Dressed in the sober black of mourning, the man was an imposing figure. Standing at an even six feet, burly built with a slight tendency toward heaviness, Lord Blaisdale had wholly inherited the traits of a Nordic ancestry. Thick hair so blonde as to be nearly white was worn long and tied with a ribbon in the back, narrow eyes a striking pale green spaced closely aside a broad nose, pale skin, high cheekbones, prominent eyebrow ridges, and full lips perpetually lifted with an expression of amusement or perhaps constant derision completed the picture of an icy northern origin. Yet the features combined beautifully, and to claim that he was merely handsome would be an understatement.
His sister was equally arresting. Not much shorter than her brother and every inch as Nordic in coloring and physical features, she was a beauty long sought after by dozens of suitors. Darcy knew her and had briefly considered her, but aside from the fact that she would likely not have returned the interest as his income was not up to the standards she desired, he found her to be cold and superior. Even then, always in fact, Darcy had sought a woman of passion and liveliness. Lady Sybil Clay-Powell did not possess those traits. It was Lord Mather who had finally won her hand, undoubtedly due to his supreme income and title. Unfortunately, the planned summer wedding had been postponed as a result of her father's death.
The three of them entered in a stately fashion, all dressed in colors of mourning. Rules of mourning were vague other than the requirement for sober colors and minimal decoration to garments, only nominal entertaining for a period of at least six months and up to two years in the case of widows, and public appearances only if vitally important. Conventions of grief were often put aside out of necessity, such as the widow or widower who needed to remarry due to income essentials or for the care of parentless children. Hasty remarriages and renewal of social engagements may have been frowned upon and gossiped about, but were generally overlooked if the cause was legitimate and decorum maintained.
Therefore, the appearance of the Clay-Powells, whose father had now been deceased for eight months, was not fodder even for a minor rumble except for those inevitable old-fashioned folks who relish finding fault with just about anything. The excitement in mingling with persons of such luminosity outweighed any vague feelings of improper behavior and the aloof trio quickly found themselves surrounded by dozens.
Caroline Bingley sat on a settee in a parlor located away from direct view of the foyer amid a group of women conversing quietly. She affected a pose of detached indifference, but sitting serenely with a cluster of married women was not precisely to her taste. Caroline may have had snobbery perfected as an art form, but she did enjoy dancing, friendly gossip, and witty repartee with handsome gentlemen.
Providentially, just as she was about to yawn from boredom, she noticed a trio of ladies known to her from London society crossing a far hallway heading toward the ballroom. With a murmured excuse to Jane, she stood and gracefully steered toward the direction taken by her friends.
It was a ghostly impression of being watched that caused her steps to pause and she glanced over her shoulder toward the foyer.
Her breath caught at the pair of vivid green eyes fixed upon her. Suddenly as if in a dream where the press of bodies disappeared into thin air, Caroline's only awareness was of the regal presence bearing down upon her.
"Miss Bingley, what an absolutely exquisite delight it is to see you here. I had no idea I would be blessed by the miracle of your presence, but I am thrilled beyond comprehension."
"Lord Blaisdale. Surely the pleasure is all mine."
He smiled, the gesture the merest lift to the corners of his mouth, and bowed slightly as he raised her fingers to his cool lips. "I assure you, that is not the truth."
His pale eyes boldly swept over her face, moving on brazenly to inventory the rest of her body. Caroline felt an unaccountable flare of heat rising, her mind both numb with shock and acutely aware.
She opened her mouth to speak, although words seemed to fail her. Fortunately for Caroline, the awkward encounter was interrupted.
"Caroline! What a wonder. We were hoping you were planning to attend!"
Lord Blaisdale released Caroline's hand, the flicker of anger that crossed his features gone as rapidly as it came. Caroline jerked, turning to the speaker, one of her friends, Miss Fay Cross, who not surprisingly was gazing intently and with hope at Lord Blaisdale, as were the other two young ladies in her wake.
Lord Blaisdale smoothly excused himself, leaving Caroline to deal with a fount of questions she was unwilling and unable to answer. Attempting to ignore the tingling sensation of being watched and the bizarre currents his gaze roused did not aid the restoration of her haughty tranquility.
The man unnerved her. He always had. It was a feeling that in and of itself was unsettling and actually made her angry. Caroline prided herself on being in control of her emotions and never ruffled.
She first met Lord Blaisdale, then the Viscount Monthorpe, at a dinner party in Town four seasons ago. He was married at the time, thus dismissed and invisible as far as Caroline was concerned. She had heard of the Clay-Powell family, naturally, their wealth and power too vast to be ignored, but with the only son wedded he simply was not a topic of interest to the socially grasping women of the ton. That he was handsome could not be denied, but her gaze was riveted on Mr. Darcy to the point of nearly excluding everyone else, especially an unavailable man. The only reason he entered her consciousness at all was due to the pointed stares directed her way all evening.
For the next two years, she would encounter him and his timid wife at various events. Always she felt his eyes upon her, examining as one would a fascinating piece of art with cryptic meanings discernible only to the artist. Whenever they happened to be at a function together, he inevitably incorporated into her group, welcomed wholeheartedly by everyone of course, and occupied her in direct conversation with his strange penetrating eyes. Caroline was not stupid and understood that he was intrigued by her. From anyone else, especially Mr. Darcy, she would have responded with perfected coquettishness. Instead, she was merely annoyed at his rudeness and impropriety in engaging her in unwanted conversations.
Only once did she chance upon him after his wife's death.
It was the middle of August in 1816, weeks before her hopes would come crashing down upon her head when Mr. Darcy proposed to Elizabeth Bennet. That horrid event was future, however, and Caroline was attending a symphony performance with her brother, sister and Mr. Hurst, and Mr. Darcy. The appearance of John Clay-Powell, the Viscount Monthorpe, less than three months after his wife's untimely demise was cause for a minor scandal. Talk rippled through the assembly, even the generally regulated and tight-lipped Mr. Darcy scowling and verbalizing his moral disgust. It was no great secret that the marriage between Lady Susanna Knowles and John Clay-Powell was one of social arrangement, but this was typical and no reason to ignore rules of decorum.
When Lord Monthorpe approached, Darcy's scorn was reserved but apparent nonetheless. Bingley was confused, having no idea why they were being addressed in the first place and not sure how to act under the strange circumstances; Mr. Hurst was partially inebriated as usual and Louisa embarrassed; but none of that truly mattered as Lord Monthorpe offered only brief greetings, focusing the longest on Caroline with a lingering kiss to her gloved knuckles and prolonged stare. Darcy's scowl deepened, not due to any affection for Miss Bingley, but some actions were simply not right no matter who was the recipient.
Caroline maintained her aloof demeanor, curtseying gracefully and ignoring the bewildering stirrings evoked by his bizarre intensity. Any attempt to understand the situation faded when Mr. Darcy urbanely stepped in with an offered arm, brusquely extending his condolences for Monthorpe's loss. It was a pointed reminder of impudent behavior that even a notorious rogue like the Viscount could not ignore. He bowed politely, departing the scene but clearly irritated by Darcy's interference. Caroline was left unsettled, as always when the Viscount gazed upon her so pointedly, but she rapidly disregarded the negative emotions in the rising hope over what she perceived as jealous interest from Mr. Darcy.
In the year since, Caroline had spared no thought for Lord Blaisdale. His name was uttered numerous times in gossipy circles, but no more than many other gentlemen of prestige and availability. Caroline's focus became firmly planted upon Sir Dandridge, the faint fluttering within her body elicited by his touch pleasant but governable. Now, within the space of a few minutes, after one brief touch and a searing look from a pair of green eyes, her insides were surging. Her world was again rocked, but rather than the previous displeasure, she discovered her mind spinning with possibility.
***
Kitty was having the time of her life. Always vivacious and naturally congenial, she readily made friends among those humble Derbyshire youth who accepted her regardless of her rumored low station. Naturally there were a number of haughty socialites who refused to acknowledge those beneath them, even if they did arrive with family connections of the highest caliber, but they in no way dampened the overall spirit of merriment. Besides, Kitty was blessed with a general naivete and natural nescience to events beyond her immediate sphere. Since dance partners clamored for her favor and pauses found her in the midst of lively clusters of young people, she had no reason to fret over murmurings from the imperious.
"What part of Hertfordshire do you dwell in, Miss Bennet?" Mr. Falke asked. His socially allotted two dance sets were passed, much to his annoyance, but that did not mean he could not converse with Kitty as much as possible.
"Our estate, Longbourn, is near Meryton, Mr. Falke."
"Oh! Meryton! We have passed through your quaint village many times on our way to my uncle's cottage!" Miss Vera Stolesk declared with enthusiasm. "You remember, Alicia, do you not?" She turned to her cousin, Lady Alicia Nash, laying a hand on her arm. "We paused there two summers ago to water the horses. When the bridle broke. Anyway, we visited this delightful confectionary to pass the time and enjoyed these gooseberry pastries that were simply to die for!"
"Yes, I do recall that. Oh, the pastries were divine."
"You must mean Mr. Janssen's shop. He is Dutch and creates true marvels. My mother is particularly fond of his treats, to Papa's dismay!" Kitty giggled at the understatement.
"Last summer we begged Father to stop, but he was anxious to reach our destination." Miss Stolesk continued. "I was quite cross about that and pouted as prettily as I could, but he would not be swayed!" Several laughs followed that statement, especially as Miss Stolesk demonstrated the adorable pout.
"I would surely never be able to deny you anything after such an expression, Miss Stolesk." Mr. Geoffrey Teddington offered with a florid bow, Miss Vera fluttering her lashes playfully.
"You must join us this summer, Miss Bennet." Lady Alicia stated firmly.
"Oh yes! You must!" Miss Stolesk emphatically agreed.
"Our family owns a country cottage north of Stevenage and we spend each summer there, after the season in London--days upon days of horseback riding, picnics by the river, strolls along the country lanes, and evening soirees. It is my favorite time of the year."
"Would it not be an inconvenience?" Kitty asked politely, vainly trying to keep the excitement from creeping into her voice.
Miss Stolesk waved her hand breezily with a shake of her head, Lady Alicia answering, "Gracious no! We have people in and out all summer long! Father goes for the shooting, declaring that the birds are far and away the best in Hertfordshire." Her tone clearly indicating her disinterest in the subject while the young men all nodded sagely in agreement with Lord Nash's assessment. "Mother paints and grows orchids, an award winning member of the Orchid Society you see, while we frolic and amuse ourselves in any way possible. It is decided then!" She briskly declared with a clap of hands. "Miss Bennet will join us. If, that is, you believe your father will allow it?"
The truth was Kitty had no idea if Mr. Bennet would allow such an excursion, but she refused to face that horrid possibility. Smiles greeted her affirmative from numerous sources, several of the gentlemen already glowing with delight as the Earl of Stevenage's summer extravaganzas were famous and widely attended. The "cottage" humbly described by Lady Alicia was in point of fact an enormous manor rivaling Pemberley.
"Miss Darcy," Miss Vera Stolesk interjected, Georgiana startling and flushing instantly as a dozen set of eyes alit on her face. "You must join us as well. The more the merrier as they say!"
"Well, I..." she stammered, blush deepening, which the enchanted men thought endearing. "I cannot promise... my brother, well, he is... protective, to say the least."
Lady Alicia laughed, clicking her folded fan lightly onto Georgiana's hand. "Oh, yes! We all know the reputation of the formidable Mr. Darcy! I will talk to my father. He is quite persuasive and knows Mr. Darcy well. I am certain he can arrange it to my satisfaction." She sounded confident.
Mr. Falke chuckled. "Perhaps you should practice your pout, Lady Alicia, to ensure it has greater influence than Miss Stolesk's."
"I have no need to stoop to such devious tactics, Mr. Falke. I simply wait until he is enmeshed in a game of cards and he will absently grant me anything!"