His direct sight line was initially hampered by smoky candles flickering, by waiters running about and diners rising and sitting, by the numerous people milling about between the entranceway and the dining area. The overwhelming racket of chatter, laughing, and dining sounds distracted him while he bobbed his head around one person then the next as he moved forward.

About halfway into the room, the crowd finally parted, and he beheld the tall, dark, and exceptionally handsome English gentleman, his long legs crossed, his champagne-buffed black riding boots brilliantly reflecting the flames from the hearth. The dark green superfine coat (it really was magnificent) and subdued checkered waistcoat set off his brilliantly white shirt and cravat. One elbow was draped casually across the back of his chair while the other hand sensuously stroked the stem of a wine glass resting on the table before him. His eyes never left Fitzwilliam’s face.

He was the very essence of stylish nonchalance.

Except for his eyes. His eyes were the very black depths of hell.

“Why, hello, brat, fancy meeting you in this godforsaken place. Are you slumming with friends?” The colonel’s greeting for his cousin was accompanied by a cold smile, feeling as he was the wash of displeasure being directed back at him. “You’re looking well. Are those new boots?” God how he hated Darcy when he looked so pompous. He had an irrational desire to smack the back of his little cousin’s head. As he reached down to finger the magnificent, lapelled satin waistcoat, Richard shook his head. “By God, Darcy, you look nearly as fashionable as your butler. Well, aspire to greatness, boy. Who knows, one day you may equal the man.”

Darcy sensed his cousin’s belligerence, knew the man as well as he knew himself, and by the position of his jutting chin, realized they were dancing very near the battlefield at the moment. “Nice of you to say I am in good looks this evening. You, on the other hand, look like shit.”

Fitzwilliam’s gaze narrowed dangerously.

Darcy indicated the chair across from him. “Sit.”

His cousin yanked the chair back and settled heavily into it, crossing his ankle over his knee. “How terribly remiss of me to so offend you with my appearance. Apparently, however, my looks improve with frequency of contact, something to do with my famously charismatic personality.” Fitzwilliam’s counterfeit smile dissolved almost immediately. “Not to mention my heavenly blue eyes.”

Darcy never broke his stare.

“Are you drunk?” Fitzwilliam asked pleasantly.

“No, although I have been sitting here for hours, drinking and waiting, watching the time slowly tick on by.”

Darcy could outstare a corpse.

Fitzwilliam could not, and his color began to rise. He turned as a waiter passed behind him, unapologetically grabbing a tankard of someone else’s ale from the tray, enjoyed at least two large swallows, and then slammed it onto the table. A nearby woman screeched in alarm and threw her napkin over her head.

“Have you been enjoying your little holiday here?” The gentlemanly manner was ice cold.

“Oh, one cannot complain, really. The bathwater can be slightly tepid; however…” He was stopped in midsentence by Darcy’s incredulous bellow.

“Damn it, do you realize that the whole family is worried sick about you? Everyone has been frantic—your father, friends, even Wellington was alarmed!” Darcy’s fury had nearly pulled him from his chair, and he desperately attempted to regain his composure.

Fitzwilliam managed to control his temper by counting to twenty. Then he exploded. “Forgive me, brat; however, I am a grown man, answerable to no one, and I prefer not to speak of this!” His voice rose with every word until he was shouting. “Where I have been and what I have done is no one’s concern but my own!”

Darcy kept watching him, his ire growing more impossible to squelch with every silent moment that passed. Of all the inconsiderate baboons! Of all the self-centered, egomaniacal…! Fitzwilliam’s expression remained stoic as he tossed back another swallow.

“Has it something to do with Amanda?”

It was an insightful shot in the dark that showed immediate results. The comment snapped Fitzwilliam’s attention back to his cousin. “Tell me what it is in the phrase ‘I prefer not to speak about this’ that is escaping you?” Fitzwilliam’s eyes were dark and furious.

The tension between them was suffocating, intense enough to begin alarming surrounding tables, but Darcy was not going to retreat this time. For all of their lives, it had been the older and livelier Fitzwilliam leading the younger and more reserved Darcy, guiding him through life’s adventures. Darcy had always idolized his cousin, never crossing him or trying to harness his free spirit. However, now he realized Aunt Catherine was correct. Perhaps they had all let his cousin drift unchecked for far too long.

“Who was that veiled woman you left with earlier?” Darcy’s question was contemptuous.

Fitzwilliam almost choked on his drink.

“How dare you question me, you half-formed pup!” he shouted. “How long have you been here spying on me?!”

“Long enough to see you leave with your latest conquest. Is this another war widow, or are you back into opera singers? Or was this the wife of some dear friend?”

“Bloody hell!” Fitzwilliam roared, slamming his fist on the table and sending their glasses clattering across the table. “I don’t have to answer to you or to anyone!” The waiter, who had been approaching, quickly spun around to retreat back out the door.

“Oh, I understand now. You’ve been shacked up with some bit of muslin you found, is that it? This place is too expensive for a street whore, or was there more than one? I suppose if you drink enough, any behavior is acceptable.” Darcy was pushing his cousin as hard as he could.

“I should call you out for that, damn you to hell!” Fitzwilliam’s voice shook with rage as he slowly rose from his seat.

“Again?” Darcy’s bark of laughter was rife with scorn. Suddenly standing, he leaned over, his fists on the table. “Well, what is it then?! Who are you holed up with here? I know there’s a woman. The concierge said you were here with your wife!”

“Damn you to hell, Darcy, I am!” Fitzwilliam bellowed back.

Oh dear, this could not be a good sign. Darcy’s head shot back in confusion. It appeared Elizabeth’s wifely accusations were correct, and his hearing was going. His cousin had just said something that could not be, something that made no sense whatsoever. Quite humorous, really. No, no, no. Hell had not as yet frozen over, to his knowledge.

“Sorry?”

Fitzwilliam sank back into his chair, his fury spent. He rested his elbows atop the table; shaking hands raked through his hair. “It’s true, absolutely true, man. I am staying here with my wife. Amanda and I were married a little over four weeks ago. No one knows except you now, a half-deaf priest, and my batman. Oh, yes, and the entire office of the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

Darcy stared unblinking at his cousin for several moments then smoothed down his waistcoat and straightened his cravat before summoning the trembling concierge over to the table. “Pardon me, my good man. I find that we are going to need a truly remarkable amount of alcohol brought to us, and also perhaps a private room and some food please…” When Darcy looked about, he was surprised at the empty dining room. “Well, damn my eyes—I guess this room will do fine. Where is everyone?”

***

“Aunt Catherine has her footmen everywhere, looking for you. She is that frantic, imagining you have done some grievous harm to yourself. I had to talk her out of calling in the Bow Street Runners.” It was very late evening, and they sat alone in the darkened dining room, the room illumined only by two table candles and the blazing fireplace. Moonlight reflected from snow newly settled on the garden outside the windows.

Fitzwilliam cast his eyes up to heaven. Eloquent as ever, he intoned reverently, “Shit.” He turned to Darcy. “How did you find me?”

“Natural brilliance, unsurpassed logic, plus I stumbled upon O’Malley. He’s a very good man, Fitzwilliam, but it appears he has a weakness for Gunther’s ices, as does Elizabeth. This week she has had a craving for lemon ices and figs. I spied him there and followed.”

Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair, a pleased look on his face. “I knew it! They have not said as much, but I do believe his wife, Isabella, has the same craving for ices as Elizabeth, and for the same reason.”

“I was not aware that you were allowing O’Malley his marital rights. Conjugal visits are so very egalitarian. Decent of you, old man.”

Fitzwilliam threw a chunk of cheese at his cousin’s head. “Do you know what is so pathetic about all of this, brat?”

“You mean aside from your breath?”

Richard loosened his collar and then the top of his pants, a heartfelt sigh of relief escaping him as he slouched down into his chair. “As you well know, I have never truly wanted to be married. Anyway, I made the claim often enough.”

“And loud enough,” Darcy volunteered. Fitzwilliam glowered.

“Well, pardon me, but marriage is necessary only as a means to pass on inheritance. And yet, here I sit, a pathetic love-starved fool, watching the clock for hours on end, counting the days until I see her. Damn me if I can understand how things changed so drastically and so quickly.” He reached into his pocket to bring out his beloved pipe. “‘Thy glory, O Israel, is slain upon thy high places! How are the mighty fallen.’”

“And now you’re quoting the Bible. Dear Lord, we must be near the end of times.” Darcy saluted him with his glass of whiskey. “So, how are we enjoying married life?”

Fitzwilliam snorted, grumbling something about Amanda hiding his tobacco pouch. He finally located it in his coat pocket, in the exact spot he had secreted it, and then began to fill the pipe. He used a candle flame to stoke the tobacco, then spread his hands over the immaculate white tablecloth, all the while giving impressive and grave consideration to Darcy’s question. His fingers worked out some imperceptible creases in the material. He crossed his legs.

“How are we enjoying married life?” he mused, puffing once, then twice, and then removing his pipe to intently study the bowl. “Well, first and foremost, please allow me to say that I have never quarreled so much in my entire life.”

Darcy began to laugh.

“Ah, you laugh. What is truly terrifying is that I include in that statement all of my years of battle against the Corsican.” Fitzwilliam puffed. “Well, to continue, may I reasonably assume that yours is the laughter of the well experienced?”

“Oh, yes. It is an unspoken truth that marriage can be a rather intense alliance at first, shall we say, and not always of the romantic bent.”

“Intense!” Fitzwilliam began to quickly warm to his subject. “Intense! Darcy, my good man, they are not like us. Not even remotely. Now, I speak not of the obvious—the absence of both logic and reason. No, I refer to certain areas that really should be made plainer to men before they embark upon this life-changing commitment.” He puffed on his pipe, suddenly throwing back his head in a bark of laughter.

“First off, I would like to know why they are so bloody sensitive about everything, especially their weight. ‘Do I look plumper?’ is an almost impossible question to answer. They also, apparently, never forget offenses, even if they do forgive them. The most difficult thing to me is the necessity to trot out innermost feelings and discuss them to death.” He shook his head, smiling delightedly at some memory then quickly feigned a scowl. “Well, obviously, since a true man has no innermost feelings, I agree with whatever she says.”

Darcy shook his head as he settled himself lower in his chair, his long legs stretched out before him. “Elizabeth herself is of the female persuasion. It is her firm belief that over the course of a marriage, women invariably control everything—what we wear, how we raise our children, and ultimately how we behave—and we must willingly go along or die alone. The Benevolent Dictator is how I believe Uncle Bernard referred to Aunt Lucille.”

“You’re right, I had forgotten that.” They both chuckled at the memory.

Richard’s eyes wrinkled happily as he puffed on his pipe. “But by God, Darcy, I love every moment. I’ve never felt more alive in my life. We argue, make love and then have a good meal, laugh and talk. Then we make love again.” The light in his eyes could have brightened a small village. “In such a short time, she has become my closest friend, my lover, and my whole life.” He puffed thoughtfully on his pipe for a moment. “Sometimes I find I cannot breathe for wanting her.