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Authors: Pamela Aidan
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enveloped Darcy’s attenuated senses and began playing tricks upon them. The figure at the pianoforte shifted curiously and dimmed, gently transforming herself from one dear to him into another, whose dearness in more cogent hours he would not allow. But, at this moment, that dearness seemed perfectly reasonable; and he welcomed her appearance with a languorous smile and a deep, inner sigh.
Contentment with Elizabeth’s presence in his home, with her ease at the pianoforte playing for him, and with the notion of their companionable seclusion warmed his frame like the effects of a fine brandy. He was sure that if he moved his foot just so he would fetch up against her embroidery basket, and if he had the strength to slide his hand along the divan, he would find her lavender-scented shawl carelessly draped over its back. His eyes still closed, he turned his head and breathed in slowly.
Yes.
He smiled again; he could detect that reminder of her drifting to him from within its silken folds.
The music continued from her hand, softly flowing, seeking out all his hollow places to fill them with longing for what only she could bring to him. “Elizabeth,” he breathed, his voice low-pitched as he acknowledged her power. The music hesitated, then continued on its intimate exploration of his emotions. He knew himself to be enthralled, just as he had been at Sir William and Lucas’s, during the ball at Netherfield. He knew it, and rather than pushing it away, he welcomed it with a joy that he now saw mirrored in her eyes. They were strolling through the conservatory, his parents’ Eden, lush with blossoms, and she was whispering of something that necessitated leaning down close.
“Fitzwilliam.” His name on her lips, so close that her breath fanned his cheek, was a most agreeable sensation. The answering surge of blood through his veins emboldened him to reach for her hand.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured, returning her whisper with feeling.
“Fitzwilliam?” The question in her voice was not what he was expecting, nor was its timbre. “Brother?”
Darcy’s eyes flew open as, with a jolt, he came back to himself and to the reality of Georgiana perched on the divan beside him, valiantly attempting to suppress the cascade of giggles that threatened to spill over fingers pressed tightly to her lips. He blinked at her, for a few moments unable to comprehend that what he had felt, so real his heart still beat powerfully in response, had all been a dream. He looked desperately beside him on the divan, but no shawl reposed there, nor was an embroidery basket to be seen at his feet.
“Brother, what are you searching for? May I be of help?” Georgiana had sobered somewhat, but laughter still danced in her eyes, and her lower lip was firmly caught in droll amusement at his disordered state.
Darcy eyed her with sudden horror. What had he said as he sat here dreaming? How had he allowed it to happen? A lingering warmth suffused his body, reminding him of the strength of the inducement he had withstood until fatigue had breached his defenses. If he was to recoup his losses, he must needs rally immediately. But the freezing retort died, stillborn before it reached his lips, as he stared in new awareness at his sister. When had Georgiana ever dared to laugh so? When was the last time he had been brother to her, rather than guardian-father?
His bemused regard of her was too much a test of her equanimity. Georgiana’s laughter spilled forth in beautiful swells that brought tears to her eyes, and when he allowed himself a rueful grin in response, she sank helplessly against the back of the divan. “Oh, Fitzwilliam!” she finally managed, “I pray you will forgive me, but I have never seen you so!”
“Yes, well…I believe that I must have fallen asleep,” he offered uncomfortably as he straightened his posture from the traitorous one that had encouraged his indiscretion.
“
Well
asleep…and dreaming, I should imagine,” she
Contentment with Elizabeth’s presence in his home, with her ease at the pianoforte playing for him, and with the notion of their companionable seclusion warmed his frame like the effects of a fine brandy. He was sure that if he moved his foot just so he would fetch up against her embroidery basket, and if he had the strength to slide his hand along the divan, he would find her lavender-scented shawl carelessly draped over its back. His eyes still closed, he turned his head and breathed in slowly.
Yes.
He smiled again; he could detect that reminder of her drifting to him from within its silken folds.
The music continued from her hand, softly flowing, seeking out all his hollow places to fill them with longing for what only she could bring to him. “Elizabeth,” he breathed, his voice low-pitched as he acknowledged her power. The music hesitated, then continued on its intimate exploration of his emotions. He knew himself to be enthralled, just as he had been at Sir William and Lucas’s, during the ball at Netherfield. He knew it, and rather than pushing it away, he welcomed it with a joy that he now saw mirrored in her eyes. They were strolling through the conservatory, his parents’ Eden, lush with blossoms, and she was whispering of something that necessitated leaning down close.
“Fitzwilliam.” His name on her lips, so close that her breath fanned his cheek, was a most agreeable sensation. The answering surge of blood through his veins emboldened him to reach for her hand.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured, returning her whisper with feeling.
“Fitzwilliam?” The question in her voice was not what he was expecting, nor was its timbre. “Brother?”
Darcy’s eyes flew open as, with a jolt, he came back to himself and to the reality of Georgiana perched on the divan beside him, valiantly attempting to suppress the cascade of giggles that threatened to spill over fingers pressed tightly to her lips. He blinked at her, for a few moments unable to comprehend that what he had felt, so real his heart still beat powerfully in response, had all been a dream. He looked desperately beside him on the divan, but no shawl reposed there, nor was an embroidery basket to be seen at his feet.
“Brother, what are you searching for? May I be of help?” Georgiana had sobered somewhat, but laughter still danced in her eyes, and her lower lip was firmly caught in droll amusement at his disordered state.
Darcy eyed her with sudden horror. What had he said as he sat here dreaming? How had he allowed it to happen? A lingering warmth suffused his body, reminding him of the strength of the inducement he had withstood until fatigue had breached his defenses. If he was to recoup his losses, he must needs rally immediately. But the freezing retort died, stillborn before it reached his lips, as he stared in new awareness at his sister. When had Georgiana ever dared to laugh so? When was the last time he had been brother to her, rather than guardian-father?
His bemused regard of her was too much a test of her equanimity. Georgiana’s laughter spilled forth in beautiful swells that brought tears to her eyes, and when he allowed himself a rueful grin in response, she sank helplessly against the back of the divan. “Oh, Fitzwilliam!” she finally managed, “I pray you will forgive me, but I have never seen you so!”
“Yes, well…I believe that I must have fallen asleep,” he offered uncomfortably as he straightened his posture from the traitorous one that had encouraged his indiscretion.
“
Well
asleep…and dreaming, I should imagine,” she
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