What the hell am I about? This woman is not my wife!
Darcy yanked his hand back as if she had suddenly burst into flames. Fool! he berated himself. I cannot indulge in “marital relations” with Elizabeth. I would be taking advantage of her in the worst way.
But his body protested. She was lying beneath him, flushed and wanton, entirely too willing for someone he would take advantage of.
Ignoring his body’s pleas, Darcy rolled off Elizabeth’s warmth with a muffled oath and landed with his feet on the cool floor.
“William?” Elizabeth was stricken. “Have I become less desirable to you?” Moisture gathered in the corners of her eyes.
Oh, Good Lord! Let her believe anything but that! Darcy felt like the worst sort of blackguard. “Nothing could be further from the truth, my love. But I—” He cast about for a plausible explanation. Unfortunately, his brain was still befuddled by lust. “I—You—You are not completely well,” he finished lamely.
Her brows drew together. “If I am well enough to travel, surely I am well enough for...the marriage bed.” The plea was followed by a wiggle of her hips that did nothing to dispel his desire.
What could he possibly say? Then inspiration struck. “Darling, we are currently trapped in France.”
“Yes.” She nodded warily.
“I do not want to take the risk that you could become with child. We do not know how soon we can return to England.”
“Oh.” Her lips formed a perfect circle. “I had not thought of that.”
He leaned over her and stroked her silken hair. “It is not a lack of desire, darling. That is impossible.”
Her shoulders slumped in resignation. Darcy hated the defeated expression on her face. How could he experience guilt over not taking her virginity? He had wandered into a mirror world where right was wrong, up was down, and left was right.
She slid down into the covers. “Very well. Will you at least hold me as I fall asleep?” Her voice was plaintive and small.
“Of course.” He climbed back into bed and pressed his body against hers, savoring the warmth against his skin. The sensations of her moving beside him were almost enough to undo the vow he had made so recently.
He could not completely deprive himself; one more kiss would be his reward for restraint. Cradling her head in both his hands, Darcy captured her lips with his. This kiss was slow and tender, unlike the earlier frenzied collision of lips. When he reluctantly pulled his lips from hers, she sighed with deep contentment, her body relaxed and supple.
“I love your kisses, William,” she murmured, her eyes heavy.
“And I love yours.”
He watched as her eyes fell closed; soon her breathing became deep and slow and regular. Still, he could not shake a feeling of unease. What would he do if she became amorous again? When would he tell her the truth? What would happen if her memory returned?
Darcy was more than willing to marry her to compensate for the ways he had compromised her reputation. But once she learned how he had lied to her, she might never wish to see him again.
Still… Darcy rubbed his finger along his swollen lips in wonder. He could not bring himself to wish those kisses away.
***
People streamed along the street, hurrying to work, buying bread, or chatting with friends. Paris seemed even more crowded than London, not that she could remember a specific trip to London. Elizabeth fought the desire to shrink down on the bench as they entered the city. Perched on the high seat of the curricle, she felt as if she wore a sign proclaiming her to be an Englishwoman. It was nonsense, of course. She was wearing French clothing, and her face alone could not betray her national origin. As long as she was not called upon to speak, she was safe. Fortunately, she understood French far better than she spoke it; they had managed throughout the past two days with William speaking French while Elizabeth listened and nodded in appropriate places.
However, the sheer number of people in Paris made her apprehensive. Surely some of them would want to speak with Elizabeth. How could she avoid revealing her secret? If their identities were revealed, the consequences would be bad enough for her, but far worse for William. The gendarmes were unlikely to be very harsh toward a woman, but they were imprisoning all Englishmen. William had been so good to Elizabeth, so patient; she could not be the cause of his downfall.
If anyone suspected, they would claim to be a Frenchman with an English wife, but Elizabeth foresaw many potential problems with the plan, not the least of which was that an Englishwoman living in France should speak better French.
To make matters worse, she had awakened that morning feeling far more weary and stiffer than the day before. She had experienced fewer coughing fits, but her breathing was more constricted, wheezing roughly in and out of her chest. Elizabeth strove to minimize the sounds and conceal her fatigue, but William’s solemn expression suggested that he was not fooled. A stiffness in his posture betrayed his anxiety.
She tried not to stare at him, but he was very handsome. At times she experienced such desire for him, as she had the previous night. But other times he seemed far too magnificent for her—like a fine silk gown one might admire in a shop window but knew would be far too dear. How had he ever fixed on her as the future companion of his life? It seemed impossible that such a creature would desire her.
Although she had only seen him in rough laborer’s clothing, she knew they did not suit him. His bearing was too commanding, his posture too erect for him to be anything other than a gentleman. William would be resplendent when dressed the part: in a waistcoat and jacket with a starched cravat neatly tied around his neck. Was such an image fixed in her mind as a memory?
His hands were strong as they handled the reins. She could not help recalling the night before as his fingers pressed into her skin—firm but caressing. Even his profile suggested the strength of his character: his determined mouth and sharp eyes. And then there was the unruly dark hair she longed to run her fingers through.
How had she managed to capture the attention of such a handsome man? Elizabeth had viewed herself in a mirror; she had her share of beauty but nothing out of the common way. Nor was there any reason to suspect William had married her for her dowry.
Recognizing her scrutiny, William gave her a quick, reassuring smile before returning his attention to negotiating the teeming Paris streets. At such moments she had no difficulty believing in his deepest love. Indeed, it was the only explanation for his behavior. Yet at other times she wondered. Would she discover one day that it was all some bizarre mistake or waking fantasy? Without her memories, everything seemed slightly unreal. Perhaps she was still lying unconscious in the Martins’ guest chamber, only dreaming of Paris.
On the outskirts of the city, William had stopped to ask a shopkeeper for directions to Rue DuVal. The neighborhood in which they now found themselves was neither for the most prosperous citizens nor the city’s poorest residents. Women on the street wore sensible, sturdy cotton dresses, and the men in drab brown jackets were most likely shopkeepers or clerks. Houses were small, even by London standards, but well maintained and neat, with boxes of summer flowers blooming at their windows.
William guided the horse down a narrow side street, little more than an alley; a sign tacked to one building proclaimed it to be Rue DuVal. Elizabeth allowed herself a sigh of relief; she was quite prepared to quit the curricle. He reined in the horse in front of number twenty-three, an unprepossessing townhouse little different from its neighbors. Lacy curtains adorned the windows facing the street, and the door had been painted a cheerful red.
“This is her house?” Elizabeth asked as William helped her down.
“Yes.” Darcy took a deep breath as he gave her his arm. “We can only pray she is at home.”
As at the Dreyfus farm, William positioned himself between the door and Elizabeth while he knocked. She did not know whether to be annoyed or touched by the unnecessary chivalry; surely his former governess was unlikely to be a source of danger.
The door was opened by a young man—probably in his late teens—tall and thin with dark hair. He was not dressed as a servant. A family member perhaps? William had said the governess had returned to France to nurse a widowed sister through her final illness; then she had remained in Paris to raise her niece and nephew.
“Good afternoon,” Darcy said politely in French. “Is Miss Laurent at home?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“My name is for Miss Laurent. I am an old friend.”
The frown deepened. “Is she expecting your visit?”
William huffed out a laugh. “No, but I have no doubt she will be pleased to see me.”
The man hesitated, not opening the door to admit them, torn between protecting his aunt and his duty to visitors.
An older woman’s voice floated out from the depths of the house. “Who is it, Bernard?”
“He will not grant me his name, but he wishes to speak with you.”
“Nan!” William called out in English. “’Tis I.”
At these words a stout woman in her early sixties came bustling down the hallway. Her eyes went round with shock when she saw William. “It is you!” Instantly, her eyes darted around the street behind them to see if their presence had been noticed. “Bernard, let them in. Let them in at once!” She gestured urgently.
With a dubious expression, Bernard admitted William and Elizabeth. Only once the door was safely closed behind them did the woman fling her arms around William and embrace him as one might a child. Had the woman been younger, Elizabeth might have been seized by jealousy.
“Will!” she cried. “What an unexpected treat! Mon Dieu! You are in good looks, although a bit informally dressed.” The woman chuckled, but her torrent of words continued. “Why are you in Paris? And who is this lovely creature? And how is Georgiana? Is she with you? And—”
William laughed. “I will answer your questions, Nanny Laurent, if you will stop talking long enough to listen.”
Miss Laurent laughed, too. “I simply cannot believe it! Let me look at you.” She stepped back to scrutinize William from head to toe. “Ah, you are a fine figure of a man! The very image of your dear papa.” She leaned toward Elizabeth, confiding, “In his youth he was prone to stoutness, but it seems he has outgrown that tendency.”
William rolled his eyes as Elizabeth put a hand over her mouth to disguise her smile. “I do not believe it!” she said.
The older woman waggled her finger at Elizabeth. “You must believe it. I have known Will since he was a babe in arms.”
“I may regret introducing the two of you.” William gave the older woman a tolerant smile.
Miss Laurent raised an eyebrow meaningfully at Elizabeth. “I do not believe we have been introduced.”
“Ah, forgive me. Miss Adele Laurent, this is my w-wife, Elizabeth Ben—” William caught himself and began again. “Elizabeth Darcy.”
“Your wife? Upon my word, I heard nothing of a wife in your last letter.” At these words, William stared at his feet and fidgeted. “It must have happened very quickly. How wonderful!” The woman could not help but draw Elizabeth into an embrace, kissing her on both cheeks. “Nothing could make me happier than to meet Will’s wife.” She turned to William. “You have given me a great gift.”
Elizabeth blushed. It would be difficult to accept such effusions under any circumstances, but it was particularly hard when she could not recall their courtship.
William’s face sobered. “This is not a holiday, I am afraid. We have found ourselves in France by mischance and now seek to return home.”
The older woman clapped her hands together. “Of course. We will help in any way we can.” Behind her, Bernard stood with his arms crossed over his chest, not appearing at all inclined to help.
“We need shelter for two or three nights, if possible,” William explained. “Elizabeth requires rest, and we must find a way to cross the Channel.”
“Why does Mrs. Darcy need to rest so badly, eh?” Miss Laurent nudged William in the ribs. “Is she, perhaps, in an interesting condition?”
Elizabeth could not imagine many people treated William with such familiarity, nor had she known his face could turn that particular shade of red. William coughed. “Not at all. Elizabeth was recently ill with a lung fever.”
“Oh, my dear!” Elizabeth found herself embraced for the second time by a woman she had known for fewer than five minutes. “What do you require? Hot compresses? Leeches? An apothecary?”
“Just a place to rest, I thank you,” Elizabeth murmured.
Miss Laurent kept an arm around Elizabeth’s waist as if she needed to be propped up. “I pray you, remain as long as you need. We will do whatever we can to be of assistance.”
Bernard’s eyes darted to his aunt. “Aunt, it could be dangerous if we were found sheltering an Englishman,” he objected.
Miss Laurent gave her nephew a level look. “We will not turn away friends in need, and do not forget that Mr. Darcy’s generosity helped me buy this house and feed you and your sister. We owe him everything. What has Napoleon ever done for us? We owe him nothing.”
“If there is a danger—” William started.
“No.” Miss Laurent waved her hand dismissively. “There is no danger. The gendarmes do not even know who I am. There is no reason they should pay us a visit.”
“We will depart as soon as we are able,” William promised.
“But not too soon, I pray you. I must hear how everyone fares at Pemberley. And you must tell me the story of how you arrived in Paris.” She gestured William to a small but stylish drawing room. Elizabeth followed them, attempting to ignore the scowling Bernard trailing in their wake.
***
Adele poured Darcy another cup of tea, adding the amount of milk and sugar she knew he preferred. He and Elizabeth had explained their situation to his old governess. At the conclusion of the story, she had patted his cheek and exclaimed over him. “My poor dear!”
Darcy had smiled and endured. Despite his age, Adele still tended to view him as her young charge. But the tilt of Elizabeth’s eyebrows suggested she found Adele’s informality a bit shocking.
Less sympathetic, Bernard had excused himself after only a few minutes of conversation. Soon the conversation had turned to stories about the inhabitants of Pemberley. Although Elizabeth tried valiantly to participate, she could not conceal her fatigue. Adele took her upstairs and settled her in the guest bedchamber.
Upon Adele’s return, the old friends had an opportunity to conduct a private discussion. “Have you decided when Georgiana will be coming out?” Adele asked. Every question demonstrated how she had attended to the details in each letter Darcy and Georgiana had written to her.
Darcy hesitated before answering. London. Georgiana. His life as the master of Pemberley seemed so remote. What would happen if he and Elizabeth never returned from France? Would Georgiana even have a season? No, he must not think in such a way. Their situation was not so desperate. Yet. “Probably next year. She could have come out for this season, but she did not desire it.” In fact, she had begged him to delay it another year.
“She never did enjoy having her share of attention. But she will be beautiful.” The older woman wore a fond smile. “Perhaps Mrs. Darcy can help her overcome her shyness.”
Darcy blinked in surprise. The thought had never occurred to him since Elizabeth was not actually his wife, but now that he thought about it…she could be good for Georgiana. Yes, he could see Elizabeth being of great help to his sister. If she agreed to marry him. Or speak to him. Once they returned to England.
“Ah, I wish I could see her coming out.” Adele lowered her eyes and smoothed her skirts. “But of course, I am needed here.”
“Your home is quite lovely,” Darcy said. He wished he could say something kind about her nephew, but Adele would detect any insincerity. Hopefully when the niece returned from school, she would provide an opportunity to praise Adele’s parenting skills.
“Thank you.” She smiled gently. “Mrs. Darcy seems like a delightful woman.”
“Oh, she is,” Darcy breathed. “Clever, kind-hearted, and beautiful, of course.” Only when he glanced down at his lap did he realize he had inadvertently pulverized the biscuit he was holding. With a chagrined look at Adele, he brushed the crumbs onto the tea tray.
“What is the problem, Will?” Adele’s gaze was sharp.
He raised an eyebrow. “Is it not obvious? Elizabeth and I are trapped in France.”
Adele gave an unladylike snort. “Do not try to fool me. I did not believe you when you denied feeding your horse a lemon biscuit, and I do not believe you now. What makes you so uneasy about Mrs. Darcy?”
Darcy opened his mouth to deny the assertion, but then he sighed. Adele would pry it out of him eventually; she knew him too well. And there was no one he would trust more with his secret. “We are not actually married,” he blurted.
Adele slowly lowered her teacup to the table. “Fitzwilliam Darcy! You have been living in sin with that lovely young woman?”
Darcy ran his hands through unruly curls. “No. Well, not precisely.” Adele sat quite straight in her seat, one eyebrow raised. “Elizabeth believes we are married.”
“Not a matter which is usually the subject of confusion,” Adele said dryly.
“I told you she sustained a blow to the head and suffered memory loss—amnesia the doctor called it.”
Adele nodded. “In all my years I never heard of such a thing.”
“She does not recall me or anything about her previous life.” Darcy tugged at the cuffs of his shirt. When had the room grown so warm? “I had believed her to be dead. When I first saw her at the doctor’s house, I was so surprised that I claimed her as my wife. Perhaps because I wished it to be true, or perhaps I knew the doctor would not allow me to take her back to England unless I had such a claim to her.” He swallowed convulsively. “The lie has proved to be something of a necessity. It is unlikely she would have trusted me so easily or traveled with me so readily if she knew the truth.”
“Trust built on a lie.” Adele covered her face with both hands. “This was not well done of you, Fitzwilliam.”
Darcy’s shoulders hunched; she only called him Fitzwilliam when he had done something wrong. He wanted to deny her words, but he could not. There may have been conveniences attending to his falsehood, but it was still a falsehood.
“Have you considered what will happen when she discovers the truth?”
Darcy shrugged. “After traveling so long as husband and wife, we must needs marry. We have shared many rooms, although—of course—we have not conducted…marital relations.” This was a rather uncomfortable subject to be discussing with one’s former governess. “Long before I arrived in France, I realized that marrying Elizabeth was the best way to secure my happiness.”
Adele eyed him shrewdly. “But is it what Elizabeth wants?”
Darcy grabbed his teacup and took a hasty swallow. “The mistress of Pemberley will have many compensations.”
“Enough to compensate for all the falsehoods?”
Darcy felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. “Sh-She is fond of me,” he said, aware how weak it sounded.
Adele scoffed. “I am sure she is fond of her sisters and puppies and boiled potatoes. That does not signify.”
Darcy leaned forward as if closer proximity would help Adele understand. “But she must marry me. Her reputation is too compromised to marry anyone else.”
“That will make a very fine marriage proposal,” Adele said tartly.
Darcy could not help remembering the disastrous proposal at Hunsford. Why would Elizabeth accept his advances now when she had so decisively spurned them before? He squirmed in his chair, trying to get comfortable. The room definitely had grown warmer. What a mess he had created. “What can I do?”
“You should tell her the truth at once.”
His whole body protested the idea. “I cannot do so now!” he exclaimed. “She still remembers nothing about her past. I cannot risk losing her trust.”
Adele’s face was impassive. “You would prefer that she discovers a basic fact about her life another way? Perhaps when she recovers her memories?”
The thought made Darcy faintly nauseous. “I cannot tell her while we remain in France. Who knows what her reaction will be? Once we are safely on English soil, I will tell her immediately.”
Darcy had trouble identifying the emotion he read on Adele’s face. Was it…pity? “I just hope you have the time,” she said sadly.
***
The bed at chez Laurent was very comfortable—wide and soft. Elizabeth sank into the pillows gratefully. Miss Laurent had provided a simple dinner and, noticing Elizabeth’s continued fatigue despite her afternoon nap, had encouraged both of her visitors to retire early. William had not objected; no doubt he was more fatigued than he appeared.
As Elizabeth relaxed, her mind drifted, supplying her with the sorts of nonsensical ideas and images that populated the state between wakefulness and deep sleep. Eventually her drifting thoughts coalesced into an image of a scene…a ballroom, no, an assembly room.
The assembly room at Meryton. Somehow she knew the name.
Other people were dancing, but Elizabeth was not. With insufficient men to partner all the women, she was sitting out, watching the dancers and trying not to observe the two men standing before her. As their shapes sharpened in her view, Elizabeth recognized one as William. The other man, blond and smiling, seemed familiar, but she could not recall his name.
"Come, Darcy,” the man said. “I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner."
William drew himself to his full height. "I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner.” He sniffed disdainfully. “At such an assembly as this it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, Bingley, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with."
This declaration might have provoked Elizabeth’s ire, but it was all so amusing. Mr. Darcy obviously thought very highly of himself if he could only bring himself to dance with two women in the entire assembly.
"I would not be so fastidious as you are," cried Mr. Bingley, "for a kingdom! Upon my honor, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see uncommonly pretty."
"You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room," said Mr. Darcy, regarding a very pretty blonde woman across the room. Elizabeth immediately recognized the woman as her sister Jane.
"She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld!” Mr. Bingley exclaimed. “But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you."
He means me! Elizabeth realized, frozen in her chair. She had no desire to stand up with a man as proud and disagreeable as Mr. Darcy, but it was already too late to escape his notice.
"Which do you mean?" Glancing around, Mr. Darcy caught Elizabeth’s eye. She hastily glanced away, but he had noticed her and knew she was without a partner. How awkward!
Mr. Darcy replied to his friend with cool civility. "She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me."
Mr. Bingley shook his head at his friend but made no further comment before hurrying away to find Jane. Mr. Darcy’s head turned in Elizabeth’s direction, but she kept her face impassive and hoped she was not blushing. Once he had disappeared into the crowd, her breath came more easily.
There was no reason to be ashamed. Nobody had overheard. And really, the conversation had revealed nothing more than Mr. Darcy’s lack of character. A fine gentleman indeed! He might be rich in wealth but certainly not in manners.
She allowed her eyes to range about the room, but the sights blurred in her eyes. Upon most days she might have ignored such a slight or laughed at it, but today it was more difficult to forget. She had not yet managed to secure a single partner while she watched her friend Anna Preston dance with her newly betrothed. She was happy for her friend, but the news was another reminder that Elizabeth’s own chances of marrying well were vanishingly small.
And then Mr. Darcy found her tolerable, but not handsome. Her hands clenched into fists. I will not cry. I will not cry. Nonetheless, one tear escaped from her eye; she dashed it away impatiently. No doubt her skin was decorated with ugly pink blotches as well. If only she could depart the assembly that very minute! But all her sisters were agreeably engaged, and her father had disappeared into the card room. She was quite trapped.
She stood, making her way blindly through the crowd to the ladies’ retiring room, where she could dab her eyes and blow her nose—and claim she suffered from a trifling cold. Tears pricked her eyes, and Elizabeth quickened her steps so she would reach the retiring room before she disgraced herself further.
Elizabeth forced her eyes open to stare at the brown linen canopy, willing herself awake as she might do after a nightmare. Well, it was a sort of nightmare. Mr. Darcy—William—had been vile to her, insulting her without any provocation. Her heart pounded against her ribs, and her lungs labored to obtain sufficient air. She slowed her breathing lest she trigger another bout of coughing.
It was only a dream. I am not that person. I am not attending an assembly in Meryton; I am lying in bed in France. The repetition did little to calm her racing heart, and Elizabeth knew why: the source of her unease was lying beside her in the bed.
It was only a dream. It had no connection to reality. But the words failed to soothe her. In truth, the images had not felt much like a dream. Events had unfolded logically and sensibly in the way that dreams never did. It felt as if she had uncovered a buried memory—a memory of her first meeting with William.
Rubbing her eyes, she felt moisture and silently berated herself. It was fruitless to cry over something that happened months ago—or perhaps was an invention of her befuddled mind. But the melancholy from the dream persisted.
Resigning herself to wakefulness, Elizabeth sat up and rested her head against the headboard. The man in the dream had been haughty, arrogant, and uncaring of others’ feelings. Had her William ever behaved in such a way? It seemed impossible to reconcile that William with the man she knew. Perhaps it was only a dream.
As she dried her eyes on the sleeve of her nightrail, she tried to take a rational view of the situation. Perhaps her dreaming mind had combined different memories. Perhaps the incident had unfolded as she remembered, but with a different man. Her memory was nothing if not faulty. The dream might be part memory and part fantasy.
As she prepared to slip under the covers again, William stirred and looked up at her. “My love, are you all right?” Even in the dim light cast by the moon her tears must have been quite visible.
No. Such a tender man could never have said such awful things. Her dream must have been a very flawed representation of reality.
“Darling.” William’s arms encircled her shoulders, drawing her down to his chest. “Did you have a bad dream?”
Elizabeth seized on the explanation. “Y-Yes. Just a b-bad dream.”
He pressed a tender kiss to the top of her head. “Will you tell me about it?” he asked.
A recounting of the dream would not reflect well on Elizabeth and might hurt William. She shook her head. “I would rather forget it.” How ironic: she struggled and strained to remember everything else.
William murmured his agreement and pulled her down next to him, nestling her body against his. “Very well. Go to sleep, my darling.” Her muscles were tied in knots, her body as pliable as a wooden board.
But he made a contented noise and pulled her closer. His warm breath tickled the back of her neck, and the warmth of his body seeped into hers, helping her to relax. As she dropped off to sleep, Elizabeth was still contemplating the dream. She had wished for her memories to return, but perhaps her life was better without them.