Page 4 of His Dark Heart
“I see ye have decided to wake, though I cannot say I call what ye were doing sleep. Ye thrashed about like a fish in a net,” Hill muttered while she helped disentangle Elizabeth.
“I had a nightmare,” she whispered. “I was taken by a great black shadow, and nobody ever saw me again.”
“That wine went straight to thy head, young miss! Serves ye right to have such a dream.”
Rather than return a retort of her own, she scowled at the governess and threw her legs over the side of the bed, reeling as she did so from the sudden pounding in her head. She wrinkled her nose at Hill's slight, knowing smile and planted her feet firmly on the ground. With great effort and a little care, she lifted her body from the bed, pausing for a moment to adjust to the spinning world.
Hill rocked in her chair, working on her needlework with more concentration than was necessary. When Elizabeth had righted herself, Hill pulled a neat stitch through and picked at a bit of lint. Without looking towards her charge, the governess said: “A bath already awaits you.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth barely managed to get the words out.
She dragged herself to the bath, easing her queasy, aching body into the hot water. The warmth rolled through her and chased away the stiffness in her muscles. Unlike most gentlewomen, Elizabeth preferred to bathe herself. It was one of the few moments she could be completely alone, and she relished the precious solitude. She slipped deeper into the tub, letting the water lap at her chin.
Suddenly, for no logical reason, Lord Darcy appeared behind her closed eyes. He leered at her in that lascivious way he had. His dark eyes glittered like chunks of obsidian in the pale light as his hand stretched out to her. It was just like the nightmare she had experienced.
“My lady, come and see.” His words came out in a lazy, arrogant drawl that involuntarily curled her toes.
She stood her ground, not allowing her feet to move forward despite every fibre of her being wanting the contrary. Another voice distracted her, and she glanced around. George, panicked and bloody, rushed towards them. Spontaneously, she moved in his direction, but every time she got close, she seemed to be pushed nearer to Lord Darcy.
“Do not run, my lady. It is futile to resist your fate.”
“George is my fate.” She spat out the words in her vexation.
Lord Darcy just leered.
Her eyes flew open, and her breath came fast and ragged. Incensed that her mind had strayed towards a man she so disliked, she splashed water on her face as though the action would wash away that image of him, dark and smug and brutally beautiful, from her brain. She calmed her breathing, hoping to slow her heart, which thumped like mad from the provocation of the nightmare.
Resolved to think no more of him, Elizabeth washed with haste, then called for her maid to help her prepare for the dinner that evening.
* * *
Elizabeth's maid, Heather, had outdone herself. She had piled her mistress's strawberry curls atop her head and laced them with bluebells. Long ringlets trailed down her neck, and every once in a while, they slipped over her shoulder to feather the tops of her breasts. Her gown was daring, and Hill, of course, disapproved, yet this only served to make Elizabeth more determined to dine in the midnight-coloured velvet and lace confection.
“My lady, ye look lovely.” Heather whispered, not daring to fall under Hill's admonishing gaze. She dropped a curtsey then scurried out of the room.
“That gown exposes more than I should like, Miss Elizabeth!”
“Oh, Hill, if ye had been at the Assembly previous you would not think I am evading propriety. Mary King's gown dipped considerably lower, and we saw scads more of her ankles than was necessary.”
“It is not thy ankles I am worried about.” Hill’s tone was as dry and brittle as scorched paper.
Elizabeth huffed and looked in the glass once more. She smoothed the lace overlay of her bodice and grabbed her pale blue lace shawl from the edge of her bed.
“Wish I have good luck and do not embarrass Papa tonight, dear Hill.”
“Good luck, miss.”
Carefully, she made her way downstairs to the library where she would find her Papa. She knocked on the door and opened it gently, peering into the dim room. Mr. Bennet was bent over the desk, worried lines etched deep in his face as he scratched figures into a book.
“Papa?”
He started but it appeared as though his fright was instantly erased when he saw her. Her father’s breath caught for a moment, the realization that she was no longer a child evident on his face while his gaze surveyed the gown he had brought home from his last trip to Court with Lord Lucas.
“I see my gift fits ye rather too well, Daughter.”
Elizabeth smiled, dropped a curtsey, and approached his side. He pulled up her stool and she settled next to him, peering at the book in which he kept track of his monies. Quickly, he closed it.
“What is wrong?” She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently.
