A Lady’s Choice Page 4

  It would have been different if she had been able to change out of the gentleman’s clothes she still wore—it would have been easier to explain why she was in the gardens instead of the parlor with the other ladies than to explain her current state of disarray that she was currently in. Her linen shirt was untucked, her woollen breeches were almost unbuttoned, and she could feel her hair trailing out from under the cap she had hastily tugged town over her curls.

  She ducked around the corner of the house and crept through the kitchen garden toward the door Felicity had led her through only a few hours before. The door opened and a well-dressed footman with a red, angry face stormed through it followed by one of the scullery maids. Elizabeth pulled her cap down lower over face and ducked past the angry couple. From the look on the maid’s face, she had narrowly avoiding being caught in the middle of what could only have been a lover’s quarrel.

  Elizabeth held her breath as she dodged her way through the bustling kitchen. The oppressive heat of the large room hit her fully in the face and made her gasp while the sound of knives chopping through vegetables and meat filled her ears, and the smell of freshly baked bread filled her nose. A small group of women plucked and dressed the birds that were brought in from the shoot to prepare them for supper.

  Her stomach growled and her shoulder ached and Elizabeth quickened her pace.

  “You there, boy,” someone shouted, and Elizabeth ducked through a doorway and ran headlong down the corridor toward the stairs that would lead to the main floor of the house. “Get back here!” the voice followed her down the hall, but Elizabeth did not slow or look behind her. If anyone saw her face, they would know at once that something was amiss.

  On the main floor, Elizabeth moved as quickly as she could and did her best to avoid the members of the household staff who appeared in the grand hallway. The volume of feminine chatter and music from the parlor was a good sign. She would be able to join the gathering without having missed too much, and hopefully without arriving at an awkward time.

  She ran up the grand staircase and up to the second floor, taking two stairs at a time while her legs burned with the exertion. She heard voices at the end of the hall and scrambled at the latch on the door to her chamber. It opened with a loud creak and she held her breath for just a moment before she squeezed through the small opening and closed the door carefully behind her.

  She leaned against the door, breathing shallowly as the voices passed by and continued to the stairs. She would have to join the group in the parlor soon enough, but first she had to clean the gunpowder off her hands and from her cheek and examine her shoulder. The marks left by the butt of the rifle had been enough to make Mr. Darcy pause, but she was not eager to look.

  Elizabeth pulled the woollen cap from her curls and tossed it upon her bed and then peeled off the jacket Felicity had lent her and laid it over the arm of a waiting chair. The linen shirt followed and Elizabeth let out a pained gasp as she lifted her arm above her head. She bit her lip and walked to the full-length mirror that stood across from the wardrobe. Her shoulder was well and truly bruised, red and violet, angry to look at. But she took some pride in the fact that it was a symbol that she had done something daring. Something none of her sisters, save Lydia, perhaps, would ever dare. Something Charlotte would certainly never dare.

  She smiled briefly, pressed her fingers gently into the bruise, and winced. The dark colors would be gone in a few days, but she would have to hide her mottled flesh from prying eyes. A small mark would have been easy to hide, but all of the dresses she had brought with her exposed far too much of her shoulder for it to go unnoticed. Perhaps Felicity would have something she could borrow.

  The was a bowl of cold washing water set out on the wash stand and Elizabeth soaked a square of linen and washed as best she could and took care to wipe the black smudge from her cheek.

  She unwound the linen strip that bound down her breasts and sighed as the pressure on her ribs was released. She tried to suppress that tremor that shuddered through her body at the memory of Mr. Darcy’s fingers as they had tugged at the binding, and the heat of his mouth as it had burned across her naked flesh. She brushed her fingers over her lips, still swollen from his kisses, and let a shuddering sigh escape. That same confusion she had tried so hard to chase away from her heart leapt back to the forefront of her mind and pounded in her chest.

  What business did he have here at Grenleigh? Felicity had never mentioned him, and Elizabeth could think of no reason for him to be here. Unless—surely, he had not come to Longbourn in search of her and been told that she was here?

  Elizabeth swallowed thickly and shook her head, a ridiculous thought. It must be a mistake, a coincidence. Mr. Darcy had forgotten her, and everything that had passed between them, what other explanation could there be for his months of silence?

  But could those kisses really mean such a thing? What if he had—

  “You are a fool, Elizabeth Bennet,” she muttered as she chose a dress from the wardrobe that she hoped would not attract too much attention. A kashmir shawl that Jane had lent her would hide her shoulder well enough through supper. It would be an acceptable accessory against the chill in the rooms that no one would question.

  She folded the gentlemen’s clothing into a small bundle and hid it at the very back of the wardrobe. She would give it back to Felicity in the morning… or perhaps after supper.

  Dressed acceptably for mixed company and supper with the returning menfolk, Elizabeth sat at the vanity and looked at herself with a critical eye. She brushed her hair quickly, frowning briefly at the snarls in her dark curls before securing them down with pins and wrapping a pale pink velvet ribbon around her head that looked well against her dark hair and matched the woven designs in Jane’s shawl.

  She rubbed her hands over her face and stood up from the vanity to examine herself in the full length mirror once more, this time with the shawl wrapped over her shoulders. The bruising was hidden well, but would be noticeable if she were to remove the shawl, especially under candlelight which would make the discolored flesh look even darker.

  Elizabeth put her shoulders back and took a fortifying breath before opening the chamber door and stepping out into the hallway. Joining the ladies in the parlor was not a daunting prospect, it was the fact that she would have to see Mr. Darcy at some point, and she did not know what she would say to him… Would she ask him why he was here in Scotland? Pretend as though nothing had passed between them? Or should she confront him for his rudeness and beg him to keep her secret? She could not reveal what had happened, for he was equally armed with his own accusations.

  How would she be able to explain being seen in gentlemen’s clothing? Though she had hidden the soiled clothing away, it would be found in her chambers with a very quick search. And then what would she say? Any explanation would give Felicity away, and she had promised never to speak of it to anyone.

  Elizabeth’s thoughts were a tangled mess of despair, desire, and frustration as she descended the stairs and walked toward the noise of the parlor. She clutched the shawl tightly and entered the room with as much confidence as she could muster. She was greeted kindly by several women that she did not recognize, and was offered a glass of punch by a footman who looked at her curiously as she took the glass. She recognized him as the angry-faced young man she had passed on her way into the kitchen. Elizabeth murmured her thanks and turned away quickly to prevent him taking a closer look at her and she took up a position by one of the tall windows that looked out over Grenleigh’s gardens and grounds.

  “The gentlemen are returning!” one of the ladies called out and there was a small ripple of applause as the first of the shooters was sighted emerging from the forest. The chatter in the room increased in volume and Elizabeth sighed with relief.

  “I do not think we have met,” an imperious voice said to Elizabeth’s left. She turned to greet the speaker and smiled warmly to see a young woman with a kind face who seemed a similar age to h
erself and Felicity.

  “Indeed not, I do apologize,” Elizabeth said. “I am Elizabeth Bennet, a friend of Miss Baker’s from her days living in Hertfordshire.”

  The young woman smiled faintly. “Ah yes, she had mentioned living in England when she was very young, I have never been there, myself.” The woman’s accent was cultured and Elizabeth detected a hint of a Scottish lilt along with something else entirely European—French, perhaps. “I am Lady Percival.” When Elizabeth blinked politely the young woman sighed. “I am Hamish’s cousin, I should have thought that dear Felicity would have mentioned me.”

  Elizabeth’s smile faltered somewhat at the emphasis Lady Percival put upon the the word dear, but she did not give any other indication of her suspicion of the young woman’s intentions. Elizabeth knew that she was in an entirely different circle of society than she was accustomed in Hertfordshire, but Felicity had invited her, and she had just as much right to be here as anyone else.

  “I am very pleased to meet you, Lady Percival,” Elizabeth replied politely.

  “How are you finding Grenleigh,” she said sharply and Elizabeth was taken aback once more by her direct manner.

  “It is beautiful, to be sure, the estate is large and well appointed—”

  “Boring,” she sighed. “I long for Paris, but I must stay here until my dear cousin is satisfied with the support of his family for this match.”

  “Do you not approve?” Elizabeth could not keep her question to herself, though she regretted speaking as soon as the words had left her lips. Lady Percival’s smooth eyebrow rose slightly as she looked Elizabeth over.

  “It is not for me to judge,” she said airily, and Elizabeth did her best to keep from making a face at such an outrageous lie. It was very clear that Lady Percival had already made her judgements. “Where is dear Felicity?” Lady Percival looked around the room with an expression of boredom on her perfect features. How tiresome she must be in private company, Elizabeth thought, she and Caroline Bingley would like each other immediately.

  “Felicity was taken ill this morning, a headache, I believe,” Elizabeth said quickly and Lady Percival turned back to her with a frown.

  “How upsetting, a headache on the day of her engagement party.”

  “I am sure she will make every effort to come down for supper,” Elizabeth said with a smile. She would have to speak to Felicity about Hamish’s cousin very soon. She could be a powerful enemy, and Elizabeth wanted to be sure that her friend was well armed against such a foe.

  “I do hope so,” Lady Percival said without bothering to hide the sneer in her voice as she turned away to join another group of ladies. Elizabeth drank her punch angrily and set the empty glass down upon the window ledge. She stared out the window and counted the gentlemen that walked back to the house together.

  She smiled as she saw a figure running through the garden in the direction of the kitchen, much as she had not long ago. Felicity would emerge soon enough, hopefully before the gentlemen joined the group.

  Elizabeth took another glass of punch, making certain to avoid the footman who had almost recognized her. She listened peripherally to the conversation that swirled through the room, much of it complimentary towards Felicity and her father, and about the beauty and wildness of the estate.

  She was about to join a small knot of ladies who were discussing a particular book of poetry that Elizabeth had brought with her on her journey to Scotland when a sharp clap of made her turn.

  “Ladies! Ladies, your attention, please.” Grenleigh’s butler stood at the door of the parlor with his gloved hands clasped in front of his neatly buttoned tartan waistcoat and proud smile upon his face. “Sir George Baker and Lord Rackham are pleased to invite you in to supper.”

  The ladies applauded but made no move toward the door. They took their time to finish their conversations and their drinks before moving slowly through the room to speak with friends and Elizabeth did her best to stay with the group of women who were in no hurry to leave the relative warmth of the parlor. The dining room would be chilly, Elizabeth knew that from experience, and she was thankful for her shawl.

  A small arm wound through hers and Elizabeth jumped just a little in surprise. “Lizzy,” Felicity whispered, “did anyone miss me?”

  Elizabeth chuckled and patted her friend’s hand. “Only your soon to be cousin, Lady Percival,” she replied.

  Felicity made a face. “Lady Percival believes that her darling cousin should marry a Frenchwoman, not an English peasant like me.”

  “But your father—” Elizabeth gasped. Sir George Baker was a titled gentleman who had earned his fortune and position, and there was no mistaking Felicity for a peasant.

  “She does not care about anything like that,” Felicity scoffed. “I was not born to my position, therefore I do not deserve it, and I most definitely do not deserve Hamish.”

  “Nonsense,” Elizabeth snapped. “I do not like her.”

  “There are few who do,” Felicity giggled. “I do believe her husband spends as much time away from their estate in France as possible without attracting any gossip.”

  “Did you take any pheasant?” Elizabeth asked quietly as the other ladies filed out of the room. Felicity snatched a glass of punch from one of the tables and drank it quickly.

  “I did,” she gasped, “three at least.”

  Elizabeth’s mouth fell open in surprise. “Indeed, so many!”

  Felicity nodded and smiled broadly. “Come, I believe we shall be eating the fruits of our daring for supper tonight and only we shall know! I promise you that the bird will taste better with the knowledge that you have provided it for the table yourself!”

  Elizabeth smothered her laughter with her hand and allowed Felicity to lead her into the dining room. They were met at the door by the very person that Elizabeth did not want to see and she felt her chest tighten as she met his dark eyes.

  “Miss Bennet, Miss Baker,” he said in greeting and Felicity smiled warmly.

  “Mr. Darcy, it is so wonderful to see you, Hamish was not sure you would be able to attend.”

  “Nor was I,” he replied with the briefest of smiles, “but I am pleased that I was able to delay my business engagements in London in order to attend yours.”

  Elizabeth felt breathless to be so near him again, and her skin burned with the memory of his kiss and the heat of his hands. “Good evening, Mr. Darcy,” she managed to choke out the words before she forced herself to smile politely and tugged her friend away from the door toward the seats that had been reserved for them.

  Elizabeth sank gratefully into her chair and took a sip of the crisp white wine that had been poured for her while Felicity greeted her father and kissed his cheek.

  “How do you know Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth hissed as Felicity slid into the chair beside her.

  Felicity reached for her own glass of wine and took a careful sip before she replied, “he is an old friend of Hamish’s. They have known each other for many years. He has a lovely estate in Derbyshire.”

  “Yes, I know,” Elizabeth murmured.

  Felicity’s eyebrow rose and she leaned closer. “Oh, indeed? Miss Bennet is there something you are not telling me?” Elizabeth shook her head, but Felicity’s finger poked into her ribs sharply. “Lizzy, you cannot lie to me. I have never seen you blush in such a manner, even when we were children!”

  Elizabeth pushed her friend’s hand away and picked up her wine glass again. “It is nothing, he is an acquaintance,” she said quietly.

  “He is not looking at you as though he were only an acquaintance,” Felicity said pointedly. Elizabeth dared to look up from her glass and her eyes met Mr. Darcy’s. She almost gasped to see him staring at her so boldly, but was somehow able to contain herself. “I see,” Felicity giggled.

  “You see nothing,” Elizabeth said, but she could not stop the flush of warmth that crept through her belly and set her heart to beating faster in her chest.

  “Ladies and Gentle
men,” Sir George Baker stood up at the head of the table and address his guests warmly. “To celebrate the bounty of our shoot and the engagement of my daughter Felicity to Lord Rackham, we will end the night with dancing and revelry. Musicians have been brought from Sterling for our amusement.”

  Cheers and applause echoed through the room which doubled in volume as the footmen entered bearing silver trays laden with roast grouse and pheasant and Elizabeth gasped at the grandeur of the display.

  “It is as I said,” Felicity whispered with a wink, “everything tastes so much better with the knowledge that you have brought down with game with your own hand.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened as one of the trays with a beautifully roasted pheasant surrounded by fat prickly thistle blooms was presented to her. She selected a few cuts of the meat and stared at it incredulously. She had never eaten game she had any hand in providing for the table. The closest she had come was a vase of cut flowers, and that could never compare to something like a meal.

  Felicity began to eat with gusto and Elizabeth realized at once how hungry she was, but as she ate it was difficult to ignore the feeling she had that Mr. Darcy was watching her. The thought made her cheeks burn. It did not help matters when Felicity leaned close to whisper, “How close of an acquaintance is Mr. Darcy, Lizzy?”

  “Very slight, I assure you,” Elizabeth managed to say. “His friend was courting my sister Jane—”

  “Was he, indeed?” Felicity’s eyes widened and she sat up as tall as she could in her chair. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, “Mr. Darcy, you must tell me which of your friends was enamored of Miss Jane Bennet. I have been so starved for gossip out here in the heather.”

  Elizabeth looked up from her plate, not knowing what kind of reaction to expect from the gentleman who, until very recently, had been one of the most disagreeable of her acquaintance. She could have expected him to react haughtily, perhaps even dismissively, or pretend that he did not know of what Felicity spoke—but, instead, his expression seemed truly regretful.