hair that hung in wisps over his brows, and dark sapphire blue eyes that glowed under them. Max was the perfect antithesis of Darcy's awkward, antisocial behavior. Mr. Fading loved to attend balls and socialize - albeit, mostly with women, who went absolutely mad for him, and would happily jump into Max's bed at the snap of his finger, - he possessed a pleasing charm and inexhaustible wit, and he always knew precisely what to say.
Mr. Darcy would choose death before attending a social gathering, possessed a thick tongue for speech and sad excuse of a smile for charm, and when occasions ensued it was often that the only word his lips could produce was umm - if that even qualified as a word. And as for his reputation amongst the ladies of society, Darcy had been made aware that he was seen as brooding in the eyes of the female sex - an attribute that was normally commendable, according to the ton women, but was not so in Darcy's case. He was too brooding, they all said. Too, too brooding. Yes, two too's.
Regardless of their differing personalities, Max got along very well with Darcy. In fact, Max Fading, Charles Bingley, and Fitzwilliam Darcy had been the most unstoppable trio of misfits in Cambridge (the only reason for Max's misfitity - misfitosity? - being that his father dared to work for a living, no matter that Fading Sr. was highly successful). They had each received cruel treatment from their peers, and together they had made the perfect team. Bingley was the kind, benevolent one; Max was the dashing, mischievous one; and Darcy… Well, Darcy supposed he was the one who kept the two of them out of trouble.
After a moment more of friendly greetings, Max asked Darcy if he could join him in his jaunt about town, and they were soon off.
Darcy turned and smiled at his old university chum, a great sense of nostalgia washing over him. "Where the devil have you been the past five years, Fading?"
Max waved an indifferent hand. "Scotland, Italy, Africa, Egypt, all over."
"Without announcing your intentions to anyone?"
"No one to announce them to," Max answered with a shrug. "What can I say? Fitz, when the world's calling you, there's no time to stop and smell the roses!"
"Well, you could have mentioned it to someone," Darcy scolded. "Me, Bingley - "
Max stopped dead in his tracks and began to laugh hysterically. "Charles Bingley, how could I not have asked after him? Good 'ol Bing! Is he well? What has he been up to? Is he leg-shackled? Is he in town? Does he still have that bouncy hair?"
"Not so fast!" Darcy chuckled. "Bingley is very well, he's been doing the same things he always does, he is unmarried, he's in town, and his hair is just the same as it has always been."
"Hmm. Not very exciting of Bingley, but that's just the way I like him." This emitted a hearty round of laughter from both gentlemen, only to be broken by another question from Max. "And you, Fitz?"
"My hair is its normal volume, thank you."
"HA!" Max instantly doubled over with laughter. Only once he had recovered was he able to reply, "Jokes? You have jokes? Who are you and what have you done with Fitzwilliam Darcy?"
Darcy laughed. He couldn't help but find's Max's unwarranted amazement to be anything but amusing. "I have changed a bit, I suppose," he allowed.
Then, all of sudden, Max's demeanor became completely serious. His brows crinkled in thought, and he stared at Darcy very closely through those piercingly dark blue eyes. And just when Darcy was about to express that he felt extremely uncomfortable, Max abruptly turned his head toward the street and ceased with his inspection. "What do you say, Fitz, how about you invite me to your place for a bit of your fine brandy?" Max asked, as casually as if the three minutes of awkward staring had never passed. Darcy replied in the affirmative, and then they remained silent all the way to Darcy House.
"Oh. No."
"What?" Max asked as he set an expensive piece of statue work that he really should not have been touching back in its place.
"Oh no no no no no." Darcy's head dropped face first onto his desk.
Max strode across the room until he was positioned behind Darcy's large leather chair. "What the devil is the matter with you?" he asked, peering over his friends skull to look at the letter that had just fallen from his hands. Max's eyes instantly widened with terror. "…Damn." Darcy raised his head, and the two of them stared in horror at the invitation Darcy House's head butler, Stafford, had just carried in with the post. The crisp square of paper was sealed with bright orange wax, molded in the shape of a tongue of fire, and they both knew what that meant.
A meeting of Portas Inferni, an exclusive club scandalously named Gates of Hell when its title was translated into english.
Otherwise known as, the-inappopriately-named-group-of-idiots-who-held-semi-annual-meetings-at-which-nothing-at-all-really-occurred.
Darcy shook his head in dismay. Portas Inferni was without a doubt the most idiotic element in his life. Though most private London clubs such as these were usually open to high-ranking peers only, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Fading were forced membership by the fact that they were legacies - meaning that their grandfathers and great-grandfathers before them hadn't had the common sense to remove themselves from the association at the start, and now Fitzwilliam's and Max's membership was considered apart of sacred male tradition. "I should have stayed in Hertfordshire," Darcy groaned.
"Hertfordshire?" Max echoed, his interest instantly piqued. "You didn't tell me you were in Hertfordshire, what were you doing there?"
Darcy sat for a moment in silent indecision. How much should he tell Max? In the end, he decided to simply answer with, "Bingley rented a house there recently, and he asked me to visit."
"Oh, Bing would," Max sighed with a reminiscent smile. "Do you remember when that man convinced him that his social life as he knew it would be over if he did not buy a custom-made pink coat?"
Darcy chuckled amiably, happy to have brought the subject away from Hertfordshire. "No, no, it wasn't pink. Bingley distinctly stated when he wore it to Gunther's that it was rose, not pink."
"Ah, that's right, rose. How on earth could I have confused the two?" Max replied with a remarkably straight face. Then, in the same teasing tone, he asked, "Speaking of rose, did you or Bingley meet any lovely English roses down in the country?"
Darcy leapt from his chair and faced Max before he even knew what he was doing, chest out and fist curled. "She - "
Max's eyes became about ten times wider. "She? There actually is a she? I had only been joking! Are you getting yourself leg-shackled, Darcy?"
Darcy shut his mouth closed, shocked at the words that had almost popped out of his mouth. He had been about to say, "She is more than that." Up until now Darcy had not allowed himself to seriously think of Elizabeth again, and now that he had his emotions began to hit him full force. God, how he missed her. He missed her kindness and her laughter. He missed having something to look forward to in his day, something to hope for and ponder on. He missed her very presence.
"Darcy, who is this she? Darcy!" Max practically shouted in his ear, breaking him out of his reverie.
Darcy tossed his head to the side, carefully contemplating the matter. As much as he would love to unleash his passion for Elizabeth Bennet to public scrutiny, as much as discussing his feelings with a friend would greatly relieve his heartache, he still found that he could not admit his foolishness aloud. "There were one or two fine young ladies there, Max," Darcy finally said, firmly dismissing the question. But Darcy's heart continued to speak. Only one, it whispered to just itself. Only one fine lady in Hertfordshire. Only one fine lady in the world. The only one for me.
Complete silence filled the air in Darcy's library - Darcy leaning back in his leather chair, trying his best not to think of Elizabeth (and failing), Max perched on the corner of the desk and watching Darcy's face as carefully as one might a scientific experiment.
Finally, Max sighed and took hold of the Portas Inferni invitation once more. "When is it?" he asked, even as he was opening the seal himself. "Friday." Max turned to Darcy. "Do we really have to go?"
"Yes," Darcy said with firm resolve. "Horrible it may be, but it is tradition." His family might have died some time ago, but he still believed in their traditions, and would follow them.
Max's eyes swept upward in reluctant submission. "Fine…
"It's going to be a hell of a time, you know that, don't you?"
Friday came far too soon.
Mr. Darcy and Mr. Fading strode together on the assigned day to the illustrious home of Cillian Matthew Jacobson III, the extremely rich and highly influential Duke of Fennelsworth and president of Portas Inferni.
And Max complained all the way to Grosvenor Square.
"Do we honestly have to be there? Veilwood is never there! In fact I can't remember the last time he came to a meeting! It won't matter! Can we please go home? Or couldn't we go have a bit of real fun? We could ride, we could shoot, we could play a damned lawn game for all I care! Just leave me be!" and other such things were all the conversation Max provided on the long walk through the fashionable streets of London.
Finally, thankfully, blessedly, Max abstained from whining when they arrived at the front door of Number 6 Grosvenor Square. Darcy knocked thrice upon the door with its big brass knocker, and was greeted with the sight of a stuffy old butler in a turban. "Welcome, flames of manly vigor and glorious tradition!" the man cried in a booming voice, the likes of which the likes of which had never before escaped from the mouth of a butler. "May your ashes fill this meeting place with valor!"
The gentlemen stood open-mouthed, until Max finally leaned toward his friend and whispered, "Are we at the wrong house?"
"Say it again, perhaps they didn't hear you!" a youthful voice said in a loud whisper from inside.
The butler cleared his throat and began again. "Welcome - !"
"It's alright, we heard you," Darcy said to the butler in a sympathetic tone.
The man did his best not to appear relieved, but Darcy caught the appreciation in his old eyes for not having to scream the strange anecdote yet again.
"I'm guessing there have been some changes around here?" Max inquired, humor now having overcome his shock.
"Yes, indeed, a great many changes!" the owner of the youthful voice cheered as he emerged from behind the turbaned butler. "Do come in, do come in! I am Winston Jacobson!" the boy said with an elegant bow. And then, clearly in great reluctance, he added, "Cillian's younger brother."
Darcy entered the house, with Max following behind him and chuckling under his breath all the way. Darcy could not help but bite his lip in an attempt to keep himself from joining Max in laughter. The poor lad looked to be the awkward age of seventeen, with freckles covering every square inch of his face and ears the size of saucers. He was wearing an enormous turban, which apparently was the newly adopted uniform of Portas Inferni. Winston Jacobson was quite obviously a young man who was looking for some mode of responsibility, and ridiculous as it was, he had found his calling amongst the foolishness of the Gates of Hell.
Darcy smiled at Winston, sympathetic of a young boy's woes. He himself had knew what it was like to feel foolish and lost…and hopelessly awkward. "A pleasure to meet you, sir. I am Fitzwilliam Darcy, and this is Maxwell Fading."
"Howdeedoo," Max murmured with an awkward wave of his hand.
"An honor!" Winston returned with an exuberant smile, clearly delighted to be so addressed. "Titles?"
"None," Max answered. "We're both esquires."
"It's no matter, anyhow," Darcy assured him. "You may call me Darcy, if you like."
Winston was clearly elated as he answered, "And you may call me Winston." Then they both turned to Max.
…
Darcy elbowed Max in the ribs, causing him to grunt and finally mutter, "You may call me Max."
"And you may call me Winston, as well," the young Jacobson replied. "Oh! But what are we doing loitering about? Come, come, give your coats to Dudley," - at this he motioned to the turbaned butler - "and follow me. Now, my brother has allowed me to make some minor changes to Portas Inferni. First off, there's… Never mind, you'll see once you're upstairs!"
The amount of shock and terror that was felt upon Darcy and Max's entering the room could only be expressed by their simultaneous utterance of, "Good…God."
The once stylish and decidedly masculine upstairs parlor of Cillian Jacobson was bedecked in jewel-toned, sheer…shawls or something or other. Hundreds of them! - or so it appeared to Darcy's horrified eyes - draped across the walls like some type of sparkling…well…drapery! And the long, menacing mahogany table that traditionally served as the Portas Inferni members' site of torture had been replaced with what had to be a twelve foot rug, encircled by heavily beaded pillows. The Duke of Fennelsworth sat on a large pillow at the head of the rug, his feet under him, and his face decidedly set in a murderous expression.
"Are we in hell, Fennelsworth?" Max asked in a whisper.
The duke sighed. "I believe we are beyond the gates by now, yes."
Winston suddenly materialized in the doorway, looking all aflutter with excitement. "Isn't it marvelous? Cillian and I thought it would be a fine idea to Indianize the club."
"You," Fennelsworth instantly asserted. "You thought it would be a fine idea."
"Do take your seats, gentlemen," Winston continued, either ignoring or not having heard his brother's statement. "You will be sitting in the two empty spots between Sir Colin Stanford and the Earl of Sigma. And I," he went on as he merrily jaunted around the rug, "will sit at my brother's right hand, because he has officially made me assistant president of the club."
"Assistant to the president," Fennelsworth said pointedly.
Winston blushed and muttered, "Yes, yes, it's all the same thing. Anyway, when the last person arrives, we can begin."
Darcy and Max took their seats on the large pillows. While Max had decided to completely barricade himself from any of the surrounding company, Darcy turned to the fellow members next to him. "Hello, Stanford. Sigma."
"Afternoon, Darcy!" Colin Stanford hooted as he finished off his glass of wine. "It's been ages! Oh!" he gasped, pointing his forefinger to a spot under Darcy's left eye, and causing Darcy himself to flinch. "Are those wrinkles? They are! They are wrinkles! Ohhhh wrinkles!"
Darcy's lips tightened in annoyance. Sir Colin Stanford was the baronet of the group, the one who both drank and ate too much, yet somehow managed to keep a slim figure and a sturdy gait. Stanford was probably Darcy's least favorite of all his fellow members of Portas Inferni, and it took all of his willpower to dismiss the man's behavior with a simple, "It's good to see you as well, Stanford," rather than knock some sense into his bloated, drunken head. It seemed unfair somehow, that a man such as Colin Stanford could live his life irresponsible and free of care, whereas Darcy was forced to exist with mounds of duties to carry atop his shoulders.
Sir Colin stuffed a large biscuit in his mouth and called out, "Missed you, Darce!" and then proceeded to eat all the duke's food and swallow gallons of his spirits.
Darcy then turned to Phillip Simons, the Earl of Sigma. The man was middle-aged, but was still known for being quite the favorite amongst the ladies who willingly lifted their skirts. Phillip Simons was himself very brooding - although apparently not quite so brooding as Darcy, - causing everyone from simpering young misses on the husband hunt, to schoolboy dandies who wished to gain a brooding reputation of their own to flock to his side at any perceived moment.
"Hello, Sigma," Darcy repeated with a nod of his head.
Sigma only nodded in return. The man wasn't much for talking - to men at least; when it came to women Darcy honestly didn't care to know what form of speech the earl used. Darcy could definitely respect silence, seeing as he was so fond of it himself.
Darcy then turned his body forward, fully expecting to see the portly Earl of Preston seated across from him, only to be greeted with the sight of a young…well…dog-faced sort of gentleman, if one was forced to be truthful.
"Hello, old boy!" the man said with an amiable smile as he held out his hand.
Darcy stared at the man's hand as if it were a twelve-eyed toad, completely unsure of what to do with it. Had they met before? Darcy was fairly certain he would remember this man. The gentleman, whose hand was still out and ready for shaking, had very thick skin that drooped in certain areas of his face, giving him the appearance of a hound, or perhaps a spent horse after a long ride. A fat, spent horse. And yet there was a blissful sparkle in the corner of his youthful eyes that gave Darcy the impression he was quite possibly the happiest, most content man on earth - dog- and/or horse-faced or no. He couldn't help but admire that.
After a time the gentleman finally realized he had made a mistake and drew back his hand, a heavy blush rising in his saggy cheeks. "Oh, deuce take it, I haven't introduced myself! I am Viscount Buttercup!"
The entire room was an eruption of hysterical laughter.
Max Fading looked as if he were having a difficulty breathing, sputtering "What? What?" after every short gasp of air. Winston Jacobson was heeheehee-ing at an accelerando pace, slow at the start and then gradually quickening until the poor lad looked nonsensical. Sir Colin Stanford was definitely the worst of the bunch, screeching and chortling loud BAHAHA's as he fell backwards onto the floor, bellowing mid-BAHAHA, "That's the fourth time I've heard it today and it's still hilarious!" Even Fennelsworth and Sigma, who were surely the most serious of the bunch, were biting their lips and chuckling under their breath. Poor Viscount Buttercup looked as if he wanted to melt into the floor, and yet they all kept laughing.
All except Darcy.
Not that it wasn't funny. Hell, Darcy would be the first to admit that it was hilarious under normal circumstances. But these circumstances were not normal. He couldn't be certain as to why, but the unfortunate viscount had caused Darcy to develop a deep feeling of sympathy - this toward a strange man he hardly knew! And, heaven help him, but he could not laugh. Elizabeth wouldn't have liked it, he suddenly reflected. She wouldn't have laughed were she in the same situation. She would have been kind and gentle. And Darcy felt himself longing to act that same way toward the viscount.
"It is I who should be introducing myself to you, then," Darcy intoned genially as he offered his own hand to Viscount Buttercup. "I am Fitzwilliam Darcy, but you may call me Darcy, if you like."
For a moment the viscount stared at him in shock, mouth open and eyes wide. Then in an instant he took Darcy's proffered hand and shook it gratefully. "Thank you, Darcy! My name is Harold Buttercup," - here the viscount ignored Sir Colin's relapsing hoot of, The first name makes it even better! as he continued - " but you may call me Harry, of course! I became a member after the Earl of Preston…." Harry's voice trailed off as he lowered his eyes to the ground.
When it became obvious that there was to be no continuation of that statement, Darcy prompted the viscount with, "After the Earl of Preston…"
"…Died," Harry mumbled sadly with a shake of his head.
"Really?" Darcy asked in disbelief. "How?" He hadn't particularly liked the man, but -
"Hanged," Sir Colin Stanford uttered with a morbid succinctness that instantly broke through the barrier of Darcy's thoughts.
"I - I'm sorry?" Darcy stuttered.
"BAHAHA I'm only kidding!" Sir Colin hollered amidst a sea of triumphant laughter. "I can't believe you believed that!" And then with a nonchalance that left Darcy startled, he finished with, "He died because he was old and fat," and returned to eating whatever scraps of food he had left on the table.
…
"Anywho," Winston Jacobson continued cheerfully, "when the Earl of Veilwood arrives we may begin the meeting."
"He's not going to arrive," Fennelsworth droned as he motioned for his brother to take his seat.
"What? Why not?"
"Veilwood hasn't attended a meeting since the Battle of the Nile."
Max's face turned white with horror. "Did this club still exist then?"
The duke was not amused. "It's a figure of speech," he very near growled.
Max shrugged. "Not any figure of speech I've ever heard - "
"Anywho!" Winston interjected yet again. The boy's smile was suddenly so broad as to be frightening. "We'll just begin the meeting then! We are going to start with the chant!"
Darcy was almost certain all their mouths fell open at the exact moment.
"If you look under your seat cushions," Winston instructed as he lifted his pillow, "you will each find a copy of the brand new cantu portas inferni!"
The men stood, albeit reluctantly, and retrieved the slips of paper from under their seats. All except Sir Colin, who was obviously too lazy to actually lift himself from his seat to retrieve the paper, and somehow ended up flat on his back for what had to be the billionth time that evening.
"Alright!" Winston clapped his hands together with glee as he took his seat. "Let us begin."
With a long, world weary moan, they all began the chant:
Human kindlers of the Gates of Hell,
Porsuit ignis adere!
Portas Inferni! Coniungere!
The exclamation points remained strictly apart of the text - no one but Winston was willing to recite the chant with very much animation.
"Excellent, excellent!" Winston cheered. "Now it is time for the relaxation exercise. If you will all lie on the mats we've had placed on the other end of the room?"
All the men remained seated.
The Duke of Fennelsworth sighed in resignation. "I had them imported, so if you would all just…"
After several grumbles of "Alright, alright," they were all lying face upward on the Indian-style mats.
Once the curtains were drawn and the candlelight extinguished, Max, who was directly to Darcy's left, turned to him and whispered, "Suppose we're raped."
Darcy chuckled and replied, "It is the Gates of Hell. Who knows what can happen."
The two of them bursted into side-splitting laughter that ceased with Winston's magisterial bellow of "SILENCE!"
And then the nightmare began.
"Breathe in… Breathe out…"
Darcy was growing quite sick of breathing, something he had never before believed possible.
"Breathe in," Winston hummed again, "and then breathe out…"
"If I breathe in and out one more time," Max grumbled, "my lungs are going to be officially worn out. Perhaps I could donate them to some type of scientist…"
Almost as if he had heard Max's complaint, Winston crooned, "And one last time - breathe in… And breathe out! Marvelous, marvelous! Give yourselves a round of applause!"
The room was decidedly silent.
"Right," Winston said with an awkward cough. "Well, I'm going to step out for a moment. Our next event is the flexibility exercise. You all just keep relaxing, while I find someone to retrieve the stretchers!"
The door closed behind Winston Jacobson and his funny turban with a resolute click.
The men on the ground remained completely silent…
Until,
"I wonder," Max murmured into the quiet atmosphere of the room, "just how he means to stretch us…"
And then they all burst out laughing - not the same cruel sniggering that they had issued upon the hearing of Viscount Buttercup's name, but laughs of true mirth, that they all shared in friendship. Darcy had never thought he could find friendship among this set, but as he looked over at the Duke of Fennelsworth - the man who had surely despaired for years over his being the president of their ridiculous club, and was at this moment cackling so loudly he could probably be heard across Mayfair - he realized that stupid as it may be, they all played a part in Portas Inferni. They were all his friends, in a strange, nonsense sort of way. And wasn't until just then that Darcy realized how desperately he needed friends at this lonely time in his life.
Once the laughter had subsided, Fennelsworth sat upward and said, "Thank you all for humoring Winston. He's been wanting something to do with his life, other than school and 'this boring London stuff,' as he puts it. He's very excited to have a purpose in the club." They all nodded, a few of them offering a sympathetic murmur of "Certainly," or "Of course," and then the duke added in a mischievous tone, "I'm saving this as an embarrassing story to tell his future wife." They all chimed in at that, creating that interesting hodgepodge of concurrences that together sounded like inscrutable sea of masculine murmurs.
Sir Colin also lifted himself from his mat. "Speaking of wives," he turned suggestively to the side of the room where the Earl of Sigma was lying, "how's the old girl doing these days, Sigma?"
Darcy sat up in surprise. "You were married, Sigma?"
The earl shoved himself upward as well, still looking as though he did not appreciate Sir Colin's previous reference to his wife as 'the old girl,' but smiling all the same. "Indeed, just four weeks ago. To Miss Jean Crane."
"Ah, the Marquis of Levensey's daughter. I offer you my congratulations, Sigma." Darcy would have gone across the room and given the earl's hand a shake, but he was honestly stuck in his sedate position, so he punctuated his congratulations with a smile and a nod and laid back down upon his mat.
"Thank you, Darcy. She is a treasure." One would assume that the earl's praise of his wife's worth had been merely perfunctory. In their day and age, marriage generally had little to do with with love for another and all to do with love for wealth and status, both of which the Earl of Sigma had certainly received in his marriage to the daughter of a marquis. And yet there was almost palpable warmth in the earl's voice that was unmistakeable. No one needed to look at Sigma's face to tell that he was in love with his wife.
"I cannot wait to tell her about about all this," the earl finished with a chuckle, causing the group to join in another round of companionable laughter - and leaving Darcy with an opportunity for contemplation.
Phillip Simons, the Earl of Sigma, the man who had spent his entire life mercilessly seducing random women with his icy eyes and broodish behavior - he had found love! And he was happy. And Darcy couldn't help but think…
I want that.
He wanted someone to be happy with. A woman who lifted his soul when she walked into a room. A woman who spoke and melted away all his worry and heartache. A woman who could challenge his mind and lighten his heart. When Fitzwilliam Darcy married he knew he wouldn't expect perfection. He merely wanted someone in his life he could cherish as the last thing he saw at night, and then delight that she was first image to greet his every morning.
And only then did he allow himself to picture the face of Elizabeth Bennet. Every lovely detail.
Up until now, Darcy had avoided - very well, attempted to avoid - all thoughts of, images of, and fantasies of Elizabeth. But now he found himself sketching in the black recesses of his mind each and every line that made up her face. The delicate curve of each of her cheekbones, the decided point of her jaw, the adorable pair of speckles that rested on the tip of her nose. He could see it all as if she were standing there before him. But it was her eyes that his memory could recall the best. Elizabeth possessed this beautiful twinkling element in her dark eyes that revealed itself whenever she made a witty remark or when something she admired appeared before her. It was something he had seen what felt like a thousand times during his stay in Hertfordshire, and yet each time it occurred - right in the exact same spot in the top corner of the almost black irises of her eyes - it was if the tumble he felt in his stomach and the clenching of his heart were something new. Darcy would love to wake to see that twinkle in her eye. Every single morning. And he was beginning to wonder if Elizabeth realized just how much he would worship her were he given leave to do so.
No. She was sitting in her little country house without a clue. And he would never marry her. He could never marry her. He would never feel the way the Earl of Sigma felt being married to his Jean. He would never come home to Elizabeth, never be able to tell her how ridiculous his club was, never hold her as he told her stories about Max's fear of being raped or Sir Colin Stanford's tendency to fall flat on his arse every five seconds of the meeting. He could see it all perfectly in his vast imagination, but in reality it was impossible. She was of too modest an income, too low a station. Which meant Darcy would have to find some other woman to marry… And it nearly killed him.
Because he simply could not picture it with anyone else.
Later that night, Darcy laid asleep in his bed, the image of Elizabeth still fresh in his mind.
He dreamt.
Vividly.
He was in bed at his home in Derbyshire. Pemberley was most definitely his favorite place in all the world, with its heart-stopping landscapes and peaceful atmosphere. His attraction to the area was somehow magical, especially at nighttime, when every tree and rutted hill was awash in sparkling blue moonlight. He knew it was the same moon as everywhere else in the world, but at Pemberley it looked different. And as the moon's rays filtered through Darcy's bedroom window and onto the pure white of his bedsheets, he awoke.
And he was under the gaze of a pair of dark, shimmering eyes that simply made him melt.
Darcy sagged into the bedsheets as he released a moan from the very center of his chest, took Elizabeth in his arms, and achingly touched his lips to hers. He wanted to inhale her, consume her, and he wanted to give himself to every inch of her soul. She made the universe better. He just knew it. He felt it in the spinning whirlpool of bliss that was his mind and heart as he moved his mouth to caress Elizabeth's pale shoulders. He was better with her than he was without her.
And they fit together perfectly.
He returned his lips to hers, and then gradually slid his mouth across her cheek, to her ear. Her hands were clinging to his neck, tousling his hair, and it drove him absolutely wild. So much so he could barely speak. All he could do with murmur into her ear, "Elizabeth… I… I…"
"I love so many things about you," she suddenly whispered into his neck. "Every day of my life, I want to share with you." Feeling a joyous sense of rapture that he couldn't control, Darcy took her hand and touched her wrist to his lips. "Every day, every hour." He softly kissed her palm. "Every minute." He touched his tongue to the sensitive hollow between her fingers, then returned his mouth to hers in order to catch her moan in his mouth. "Every second," she whispered against his lips.
"You make my world bearable," he said, looking at her with his heart in his eyes as he nestled his nose next to hers. "I look at the sky and it's bluer, everything I see is better than it used to be, and I can finally smile.
"Even," he continued as he held his hand to her cheek, "if I were trapped in the farthest corner of the fires of hell, I could smile, knowing that in another life...you had been mine."