Darcy & Elizabeth: A Season of Courtship (Darcy Saga Prequel Duo) (22 page)

Darcy silently stared at their
entwined hands.
Why is it so hard to share my innermost thoughts? Do I not
trust Elizabeth?
He did trust her to never betray his confidence. She had
proven to be trustworthy by never speaking a word about Georgiana and Mr.
Wickham.

No, it was that, since a young boy,
Darcy had kept his emotions tightly bound. He rarely exposed himself and
grieved in solitude. He was an intensely private person, increasingly so as he
grew into adulthood and assumed the responsibilities of managing Pemberley. The
yearning for a bond like the one shared by his parents had weighed heavy upon
his heart for over a decade, and certain as he was that his relationship with
Elizabeth had the potential to be as cohesive, Darcy could not instantly overcome
years of locked away emotions. Nor could he miraculously become an extrovert.

Perhaps it is a lack of trust,
Darcy grudgingly admitted. He had given Elizabeth a large portion of his heart
freely; it was a risky venture, as he had agonizingly learned when she rejected
him, the pain crippling. Loving another person went hand in hand with
vulnerability, and vulnerability was one trait a man in Darcy’s position must
steel against. Paradoxically, he was learning that love made one stronger.

To love fully, one must trust. So,
he inhaled and plunged ahead.

“When we get to Pemberley, I will
show you more of my family history. We have the tapestries, which you saw, that
outline our family tree. But the library houses dozens of journals and ledgers,
the scribblings of my ancestors that recount, in pieces, our past. Not the most
riveting reading, but it can be interesting—or useful in putting you to
sleep.”

He winked and then stretched out
his long legs. Keeping hold of Elizabeth’s hand, he resumed his narrative. “Where
to start with Pemberley? Well, like most English estates, agriculture and
livestock form the basis of our wealth, and have since the beginning. However,
upon occasion, a daring Darcy has delved into other enterprises.

“For instance, about a hundred
years ago, my several-greats-grandfather, Antony Darcy, had a talent and
passion for metal work and weapons. He crafted some of the finest blades in
England and increased Pemberley’s fortune considerably. We have a collection in
the armory, and a few are priceless.

“Then there was Antony Darcy’s
grandmother, an extraordinary painter, of landscapes primarily. Several hang in
honored places at home. Most were sold as she painted them, on commission or in
a gallery, and for a high price. Recently one of my ancestor’s rare portraits
sold at Christie’s for two hundred pounds. I know, because I bought it. She
signed her unmarried name”—he paused, closely watching Elizabeth’s face—“Clara
Steen.”

Her eyes popped. “Clara Steen was
your grandmother?”

“Several generations removed, but
yes.”

“Her paintings are brilliant! We
have one in our dining room!”

“Yes, I know. One of her early
works, but, as you say, brilliant.”

“Why did you never say anything?”

Darcy shrugged. “I presumed the
subject would be broached naturally in due course, and it was. It is her claim
to greatness, not mine. I cannot draw a straight line, so clearly that talent
was not passed to me. I only brought it up now to show that the Darcys have
historically been an eclectic bunch—unafraid to take risks when
necessary, inclined to fulfill their passions, and, if possible, turn them into
profit for the estate. Not all have been successful, mind you. Various crop
ideas did not reap as hoped for, and certain investments never materialized
favorably.

“Fortunately, every Master of
Pemberley down through the centuries kept a firm grasp on the staples to
maintain moving forward, no matter the losses. Because of this, the estate’s
yearly income and accumulated worth results from diverse sources. I have not
memorized all the past financial ledgers, but there is little doubt that in the
last century, it was my grandfather’s foray into the breeding of thoroughbreds
that impacted Pemberley most profoundly.”

He went on to tell her how his
father, after completing his Cambridge education, assumed the management of the
estate, while his father, James Senior, devoted all of his energies toward
their horses. Within a decade, their stock had doubled, and the wealth of
Pemberley close to tripled.

“Any gentleman worth his salt can
ride a horse,” Darcy stated firmly. “If they cannot, well, pardon my prejudice,
but they are lacking in character. For my grandfather, it was much, much more
than that. It was as if he could read the mind of a horse. Any horse. I know it
sounds fanciful, Elizabeth, yet that is the truth of it. His gift transcended
the normal.”

He shook himself out of dreamy
memories of his beloved grandfather, smiling sheepishly at Elizabeth, who was
softly smiling and stroking his hand in the most delightful way. “He always
said I had the same gift. ‘Born in a saddle,’ he would say—not literally,
fortunately for my dear mother, but close. In fact, my father told me that
grandfather took me to the stables when I was only a few months old, propped me
on the back of his prized stallion, Leonidas, and walked us around the yard. A
right of passage, I suppose.”

“It must have worked, because you
obviously inherited his passionate love for horses. Can you read their minds
too?”

Darcy chuckled at her jest. “Not in
general. I do feel one with certain horses, especially my mounts.” He gestured
toward the wandering Parsifal. “Parsifal was sired by my first stallion,
Pericles, and he was sired by my grandfather’s, Leonidas. Only the best
bloodlines for Darcy men. In each case, Parsifal and Pericles, I made their
acquaintance shortly after they were born. A unique bond forms between a man
and his horse when devoted entirely to each other. I ride other horses if I
must, but I prefer Parsifal.”

Elizabeth was staring at the black
horse with an odd expression. Darcy lifted her chin with his fingertips. “What
are you thinking?”

“Only that I wish I possessed even
a tiny affinity for horses. I hope you are not disappointed, William, but I am
somewhat afraid of them. I am not sure why—”

Her words were cut off when he
kissed her. “There is nothing about you that is disappointing to me, Elizabeth.
Nothing.”

He hovered a scant inch away from
her lips, which chose that moment to part. Then she nervously touched the tip
of her tongue to the upper lip, and he almost snapped. He probably would have,
drawing her into his arms and kissing hungrily until they were forced apart to
breathe, but she pulled back and whispered tremulously, “I see the inner
workings of Pemberley are more complex than I imagined. I have much to learn.”

“I have no expectation that you
understand the business side of things or be involved. Those are my
responsibilities.”

She gazed at him, eyes serious but
sparkling with a hint of humor, perhaps it was—or maybe defiance? He was
uncertain so remained silent.

“From the time I was very young, I
would sit with Papa in his study. Usually I quietly read while he read or
attended to business. Occasionally I would ask questions, always curious about
something, and as I grew older, I started asking him what he was reading or
working on. My favorite discussions were when we had read the same book, and we
would argue some point or another. It took me a while to figure out that often
he was disagreeing with me simply so I would formulate a rebuttal. Now you know
how I developed that habit.”

“I must thank Mr. Bennet, since it
is a habit of yours I appreciate.”

“Good to know, Mr. Darcy, as I
intend to argue with you now.”

Darcy lifted his brow. “Oh? Thank
you for the warning.”

“You see,” she went on, ignoring
his comment, “as I asked questions of Papa, he began to tell me about
Longbourn. Bits here, pieces there. Our estate is nothing compared to
Pemberley, and I regret to admit that Papa has not been a keen manager. His
books are more important to him, so he trusts the day-to-day affairs to his
men. Still, I learned as we talked about farming and the animals and finances.
I suppose I was as close to a son as Papa had. I adored our discussions and
debates, and a few times helped solved a problem for him. Eventually Mama
realized Papa was teaching me the business, albeit somewhat unconsciously, and
she became furious. She said he was filling my mind with useless nonsense for a
lady. According to Mama, it was a detriment—too much knowledge, too much
reading of books and newspapers, too much encouragement to debate. Unhealthy
traits for a female, and unattractive to men of quality.”

“That, you must know, is untrue for
me.”

“Yes, I believe it is important to
you to have a woman of intellect and will. I did not see that at first, but now
I do, and it is one reason I love you, William.”

“Then we are not arguing after all,”
he grinned.

“Not so fast.” She wagged her
finger. “I have not finished. I think Mama
was
correct, in that a large
portion of the male population thinks that way about women. What was the
saddest revelation to me was that because she believed this to be true, she and
Papa had little to talk about. I…it would be unkind of me to speak of my
parents’ relationship. All I know is that I have wanted more for myself. I
vowed that if I married, it must be to a man who respected my opinions, maybe
even sought them if it was helpful. I do not want a husband who is afraid or unwilling
to let me be privy to his world. If not quite a partner, I want to at least
understand your responsibilities, William, and be your support.”

Darcy curled one palm over her
cheek. “Elizabeth, as I said,
nothing
about you is disappointing to me.
Listen carefully. I held no expectations, but I did have hopes. Your words have
exceeded my hopes. I value your opinion and am amazed at your intellect. I need
your support and welcome it. Thank you, for daily proving how perfect you are
for me.”

“You agree so hastily, sir, giving
me no opportunity to engage in a serious argument. What a tragedy.”

“Next time, I promise to follow Mr.
Bennet’s example and offer a differing opinion purposely to rile you. How does
that sound?”

“Or we could rehash our debate over
which is more scandalous, a woman reading Mary Robinson or Lord Byron.”

Laughing, Darcy stood, pulling
Elizabeth with him. “Perhaps another time. Today is far too lovely to spoil
with an argument, especially one you are doomed to lose.”

“Is that so? In that case, we are
duty bound to resume the debate, but I shall acquiesce to postpone. It will
allot you time to hone your defense.”

“Thank you. I deem I shall need to
do so. Stay here a moment.” He pressed lightly on her shoulder, and then walked
a few feet away. Suddenly a shrill whistle rent the air and Parsifal, grazing
happily yards down the sloping hill, lifted his head. A brief toss and flick of
his tail indicated his annoyance at being disturbed, but he swiftly galloped
toward his beckoning master.

“Are you leaving?”

“Not unless you wish me to.” Darcy
glanced over his shoulder, pleasure radiating through his body when she shook
her head vehemently. “I wanted to introduce you formally to Parsifal—I
promise he will not hurt you—and I have apples and blackberries in my bag
that are delicious. They grow wild in a sheltered dell about a mile from here,
next to a creek. We stop there to rest and I always take a few extras with me.
Parsifal likes the small, squishy apples the best. Come.” Darcy extended his
hand to Elizabeth, steady and patient as she hesitated before grasping it and
stepping closer.

“The key is to advance slowly,”
Darcy explained as she joined him. Pitching his voice low and tranquil, he
brought her close to his side, their hands laced together, while he stroked the
stallion’s immense neck with his free hand. “You want to approach from the
side. Their vision is unique from ours, their eyes focusing independently and
with a delay in processing. That is why they startle easily and become
defensive, which is frightening if you are not expecting it. Remember, horses
are prey animals, meaning that while powerful and able to inflict pain, it is
not in their nature to attack. They are inherently gentle, not aggressive.
Parsifal hates for me to tell others this, but he is a lamb under that gruff
exterior.”

“I shall not breathe a word to
anyone, Parsifal. I promise.”

“There, you hear that Parsifal? She
can be trusted.” Darcy scratched between the funnel-shaped black ears, each one
twitching and twisting as he spoke. Fluidly, Parsifal turned his head toward
Elizabeth, both eyes swiveling to stare at her face, and he released a
mellifluous nicker.

“That is his form of a greeting,”
Darcy interpreted when Elizabeth jerked. “Parsifal, allow me to introduce Miss Elizabeth
Bennet of Hertfordshire. This beautiful woman has agreed to become my wife and
will soon reside with us at Pemberley. I daresay you will see her from time to
time. Here”—he lifted their joined hands, Elizabeth’s on top—“let
him smell you. Like many animals, horses identify through scent more so than
the other senses.”

Darcy did not push Elizabeth much
further. She was outwardly calm and ran her hand over the stallion’s muscled
neck and withers, but he felt her nervousness. After feeding Parsifal two of
the overripe apples he loved, Darcy instructed him to go back to his wanderings
and slapped him playfully on the rump.

“He is majestic, William. Powerful,
handsome, and elegant. He…suits you.”

Elizabeth flushed and lowered her
head. If not for her embarrassed reaction, Darcy would not have realized her
description of Parsifal was also meant for him. For several heartbeats he was
tongue-tied. He swiftly searched his memory and concluded this was her first
compliment addressing his physical attributes—unless he counted how she
audaciously examined his body when he rode up to the willow trees. And it was
best to deter his musings about that .