An excerpt from J Marie Croft's new novel, coming January 20
Looking neat and trim, Darcy stood in front of the large pier-glass that filled the wall space between his bedchamber’s two windows. Alfred—the prodigiously capable footman-valet—had ordered a hot bath for him, shaved him without a nick, and performed wonders with his hair and cravat. Nothing could be done, though, about the dark smudges beneath his eyes. Alfred had offered to obtain some sort of cosmetic preparation from the housekeeper, but Darcy had flatly refused to even consider such madness.
“And you say no one else suffered any ill effects whatsoever from the wine?”
Alfred brushed non-existent lint from the gentleman’s shoulder. “Not that anyone has admitted, sir.”
“Humph.” Truth be told, Darcy was more than a little offended that one little glass of wine had kicked him like a Suffolk punch—though, to be fair, those thick-set, short-legged sorrels were incredibly calm and gentle creatures. One thing was certain: he was thankful no one else, particularly Miss Bennet, had suffered a similarly horrific episode.
In the parlour the previous evening, Darcy’s vision had blurred, and he had been overcome by a relaxed but dazed feeling. At that point, he had bid the others a good night and walked for eleven outlandish miles to reach his bedchamber and fling himself upon the mattress. All he remembered after that were bizarre, vivid dreams. As far as he could recall, each time he had tried to sit up, he had become nauseous and lightheaded.
When he finally had been able to bestir himself in the early afternoon, Darcy had felt and looked like he had been dragged arsy-versy, thrice, through a hedgerow. His head had ached, and he had been ravenous. Bless his soul, Alfred had brought headache powders, barley water, a dish of broth, and toasted muffins.
“Thanks to you, my good man, I do believe I am ready to face the world again.” And discover what, exactly, was in that wine. Opium? Wormwood?
When Darcy arrived at the foot of the stairs, Christopher informed him that all the others were gathered in the parlour; and, upon entering that room, Darcy was met with exclamations of relief and enquiries of an intrusive nature. As politely as possible under the circumstances, he returned everyone’s greeting but brushed aside their questions.
“Mr Monroe, may I have a private conference with you in ten minutes or so?”
“Of course, of course. Whenever you are ready. And may I say how pleased I am to see you up and about, sir.”
Darcy bowed to the attorney and approached the cosy grouping of four leather chairs where Elizabeth, Miss Rigby, and Mr Hadley sat together. Following a silent communication with the chaperon, he said, “Miss Bennet, if the others will pardon us, may I have a private word with you?” With a tilt of his head, he indicated the plush pink sofa customarily occupied by Mr Fordham.
Once she was seated there, Elizabeth expressed with tenderness and solicitude her fear for his health.
“There is no need. I am quite recovered. And you? You are well?” He was about to sit but stilled in expectation.
“Yes, now that you are here with me.” She blushed.
Darcy’s first smile of that day began slowly and built. He flipped his coattails and sat as close to her as he dared.
She glanced away briefly. “I meant with us. All of us.”
There was subdued laughter from somewhere across the room, but nothing could distract Darcy from the loveliness of her. Only decorum and the need for information kept him from more pleasurable and provocative behaviour that might attract more than just her attention. They were, after all, in the company of others.
“What, if anything, can you tell me about last evening? I began feeling peculiar after drinking a glass of wine here in the parlour, though at dinner, during the service of fruit and sweets, I had one glass of Constantia wine. And there was the port after you and the other ladies withdrew.”
She tilted her head and thought for a moment. “I remember Mr Fordham inviting you and Mr Hadley to join him in a low-stakes game of Brag, but neither of you would play cards on a Sunday. You also said you needed to work on your current puzzle. Then you looked at me as though you were going to approach. At the sideboard, Mr Fordham poured himself a glass of wine and asked whether either of you wanted one. Mr Hadley declined, but you accepted.”
It was a serious matter they were discussing, but he could not resist a gentle tease. “So, Miss Bennet, would it be fair to say you spent a great deal of time observing me?” He tried and failed miserably at preventing his lips from twitching. Never before had he flirted so outrageously, or even moderately, or at all. Then again, never before had a woman been so loveworthy.
“You, sir, were standing directly beneath that painting of lilacs.” She gestured towards the sideboard and above it the floral depiction on the wall. “And since I am uncommonly fond of a syringa, I could not help but notice you there.” She looked him in the eye. Hers were warm and merry and mischievous.
Simply being in her presence was causing Darcy to feel better and better by the minute. He inched closer.
“To be honest,” she said, having grown serious, “I mostly was watching Mr Fordham last evening. Unfortunately, he had his back to me while pouring your wine.” Leaning in, she whispered, “I do not entirely trust him.”
Darcy rubbed his forehead, trying to remember the previous night and striving to resist her gravitational pull. “I have this vague memory of a remark I made to someone about the wine’s unusual flavour. It was bitter and spicy.”
“You made that comment to Mr Monroe. He said his glass, poured from the same bottle as yours, was neither pungent nor piquant.”
Tearing his eyes from Elizabeth’s, Darcy sought the attorney’s whereabouts before reluctantly saying, “I really must confer with him.” He made to rise, but she stayed him with a gentle touch to his ungloved hand—a touch that sent a lightning bolt of warmth throughout his body.
“Before you go and before I forget, I would like your permission to tell my father about Mr Wickham. Lydia left for Brighton about a fortnight ago with Colonel and Mrs Forster”—she gave him a significant look—“and in the company of the militia.”
Darcy immediately understood, and he agreed that her father should know. He apologised again and again for not warning people in her neighbourhood about Wickham. “Now, if you will excuse me, I really must speak to our host.”
To suffer my second is the doom of my first; And of all of my seconds, my whole is the worst.
Two months after suffering the heartache of Elizabeth Bennet’s rejection of his marriage proposal, Fitzwilliam Darcy unexpectedly encounters the lady at Oakwood Manor, the estate of the late Miss Phoebe Armstrong. The dearly departed Miss Armstrong has disposed of her worldly goods in an uncommon manner: she has called together five young people, including Darcy and Elizabeth, to vie for a legacy—the manor itself and a substantial fortune. For Darcy, however, the true prize is a second chance at winning Elizabeth’s hand.
With such a converted prize at stake, not all of the participants are willing to play fair but both Darcy and Elizabeth prove worthy competitors, the turn of their minds putting them both ahead in the contest where cleverness and wit are required. Darcy and Elizabeth not only persevere but triumph through a madcap se’nnight of charades and conundrums, a week where friends become enemies, and enemies turn into lovers.
By the time they leave Oakwood, Darcy and Elizabeth have resolved their prior differences and are on the brink of an understanding. Alas, that is just when they face another, very important, conundrum: Mr Bennet adamantly refuses to consent to an engagement between his favourite daughter and Darcy. With her twenty-first birthday fast approaching, Elizabeth is put in the unhappy position of deciding between the two gentlemen she loves most. In both battles of wills, who wins?
CONUNDRUMS & COINCIDENCES is a second-chance, trapped together, enemies-to-lovers romance with clean/closed-door content and little angst.
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