Author's Note: This story is kind of a spin-off of my other story, Master of Pemberley. There, we meet the Colonel's brother, Lord Hartwell, and I got so engrossed in the backstory of his disastrous marriage (a cautionary tale for young Darcy), that it was no surprise that my readers did as well. And they implored me to please give him a happy ending.

Well, in my mind, I had already run ahead and done just that. So obviously, that story needs telling. Which is why I am writing this.

However, I do want to caution you. This is not a run-of-the-mill P&P story. It does feature quite a few of its well-known canon characters, but the focus is on Fitzwilliam's elder brother, who – although never really mentioned by Miss Austen – by rights can be considered canon thanks to the technicality of Fitzwilliam's being the younger son.

Through Hartwell's eyes, we do get to see Darcy and Lizzy in their happy-ever-after (among others), but as I said, the focus is on Hartwell; not on any of the canon characters from Miss Austen's tale.

So if that is not your thing, consider yourself warned.

Edit: as requested, the link to Master of Pemberley: www fanfiction net/ s/ 14290775/ 1/ Master-of-Pemberley

! ! Additional Warning ! !

The further we get in this story, the more I realize it should have a more content focused warning as well.

So although there will be a happy ending indeed,

this story deals with PTSD, social anxiety, and the aftereffects of adultery on the betrayed party.

If such topics bother you, you might want to stay away from this story.

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I WANT WHAT YOU'RE HAVING

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Stephen Fitzwilliam, Viscount Hartwell, leaned against the wall for safety as was his habit in a crowd, and observed the chaos with a cup of coffee in his hand. Two daughters marrying eligible and very rich gentlemen on the same day would send any household reeling, so the exuberance of the brides' mother was thoroughly understandable.

But it wasn't her he was watching. Her voice unavoidably drew his attention occasionally, but the true object of his fascination was his cousin Darcy.

Darcy, and his (according to society) thoroughly unsuitable bride Elizabeth.

He had hardly had a chance to offer them his congratulations in the throng, but already before that – in church, and in the past few days staying at Netherfield – his attention had been drawn to… something. There was something between those two that positively fascinated him. Something that was as alien to him as it was alluring. Something one at best dared fantasize about, without the slightest hope of the fairy-tale ever coming true. Something he didn't really believe to be possible.

Yet here it was, right in front of his eyes: Darcy was absolutely besotted with his new wife, and she no less with him.

And he could not help but stare.

Stare, and envy them.

His own wedding fourteen years ago was a memory he would rather forget. After two harrowing seasons as the prize fox on the hunting ground called the London Marriage Market, the heir to the Earl of Matlock was ready to throw in the towel and just marry the first tolerable lady to next cross his path. He was exhausted from being the prey of every fawning and scheming young lady he met – not to mention the wiles of their matchmaking mamas. On top of that, he was getting seriously paranoid from the varied and manifold attempts to ensnare or even compromise him into marriage. All he wanted was to be done with it once and for all. And the only escape he saw was to get married as quickly as possible.

It was in that mood that he was introduced to Lady Agnes Noble, the second daughter of a Staffordshire viscount. And she was like a breath of fresh air.

Or so he thought.

Lady Agnes did not fawn over him.

She could hold up her end in a conversation, even on topics other than gossip and fashion. In fact, it seemed like a sign from above that they even had a few interests in common.

She was honest, pleasant, open, she loved to laugh, and there was very little artifice about her.

She was simply such an improvement over both the vapid and the unscrupulous fortune hunters that had been preying on him for the past years, that he was happy to seek her company.

They met several times in public gatherings over the following weeks. But his showing a preference for one of them only spurred on the other ladies to double their efforts to catch him, with every means at their disposal. And after yet another barely avoided compromise, he just lost it. It was too much; he couldn't handle the pressure anymore – he had to get out now.

A simple reflection revealed that in the whole pack, he knew but one lady who was simply pleasant and honest with him. Who did not hunt him into the ground. Who did not scheme, or goad him into proposing.

Lady Agnes Noble.

On top of that, she had everything that society prized in a potential wife: beauty, a good family with close relations to the peerage, influential connections, a huge dowry, a range of accomplishments…

What more could he wish for?

So it was the most logical thing to do to call on her the next day, propose a private (if chaperoned) walk in the nearby park, finally have their first (semi-)private and uninterrupted conversation, and finish the walk with a proposal of marriage.

Which she accepted. With alacrity.

They had universally been proclaimed as the match of the season.

But their wedding day four weeks later – as grand as any royal wedding you will ever see – had turned out to be the high point of their relationship.

The very next day already, their relationship had begun to go downhill.

And the hill was steep.

He had quickly discovered that his new wife had no interest in him whatsoever. All she wanted was the prestige of being the next Countess of Matlock. To that end, she had studied his character, his preferences and his interests, and simply played into his wishes until the deed was done. To make a long story short: she was all artifice, with hardly an honest bone in her body.

Yes, she did quickly present him with an heir, and fortunately, the boy was such a typical Fitzwilliam that at least he was spared the doubt about whether or not he was indeed the father. But when the hoped-for spare a year later turned out to be a daughter, Lady Agnes dealt with the disappointment by going to live in London and hardly ever coming home anymore. The children barely knew her, and all he heard from her were rumours about a variety of paramours she kept in town.

He had not married a lady.

He had been tricked into marriage by a high-class whore.

She did come back to Matlock for a while a few years later. Highly pregnant, and about to enter her confinement. She finally wanted to present him with the spare he needed, she said, and indeed she did.

He knew all too well that the boy could not possibly be his. But he pretended for the sake of avoiding further scandal.

The event deteriorated their relationship even further – if such was possible. Her marital duties now considered fulfilled, Agnes quickly disappeared to town again, and on the rare occasions that they did find themselves in company, they both preferred to avoid the other like the plague.

But he had his estate (although technically, it was still his father's), he had his children (the only good thing to come out of his marriage), which combined made for a reasonably good life. Not a happy one, mind you, but it certainly was not a bad life.

And then, some three years ago now, word had reached him that his 'wife' had perished in London from some aggressive venereal disease.

And all he had felt was relief.

Profound relief.

And guilt about the fact that he found himself incapable of feeling anything but relief.

But life goes on, and his estate needed him, and his children were growing up… and then he got a letter from Darcy. Inviting him to his wedding. To some obscure Miss Elizabeth Bennet from Hertfordshire.

Darcy, of all people! Who brandished 'Duty' as his middle name!?

Flabbergasted, but unwilling to offend the elated groom, he applied to his brother for more information on the lady. Had Darcy fallen into the same trap as he had fourteen years ago?!

Richard's reply astonished him. It turned out he was well acquainted with this Miss Bennet, and confessed that – had her dowry been a bit better – he would happily have offered for her himself.

But as it was, her dowry was a joke, her family totally unknown and actually rather embarrassing (he was a bit cagey about her youngest sister), and although she was a gentleman's daughter, her connections were mainly in trade.

And yet his fastidious cousin had seen fit to offer for her. Twice, in fact, for the first time around, this penniless nobody had the gall to refuse him.

His mind had boggled at the idea. What lady in her right mind would refuse someone like Darcy?!

But according to Richard, that is exactly what this pretty 21-year-old brunette did. She was lively, he wrote, and intelligent, loyal, not easily intimidated, a great walker, well read, enjoyed a good debate, and had a great sense of humour. Apparently, they had met a full year ago, but Darcy being Darcy, their courtship had not gone over roses.

And now they were to get married.

Hartwell had shaken his head. It was unfathomable. But his curiosity was firmly aroused, so he dispatched a quick note to Darcy with congratulations and the promise that he and his children would be happy to attend the wedding.

So here he was. In Hertfordshire. At Darcy's wedding.

His children had quickly made the acquaintance of some peers – cousins and neighbours of the brides apparently. Georgiana was the one introducing them all – where did that girl leave her proverbial shyness?

And then there was Darcy, positively beaming with pride and love and something he could not quite name. Was it longing? Devotion? Satisfaction?

And she had that same aura. The only apt description was 'besotted'. A picture of… full and thorough happiness. It was a sensation he had never experienced himself. Not even on his wedding day.

He had done his duty, oh yes.

He had married a beautiful titled lady of good family, with excellent connections and a great dowry, as society and his family expected, even demanded of him.

But now that he was watching his thoroughly besotted cousin with his so-called unsuitable bride (Look at them; they can barely keep their hands off each other! And those never faltering beaming smiles, and… was that a kiss?! And a rather erotic one at that, in front of everybody?!), he couldn't quench the nagging thought that perhaps… perhaps his cousin had made a far better choice in his wife than he had all those years ago.

And he could not but envy them.