Duty and Desire

chairs away from the strong odor of Blue Ruin that emanated from the house’s younger son.

“But that is neither here nor there.” Lady Sylvanie recovered her poise and smiled at Darcy, although not before he detected what he was tempted to think was a look akin to satisfaction. “You are curious about my harp, Mr. Darcy? It was my mother’s, and it was she who taught me to play and sing the songs that you heard tonight. We spent many a long night sharing the music and stories of her people. She was Irish, you know, and a descendant of Irish kings. It was only right that I should learn her music.”

“Yesshhh, she was.” Trenholme’s slurred voice boomed across the table. “Irish, that is. As Irish as the grass is green, Darcy! An’ they’re all outta kings, you know. Scratch ’em an’ they bleed blue, evra one.”

“Bev, you’re drunk!” declared Sayre angrily.

“Completely f-foxed, my dear brother.” Trenholme staggered to his feet and bowed, but the movement threw him off balance, and he tumbled back down into his seat. “An’ you would be too, if you…No, mustn’t say…Where was I?” He rounded on Lady Felicia, who shrank from him in confusion.

“You were making an ass of yourself,” snapped Manning, “and doing a damned fine job of it. Sayre, send for his man and bundle him off to bed before he says something he should not.”

“I’ll say wha’ I like in my own h-home, Manning. It is still our home, ish it not, Sayre?” He stared hard down the table, trying to focus on his brother.

“Shut your mouth, Bev!” His Lordship commanded, alarm spreading over his face, “or I swear, I’ll have the servants pitch you out!”

“Right, then. Pitch me out, but keep tha’ little half-Irish b ——”

“Trenholme!” Darcy rose menacingly from his chair. He would countenance the discourtesies that ran rampant about Norwycke no longer. “Keep a civil tongue in your head. I’ll not have you abuse your sister further, no matter how —”

“Half sister,” Trenholme corrected him. “Never forget, half….” He rose unsteadily. “Well, Sayre, that should make you happy, eh? Defending her!” He turned to Darcy, motioning him closer. “She don’t need it, you know. Little b ——. Sorry, Her Ladyship can take care of herself.”

“Which seems to be more than you can do.” Manning rose and joined Darcy. “Lady Sylvanie looked after Bella with more compassion than —” He stopped and looked up at the ceiling, collecting himself. “Trenholme, you disgust me; and if this is the manner in which we are to be entertained, I swear I will pack up Bella and return to London as soon as she is able.”

“No need for that, Manning.” Sayre broke the shocked silence at His Lordship’s declaration and then addressed his brother firmly. “Bev, your company is not required this evening. I strongly suggest you go to your rooms and let your man attend you.”

Trenholme surveyed his brother and their guests with a defiant smirk until he came to his half sister, whereupon his countenance suddenly flushed dark with anger. Seeing his reaction, Darcy moved closer to her. Looking down into Lady Sylvanie’s face for an indication of how he should assist her, he saw that her fierce, unflinching gaze had returned, and that she was flinging its full power back at her half brother. Suddenly, Trenholme rose and threw down his napkin. “I shall leave you to it, then. I c-consider myself absolved. Here, you there!” He motioned to the serving men. “Require your assistance. Believe I am drunk.” He flung an arm around the neck of the nearest one and, leaning heavily upon him, stumbled out of the room.

The rest of that evening’s supper passed in the sort of strained artificiality that Darcy detested. He could not quiet the turmoil in his mind at Trenholme’s offensive behavior toward his brother, his guests, and most particularly, Lady Sylvanie; nor could he help but speculate on its connection to the vile business at the Stones. To Lady Sylvanie, his words had been of the cruelest nature. Darcy did not wonder that the scene they had witnessed must be the uppermost subject in the minds of everyone, but it made for poor conversation and the happy mood of the gathering was lost. After Trenholme’s departure, Lady Sylvanie withdrew into her pose of indifference, and Darcy could think of nothing to say to her that would not be considered an invasion of her privacy. Instead he was constrained merely to observe her with admiration as she conducted herself regally through the remainder of the meal, unbowed by the curious looks the other guests cast her.

When it came time for the ladies to withdraw, Darcy rose and helped her with her chair. She had not worn gloves that evening, so when she laid her delicate hand in his, its warmth and softness were not disguised. The sensation was, he found, very pleasant, and her private, parting expression of thanks for his assistance was most gratifying. He resumed his seat with a smile that he could only just mask before Sayre called them all to the sampling of his cellar’s best.

“We may not dawdle long, I fear,” Sayre continued after proposing a toast to the evening and downing a respectable portion of the brandy in his glass. “The ladies desire to play at charades, and if we are to have any peace later this evening” — he winked — “we must present ourselves in the drawing room without undue delay.” The gentlemen groaned and laughed, but only the most desultory of small talk followed to flavor their time. A creeping impatience with his company drew Darcy away to one of the windows and the moonlight’s stark illumination of the maze of hedges in the garden beyond it. The play of light and shadow against the snow reminded him of a chessboard stretched crazily askew, pinned to the earth here and there by the garden statuary. And what piece am I upon the board? As he sipped at his brandy, a curiosity took possession of him about how Lady Sylvanie was handling the gentle inquisition surely taking place among the females in the drawing room. He pulled at his fob and brought out his timepiece. Another five minutes should certainly suffice for this obligatory masculine ritual. He took another sip, this time taking care to enjoy the fire as it slid down his throat. Not unlike the lady, he thought to himself wryly, cool and fiery. He did not need to be concerned over how she fared with the other women, but he should have liked to watch her as she did so.

Sayre finally signaled the end of their exile, and with a heightened expectation, Darcy put down his glass and followed. As he had guessed, Lady Sylvanie sat in unruffled composure near the hearth, leaving him in no doubt that she had held her own against the more practiced drawing room strategists ranged against her. Lady Felicia’s smile upon the gentlemen’s entrance was rather forced in appearance, but Miss Farnsworth was seen to be deep in distressed consultation with her mother and aunt. Lady Sayre’s relief and joy at the entrance of her husband was likely the greatest that His Lordship had seen upon his lady’s face in quite some time.

“Ah…well, my dear,” Sayre began uncertainly. “It is to be charades, is it not? Have the slips been readied?”

“N-no, Sayre,” Her Ladyship stammered, “but it shall be done directly. Felicia, my dear, would you be so kind?” The gentlemen, in good form, scattered about the room among the ladies to await the assignment of teams. Darcy sauntered to the hearth and took up a position against the mantel behind and to the side of Lady Sylvanie, smiling down into her upturned face as she followed his progress.

“Do you enjoy playing at charades, Mr. Darcy, that you smile so?”

“In general, I avoid activities that involve playacting, my lady. My smile is not for such games.”

She arched a brow at him. “But you are playing at one now, are you not? The drawing room game of feint, parry, and retreat. I believe that was a feint, sir, and I am expected to parry. Or is retreat the proper move? You must pardon my ignorance of the game. I am, as I told you, unskilled in drawing room etiquette.”

“Your move should be determined by your strengths, not your opponent’s expectations.” Darcy’s smile deepened as he warmed to her allusion to fencing. “Always move to your advantage.”

“Strange words for a man to give a woman, Mr. Darcy. I had rather understood that it was the object of the male of the race to allow as little advantage as possible to the female. Are you entirely sure you do not wish to take back your advice?”

Darcy chuckled at her acuity. “It is a dangerous gift; I admit! I suppose I might be considered a traitor to my sex, but I do not take it back.” His grin faded slightly as he adopted a less frivolous tone. “I believe, ma’am, that it is advice you have already taken.” He nodded toward the other ladies. “And with cause.” He stopped, curious to see whether she would confide in him or dismiss his words as mere banter.

“Lady Sylvanie!” Monmouth’s call interrupted the moment.

“Yes, my Lord?” Lady Sylvanie looked over in question to the Viscount.

“You are teamed with Darcy, Lady Beatrice, and me.” He waved the paper slips with their names written on them. “We shall make a splendid team, even if Darcy does remain as stiff as a statue, I have no doubt!”