The Passions of Dr. Darcy

  It had been a decade since April 17 and the memories of his twin distressed him. Somewhere during the day, he would retrieve the miniature of Alex taken from Pemberley, smile at the childish face staring back at him, tell Alex to keep saving a place on his cloud, and then wrap the precious item in the thick velvet before storing it away until the next year. The ritual gave him a sense of peace but that was the end of it. Then he would write in his journal, now addressed to his father, covering whatever he previously might have missed recording and expanding on his thoughts. If time allotted, he would catch up on correspondences. The anniversary of Alex’s death had become a habitual day of family remembrance and introspection on his life and goals.

  The latter was what occupied the portion of his mind not focused on achieving another six-skip toss.

  The flirting females at the Ullas house would soon grow weary of his indifference and set their gazes upon other men. It was moderately annoying but also quite flattering. George was not dissimilar from any other man, his ego pleased that so many women saw him as marriage material. The real surprise was that suddenly he was viewing the disinterest of the women in his past in a new light. Arrogantly, he had relied on his charm, physical appearance, and, in some cases, wealth to attract women and had assumed that the reason none of them fell wildly in love with him was due to his caution in choosing ladies who did not want such entanglements and the fact that, because of his lifestyle, the affairs never lasted long.

  What if he was wrong? Was there something fundamentally un-marriageable about him? The prospect was much more disturbing than he would have imagined.

  A second surprise was that the concept of being married was appealing as it had not been in a decade. What he could not unravel was whether this was due to his feelings for Jharna or simply because he liked the idea of being married in a general sense. Had he finally matured? Was he weary of the itinerant life?

  What he did know was that his opinion of marriage was different than it had been when he had wanted to marry Sarah or Ruby. In both cases love was present, as well as intense passion, with marriage merely the natural way of things. Isn’t that what respectable Englishmen did? Get married and produce offspring? It wasn’t that he ever took the idea of committing to one woman lightly or that his vows would not have been honored. However, George now realized that while the idea of marriage was one he grasped, he had never considered being a husband as a different concept. Was pursuing his selfish whims compatible with being a husband?

  It was no longer enough to have a woman waiting for him at a house somewhere while he traveled about. He didn’t just want a bedmate. He wanted something deeper. He wanted a partner to his soul. He wanted to give more than he received. He wanted to need someone who in turn needed him as completely.

  All of it came back to Jharna. For ten years, their friendship had grown, George delighting in her intelligent conversation, gently teasing humor, and maternal nature. There had always been a connection between the two of them, innocent as it was while Kshitij was alive. George knew deep in the marrow of his bones that this connection added a dimension to his love for her greater than anything he had ever experienced. They complemented each other, and he had no doubt that the heights of passion attained if she recognized the same would rock them to the core.

  The unfairness of discovering this with a woman who did not consider him in the same light was painful in the extreme. Yet, as odd as it seemed, he was hopeful. Maybe he was a bloody fool doomed for overwhelming disappointment, but he clung to the notion that in time Jharna would recognize the truth of their connection. He was determined to be a friend to her, as he always had, and perhaps her sentiments would shift. As a strategic plan, it wasn’t much. However, if vague optimism was all he had to grasp, then he would do so with both hands.

  “Better than nothing,” he muttered as he stooped to dig the last two stones from the sack. With one in each hand, he gazed at the calm surface of the water, gauging the odds of matching that six-skip toss. George flexed his back muscles and ignored the tingling sensation that flickered between his shoulder blades. It was the combination of increased itchiness climbing up his neck and the faint crunch of gravel that finally grabbed his attention and caused him to glance over his shoulder.

  Standing twenty feet away and partially concealed in the shadows of a tall tree was Jharna.

  And she was staring straight at him.

  George turned toward her, surprise momentarily rendering him mute. For what seemed an eternity they stared at each other while George struggled to wrap his mind around this apparent apparition, his thoughts so focused on Jharna that he wondered if he had fallen asleep and was dreaming. George was unable to decipher her expression, but he could detect the direction of her gaze. First it was centered on his face, and then a slow glide across the broad expanse of his shoulders, down the center of his chest to his belly, and finally resting on his groin.

  With a jerk and audible gasp, he spun about, the stones dropped as he grabbed for the cloth piled on the rock and, with fumbling fingers, tossed it around his waist, automatically wrapping the dhoti to cover the nakedness he had forgotten while spellbound.

  “Jharna! What are you doing here?”

  “Enjoying the view.”

  George yanked his eyes upward, mouth agape. Jharna had stepped further into the clearing but was turned away from him, her eyes now cast toward the pond and vegetation on the far shore. He could see her face fully, noting the soft smile playing about her lips and casual demeanor. Precisely what she had meant was unclear, and he did not trust his judgment at that moment. Good God! I’m blushing! He touched his cheeks, stunned beyond belief. He hadn’t blushed since a green adolescent. Lord, how she unnerved him! The image of her eyes boldly examining his physique and manhood was burned into his brain, likely for all eternity, and he was abundantly thankful that dhotis were capable of being tied loosely. Normally skilled at recovery under the strangest of circumstances, George was dumbstruck. Thankfully, Jharna lead the conversation.

  “I know I should not bother you, mitra, when you are seeking solitude. Especially today of all days. Yet for that reason most of all, I did not wish to see you suffering alone.”

  “That”—he cleared his throat—“that is kind of you, Jharna, but I don’t suffer as I used to. Alex is my past. This is my present, and my future.”

  “I am happy to hear that.” She moved closer. George had the distinct impression that she was amused at his discomfiture.

  “I was seeking solitude, as you say, but only to enjoy the peacefulness of nature and clear my mind.”

  “This is a fine place to accomplish both. I have often visited here when I needed utter peace. That can be problematic with a home full of people seeking your attentions, as I assume you are discovering and was what drove you away. At least in part.”

  She was teasing him, clearly as aware as everyone in the house that he was suddenly the hot commodity. Her tone was light yet with an edge that made him frown in confusion. Try as he might, he could not decipher her emotions. “Well, yes,” he answered slowly, watching her face closely, “it is exhausting to fight off so many gorgeous women all at once. I needed rest and relaxation.”

  George ended with a devilish grin and a wink. Jharna pursed her lips, the corner of her eyes tightening. George nearly missed the hint of displeasure before she smiled the teasing smile he loved and cocked her head.

  “I am pleased to hear you are relaxed and rested. Surprising after your efforts.” She waved toward the pond. “You are very good at skipping stones.”

  His eyes narrowed. “How long were you watching me?”

  “Long enough to know why Sasi is forever gathering round, smooth stones.” Her dark eyes conveyed more than maternal interest, especially when they slipped across his bare chest.

  “It was a favorite pastime of my brothers, Estella, and I. There is a lake near Pemberley, Rowan
Lake, that was our preferred swimming place. We spent hours there almost every day during the summer. Endeavoring to beat each other at skipping stones was only one of our challenges.”

  While speaking, he reached for the discarded kurta, moving slowly as he shook the wrinkles and pulled it over his head. He could feel the burn of her gaze and the heat flaming over his cheeks. If he didn’t know better, he would say this is how it felt to be shy. He could not be sure, since shy was one thing George Darcy had never been. He wasn’t an exhibitionist by any means, adhering to standard English rules of propriety which dictated that a person’s body should be kept largely clothed when in public or the presence of women. He had learned to relax and was comfortable in loose Indian attire that displayed some skin, but blatantly baring himself was not a habit—unless in a bedroom—and this was a direction best not veered toward while alone with Jharna in a secluded, romantic setting. He was struggling to control his desire for her as it was and the effect of her teasing visual inspection was fueling his passionate hunger. Imagining them alone in a bedroom was taboo if he was going to maintain his reputation as a gentleman. He had his pride, however, so was not going to let her know that she rattled him so. Besides, if she wanted to examine his body, he wasn’t going to stop her!

  He rambled on about his siblings and childish antics to distract his mind from weightier thoughts. Jharna listened and asked the occasional question. As they talked, he gathered his belongings, Jharna falling into step as they traveled the path back to the house. George was a superb diagnostician. It was a true gift he possessed, one utilized mostly in a professional capacity. Frequently, his ability enabled him to read a person’s emotions and to detect hidden problems of a psychic nature. Numerous times during this visit to Junnar, he sensed Jharna was troubled or preoccupied with a nagging concern, the nebulous feelings gone before he mustered the nerve to ask. As they walked, the sensation was strong. Outwardly she was calm as typical, but George felt sure she was on the verge of changing the casual conversation to one of greater import. She didn’t, though, and as the house came into view, his annoyance grew.

  “Jharna, I need to ask you—”

  “Vaidya Darcy! I have found you!”

  George and Jharna stopped short, bodies swaying at the abrupt interruption. Instinctively George encircled Jharna’s waist when she stumbled into his side, the shockwave of the contact ripping through his entire body. He heard her gasp and felt her shudder in his arms. Instead of twisting away, as he might have expected, she melted against him. It was a marvelous sensation, and one that he desperately wanted to explore the meaning behind, but Anoop was babbling on, and despite his reluctance to do so, George could not ignore what he was saying.

  “A message from Captain Masters?”

  “Yes, Vaidya. Please forgive me”—Anoop bowed hastily—“but the courier said it was of vital importance that you receive it immediately. I still did not wish to disturb you on your day of grief”—he bowed again—“but he insisted.”

  George took the folded parchment and was forced to release Jharna to open it. To his dismay, she moved several paces away, eyes downcast and hair shielding her face.

  “General Wellesley is gathering his cavalry to retake Poona from Jaswant’s false peshwa, Amrutrao. They plan to attempt negotiations, naturally, but that seems unlikely. Amrutrao has vowed to burn Poona to the ground and Peshwa Baji Rao has pleaded with the English to secure his family’s safety. The Maratha forces alone are insufficient to deal with Amrutrao, so it could get ugly. The medical corps is preparing and needs me to return as soon as possible.”

  “Will we leave right away, Vaidya?”

  “I believe we must,” George answered, his eyes fixed on Jharna’s face rather than Anoop’s. “Run ahead, Anoop, and begin gathering our belongings. I will be right behind you.”

  Anoop’s bow and swift pivot flashed in George’s peripheral vision. His focus was on Jharna. That she comprehended the gravity of the news, including the added awareness of friends and family who would be involved in the conflict, was apparent in the serious cast to her face. Her coffee-kissed eyes spoke of her broad knowledge and numerous concerns, yet somehow George sensed that her fears were predominantly directed toward him. The fierce emotion emanating from her round eyes struck him with an impact nearly as intense as a physical slap to his chest.

  “I will make sure your horses are readied. Time is waning, but you should make Umbaj by nightfall if you hurry.”

  “Jharna, I am sorry. I hate that all of my visits lately have been cut short.”

  “You have a duty, mitra. I understand.”

  “The boys! They are at school, so I cannot say good-bye!”

  “They will understand.” Then she turned and briskly continued on the path toward the house.

  At the house, George veered down the corridor to his room while Jharna set to the task of instructing the staff for a hasty departure. Anoop had already packed half of their belongings, George automatically assisting with the procedure that was an established system after the past year of constant travel. In less than thirty minutes, he had packed, hastily washed, and changed into riding clothes. Saddlebags and portmanteaus in hand, they left the luxurious, cozy chambers with rapid steps but heavy hearts.

  George felt the sting of departing the place that was home worse than he ever had. He always missed the large quantities of delicious cuisine and luxurious comforts in exchange for slim army rations and narrow cots among smelly men. Saying good-bye for he knew not how long was getting rougher each time, yet never as harsh as now, when on the cusp of the in-depth conversation he had sensed looming.

  A servant informed him that the mistress was in her studio, George sending Anoop to load the horses before ascending the stairs two at a time. He burst through the open door and stopped short at the sight of Jharna pacing and wringing her hands. He had never seen her so distressed.

  “Jharna?”

  She whirled about, barely breaking stride as she crossed the room to where he stood.

  “Jharna,” he soothed, “there is no need to fret so. I know the situation seems bleak, but Wellesley is an extremely capable leader and has a large army at his disposal. And the Marathas are strong as well. It may not come to that if negotiations—”

  “George, you must promise me that you will be careful! Very careful. Promise me!”

  He looked down at her hand where it had clasped on to his wrist, frowning at the desperate intensity of her grip and tone of voice. Every muscle on her face was twisted into an expression of severe anxiety. Eyes usually warm as liquid chocolate were black, shimmering with tears and fear as they pierced into his soul.

  “Don’t worry. You know me. I am strong and know how to take care of myself. Avoiding danger and work that is too strenuous is an art form for me!” He smiled and spoke lightly, attempting to inject his typical humor and flippancy into the reply.

  It didn’t work.

  She squeezed his arm tighter and stepped closer. He could feel the waves of tension emanating from her body, the awareness of her angst causing him literal pain. Yet at the same time, her nearness sparked other reactions that, no matter how inappropriate under the circumstances, could not be suppressed. The combination, including the musky scent of her perfume, made him lightheaded. Still, he heard her insistent response.

  “Do not jest. Not this time, mitra. Promise me you will be careful. You must come back to me.”

  Instinctively, he reached up and touched her cheek, fingertips delicately lying against her skin. “What is it, Jharna? Why are you so afraid? Do you have a premonition of something happening?”

  His physical contact was a gesture never done before. The few times they had touched over the years were always glancing and platonic. This was intimate and they knew it. Yet rather than step away from the intimacy of his caress, Jharna covered his fingers with her entire hand and pushed firmly. Briefly,
her eyes closed.

  “No premonitions,” she whispered, “only that…” She opened her eyes and George sucked in his breath at what he saw revealed there. “I need you to come back. I can’t lose you, George.” And then she lifted on her toes, eyes slipping shut as she closed the small gap between them to press her lips to his.

  Their first kiss was but a chaste brush of soft lips designed to gauge the reaction. Hesitancy was present, awareness of the line being crossed with so much at stake if the response was not positive. And if it was, what did that mean for their future relationship? Currents of these weightier realities flickered between them as they leaned into the kiss, the heartbeat span of time lengthening and then obliterated by the rush of tidal force sensations instigated by one feathering touch of unparted lips.

  George groaned and Jharna gasped. She tried to that is. It was impossible to draw a breath when instantly covered with an insistent mouth greedily seeking more, especially when she willingly granted what was sought.

  Their second kiss was an utter contrast to the first. It was long and passionate with lips parted and every portion of their mouths employed. There was nothing hesitant about this kiss, and the mutual reactions were staggering. No further concerns over crossing lines or future consequences entered either of their minds. After all, the line between friendship and love had been crossed long before the kiss sealed their fate. If coherent thought had pierced through the haze of rapturous happiness, they would have resolutely declared that moving forward was the only option.

  George was soaring the heights above heaven. He was relieved, ecstatic, joyous, giddy, and more. A kiss alone was fulfillment greater than he had ever imagined. So much so that the pounding lust to possess Jharna ebbed to a degree. Feeling her lips under his, her pliant body pressed against his chest, and her hands tangled in his hair were enough for now. His heart heard every sound of love she made as she poured her heart into the kiss. It was the answer to his prayers and the completion his soul had sought. Moreover, he knew it was only the beginning of something amazing stretching before him. Leaving now, when on the cusp of attaining joy unimaginable, was harsh, but far better than leaving with no hope. Postponing bliss was preferred over never finding it at all.