It was at that moment that Darcy came out onto the balcony, a concerned look on his face. “Is everything all right? You two are making a bit of a racket. People are beginning to become alarmed…”
“Get out!” they shouted in unison. Seeing the furious looks on both their faces, he immediately spun around on his heel and made a hasty retreat inside.
“Well!” She furiously patted her hair down on both sides. “I have never been so insulted nor so abused in my life! Colonel Fitzwilliam, I would appreciate it if you would never attempt to speak with me or contact me again!”
“Believe me, Lady Penrod, that is the farthest thought from my mind! You shall have no cause for further alarm on that front! The joy of the evening to you, madam!” Fitzwilliam released his hold on Amanda’s arms so suddenly that she almost fell back against the wall. His fists rested upon his hips as he turned his body angrily away.
She threw down his coat and stormed off.
There was dead silence on the balcony.
Darcy had time only to retreat a few steps into the shadows of the ballroom, coming forward as soon as Amanda ran past, her head lowered. He came to stand just within the balcony doors. “Jesu, Fitz! What in hell happened out here?” Darcy ran his hand through his hair as he walked slowly toward his cousin.
Fitzwilliam looked out over the garden, unable for once in his life to torment his little cousin. “We were passionately in love—for a few minutes, anyway. One of my longer relationships.”
Darcy chuckled. “I take it the earth moved?”
Fitzwilliam barked out a laugh. “Well, I’ve never heard my anatomy called that before, and yes, the South of France did wave.” He grunted mirthlessly. “Shit! Give me a moment, Darcy. At present I am in no condition to walk through that room. Is Georgiana all right?”
“She’s fine, merely her usual distress at being among such a large crowd. This promises to be a trying come out for us all.”
Fitzwilliam saw the bottle of wine and two glasses in Darcy’s hand. “I hope that’s liquor you have there and that it is intended for me.” Reaching over, he brushed aside the glass his cousin proffered, preferring the whole bottle. He took a long, hard draw.
“Did I come out here too early or too late?”
“Damned if I know.” Fitzwilliam exhaled loudly and took another draw from the bottle, finally remembering to pour some into Darcy’s glass. They stood in silence for a while.
“She claims to be promised to another. Can you credit that? Promised to another when we were…” He looked quickly away before he continued. “Well, forget the rest of that. I just cannot believe this has happened! Something is very wrong.”
“Did she say who the man is?”
“Dr. Anthony Milagros.” Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes. Darcy winced, knowing Milagros’s attraction to the opposite sex.
“Go after her, man!”
His cousin considered that recourse for only a brief moment then shook his head. “Never, brat! I am a confirmed bachelor, my own man, set in my ways and too old to change.”
“You are only two and thirty. My own father was married at four and thirty. You have years left. Do not give up so easily.”
“Goddamn it, Darcy, I do have some pride.”
“Oh, you stupid idiot. When it comes to love, pride always takes second place.”
“I have never had to chase a woman, never, and certainly have no intention to begin now!” With that, Fitzwilliam stormed away. “Beg for that harridan! Ha! I have not enough interest in her to even pursue this any further. End of discussion.”
Chapter 10
Fitzwilliam leaned against Darcy’s carriage, an angry lover assessing his rival’s townhouse, the freezing rain fueling his fury. And the townhouse was an awesome sight, more a mansion, one of the largest, grandest homes in London, exceeded by few others, including Darcy’s and Catherine’s. “Shit. I knew the bastard was rich, but not this rich.”
His loyal batman and driver, O’Malley, grunted his opinion. “Ah, well, don’ be so hard on yerself, Colonel. Ya have good points—God bless me, even a busted clock is right twice the day. No, truly. Yer a good horseman, the very best I’ve ever seen, and yer kind to unfortunates… and ya have grand teeth. Oh, the fancy doctor may be filthy rich, an’ dark and handsome an’ all, and irresistible to the ladies, and…” Fitzwilliam’s cold, hard stare stopped the litany of Anthony Milagros’s greatness.
Unable to tear his eyes from his colonel’s O’Malley took a large swig from his flask and trembled violently from the potent brew. He took out his pipe. “I’ll not say another word. Me lips are sealed.”
“Bloody hell…” Fitzwilliam cursed as he made his way across the road, and then again as he opened the gate. He began the climb up the granite steps, hissing “shit, shit, shit,” on each one. He looked around as he approached the massive and elaborate double-door entryway. “Bloody hell.” Fine, money evidently will not influence him. I cannot possibly kill him. What are my other options? He pounded on the door knocker.
An ancient butler answered, terror registering on his face within moments of Fitzwilliam demanding entrance. Without saying a word, the trembling servant turned, motioning for Fitzwilliam to follow, slowly leading the bizarre little parade at a snail’s pace into a magnificently ornate receiving parlor. Finally facing the colonel he announced, in dreadful tones, that the doctor would be informed of his presence.
The splendid room was lit by the fires within two huge marble fireplaces, one on each end of the room, along with several gilt branches of candles strategically placed, Fitzwilliam sneered, for the sole beatific illumination of the highly expensive furnishings, rare tapestries, and paintings. It worked brilliantly. He walked to the front bank of French windows and turned to get the full effect, sweeping the room with his eyes. He exhaled loudly.
Shit.
Within the elegant mansion somewhere, an unsuspecting gentleman ignored the outdoor gloom and rain. To him, it was a lovely Tuesday evening in winter, crisp, clean and enchanting. Dr. Anthony Milagros had recently returned home after spending a productive but tiring day at his hospital and had put aside the disturbing visions his dearest friend’s words had conjured up the day before.
“Bah!” He laughed at his baseless fears, rebuked his own reflection in the dressing-room mirror. He had reacted much too emotionally. Amanda had, of course, been correct, although that would be a first for her. The colonel was a highly decorated, nationally respected military leader, was lionized as a hero, a role model, a modern-day knight in shining armor. He would not act like some rabid dog defending a bone. Would he…?
No! Of course not. Ridiculous.
Anthony laughed softly as he thought back to the Sunday just past when he and Amanda had had their tiny “fracas.” It was amusing to think of, really. In fact, as he now remembered it, with two days of hysteria as a cushion, he had been quite understanding during the entire confrontation—tolerant, sophisticated, exceedingly sympathetic.
“Have you lost your mind?!”
“Anthony, let me explain.”
“He will call me out, Amanda. I’m a dead man. I will never again see my family, never again see Madrid. Look at these hands… look at them. They are beautiful and perfect, slim, elegant. And to think I will never again play the violin.”