Jennifer Joy - A Splendidly (Un)suitable Match: A Pride & Prejudice Variation

A Splendidly (Un)suitable Match: A Pride & Prejudice Variation

Loves Little Helpers, Book 1

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This is a work of fiction. The characters, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Jennifer Joy

Email: contact@jenniferjoywrites.com

Copyright 2021 Jennifer Joy

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-1-944795-39-9

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D arcy brushed the sweat trickling down his cheek, the folded messages sliding against the lining in his waistcoat pocket propelling him to Matlock House.

It was a rare occurrence for Darcy to receive correspondence from his relatives when they lived walking distance from his own residence. They preferred simply to call.

One note on any day was unusual. Two notes on the same day was disconcerting. To receive one from his aunt, followed by another summons a quarter of an hour later from his uncle, was alarming.

Picking up his pace, Darcy ran down the damp sidewalk, his boots slapping against the wet pavement and marring their polish.

A long string of grand houses lined one side of the street facing the park, the grass vibrant green against the dull gray sky. His uncle's house was on the corner, five bays wide, the whitewashed stucco overwhelmed by the gloomy weather threatening to break yet again.

The first drops pelted against Darcy's hat just as he reached the bottom step.

The butler flung open the painted black door, taking Darcy's hat and gloves. "His Lordship is expecting you, sir." Despite Perkins' decades of experience repressing emotion into a tone of bland indifference, Darcy heard his relief and felt it with the efficiency with which the butler relieved him of his damp hat and greatcoat.

Apprehension rippled through Darcy. The situation must be dreadful if the servants were uneasy.

A shadow fell over the marble from behind him, and the squeak of wet boots slipping on the slick floor and the subsequent, "Thunder 'an turf!" identified the newcomer before Darcy turned to see Charles Bingley, arms flailing to catch his balance.

"You got the summons as well?" No sooner had Bingley uttered his question than the obvious answer struck him. He grimaced. "Of course you did. The colonel must be in a proper fit of the blue devils."

Darcy grimaced. He had warned Richard, but his cousin had refused to listen. And now, here they were.

Bingley babbled, betraying his nerves with senseless chatter. "I am horribly ill-equipped to be of any help. Really, I have no experience when too often I am the one in the suds and in need of your and the colonel's counsel to bail me out. But if Lord and Lady Matlock consider my presence necessary, I will do what is within my power to do. However little that may prove to be. Not that I am completely useless." He shoved his hands through his hair. "But dash it all, Darcy I had hoped to be celebrating with the colonel. Not this."

Far from senseless, Bingley had hit the mark squarely on the nose, and Darcy was reminded to give his younger friend more credit. Bingley had matured a great deal since those simpler days when he, Richard, and Darcy spent their summers away from Eton between Matlock and Pemberley. Richard, being the oldest, had been in his final year, whereas Bingley was in his first the son of a man who had made his fortune manufacturing cotton in the North, shorter and skinnier than the other boys, and possessing the unfortunate tendency to blush at the slightest provocation. While the importance of choosing one's associates meticulously had been ingrained into Darcy since birth, his sense of justice did not allow for him to turn a blind eye to his peers' bullying of the newcomer. He had been quick to agree when Richard suggested that they extend Bingley their protection and friendship, elevating him to acceptability through their association.

Quick to draw right conclusions. Quick to act. That was Richard. It felt odd to be here for his sake. He should have been able to see what had been painfully evident to Darcy.

Aunt Helen descended the stairs, her lips thin and her eyes strained. "Thank you for coming, boys." The tenderness with which she addressed them made Darcy feel like a stripling.

He took her hands in his. "How is he?"

Her lips disappeared completely. "As well as a gentleman in his place would be. It is your uncle's wish, as well as mine, that you both exercise some influence over him. Especially you, Bingley."

Bingley's jaw dropped. "M-me? I mean, if you are certain It is only that Are you sure you mean me?"

She patted his arm. "It is not my custom to misspeak."

He colored. "Of course not. It is only that I cannot recollect any occasion in which anyone at all has sought the benefit of my advice. Not one."

With the overbearing sisters Bingley had, Darcy was not surprised. It was amazing he had managed to form any opinions of his own at all without one of them harping on him to change it.

Lowering her voice, Aunt said, "I hope you will not take offense, but I was under the impression that you have suffered more than one heartbreak and, therefore, are in an excellent position to help my Richard."

Bingley brightened considerably, his chest puffed in pride. "If I am an expert in anything, it is in falling in and out of love."

Calf love, Darcy considered. He gladly yielded to Bingley's expertise. Darcy would not give his heart until he was certain the lady not only suited him perfectly but also returned his affection (based on his own merits and not those which his wealth, position, and connections would guarantee her).

"Precisely," said Aunt, holding her hands out for them to take and walking up the stairs like a queen between her bodyguards. "I am convinced that Richard's attachment was more fanciful than genuine you know how impulsive he can be and I am counting on you boys to convince him not to waste any more time on a coquette beneath his touch."

The coquette, in this instance, was Miss Arabella Honeyfield, the beauty of the season with a string of beaus vying for her hand. There was a reason she remained unmarried, but Richard would not hear anything against her. Affection had muddled his brain, eclipsed his sense. Darcy's warning had ended in a quarrel, and even now that his point had been irrevocably proved, he took no delight in it. Richard was too good a man to fall for a flighty, senseless miss. Better to cry a thousand tears now than weep one's regret for a lifetime.

They passed Uncle Matlock's study where the best brandy and whiskey in the house could be found.

His aunt must be taking them to the billiard room. Darcy took a deep breath, preparing himself for the stench of cigar smoke and the unsightly clutter of empty bottles, decanters, and glasses.

Aunt Helen breezed by the billiard room without so much as a glance.

Darcy sucked in a breath. Was Richard so foxed he could not find his way out of bed? Added to the image of whiskey-rimmed tumblers staining tables were untouched trays of food in a dark, stuffy room. He took another deep breath as they neared Richard's bedchamber door.