Glancing about to see who of their neighbors witnessed the mannerless display, Elizabeth's lungs seized when she saw Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley riding through Meryton atop their fine mounts, sporting their fashionable riding habits, and looking down their noses at Elizabeth’s sisters.
Drat!
Before Jane's dreams burst into flames, leaving nothing but charred hopes and despairing ashes, Elizabeth crossed the street to pry her shameless sister off the poor man. "Quick, Lydia, you are expected at Longbourn."
"Not until he gives me my sweetmeat! It is mine!" Lydia lunged for the treat.
Elizabeth clenched her jaw. All this trouble over a sweet?
“You said you did not want it,” Mr. Wickham replied, graciously handing the wrapped treat to her petulant sister.
Giggling, Lydia allowed Elizabeth to lead her away, calling over her shoulder and waving wildly. “I shall save my first set for you at the ball, Wickie!”
Wickie? As though throwing herself at the gentleman were not enough, Lydia called him by a pet name on the high street? With Mr. Bingley’s sisters watching? Oh, the shame!
Elizabeth tugged her forward, keeping her eyes level and her chin up as they passed the impatient horses and their gloating riders. She could practically feel the ladies’ sneers, and Elizabeth hated how her face burned despite her best effort to keep a placid expression.
“Lizzy, slow down! You walk too fast!” Lydia complained.
Only once they had reached the edge of the village and were out of earshot of the gossips did Elizabeth slow her pace. “Have you no sense? Did you not think that your blatant flirtations with the officers would be noticed by others?”
Lydia shrugged and pulled the brown paper off the sweetmeat. “Sugar plum.” She twisted her face and stuck out her tongue before handing it to Elizabeth. “Here, have a sweetmeat. You are just jealous Mr. Wickham was flirting with me instead of you.”
That it had not even occurred to Elizabeth to be jealous struck her. She had believed that she favored Mr. Wickham, but here was undeniable proof that she thought no more of him than the sugar plum Lydia was so eager to cast off.
The hoof-beats behind them grew louder. Elizabeth prayed that the pernicious pair would ride past them without so much as a by-your-leave, but the wind had shifted to the east, taking the last of Elizabeth’s good fortune along with it.
Jane and Kitty curtsied.
Miss Bingley towered over them, the ostrich feathers in her hat billowing in the unfavorable wind. “A glorious day, is it not? So much to see.”
Mrs. Hurst smirked beside her.
Elizabeth dropped a token curtsy. “Good day, ladies.”
“Shall we see you at the ball?” Miss Bingley asked.
Lydia beamed. “We would not miss it for the world!”
Not if Elizabeth could help it. She watched the messengers of doom ride away, her forced smile pinching her cheeks, and she planned her checkmate. She must be persuasive if she was to convince Papa to forbid Lydia and Kitty from attending the Netherfield Ball.
CHAPTER3
Writing letters usually came naturally to Darcy, but not this one. He suffered as much as Bingley, who sat at the other end of the table in the morning room attending to his correspondence with increased affliction if his frequent expostulations were a fair indicator.
Since settling Georgiana in Darcy House at Berkeley Square with her companion, Mrs. Annesley, Darcy had written to his sister every day. Richard was currently stationed with his battalion at Windsor, so if she needed either of her guardians, they were both within a convenient distance to attend to her.
Georgiana seemed content. Between her lessons in music, language, and art, her frequent trips to the bookshops, and Serafina’s kittens (Richard had been right about the mouser in Pemberley’s kitchens), she was advantageously occupied and entertained.
Darcy asked what she learned, whose artwork, music, and literature she presently enjoyed, and inquired after the antics of the four kittens. Her letters were a joy to read. But when it came time for Darcy to relay some of his news to her, his pen ran dry, his mind as blank as the page in front of him.
What was he supposed to tell her? That Bingley had met “his angel” at the first assembly he had attended? That since their arrival six weeks before, Bingley had sought out every opportunity to be in Miss Bennet’s company? That, busy as Darcy had kept Bingley with rides over the property, meetings with the bailiff, improvements to the house and property, and repairs to the tenants’ cottages, he had underestimated his friend’s desire to win his new neighbors’ approval? Darcy was exhausted and in ill humor while Bingley had an endless supply of energy and charm.
Tonight, to further cement his favored standing in the community, Bingley had arranged for a ball—an extravagant affair with hired musicians, hothouse flowers, champagne, and food brought in crates from London. Of course, a great deal of foodstuffs were also to be procured locally. Bingley could not ride into Meryton without being hailed as if he were a hero by shopkeepers and landowners alike. Darcy dreaded the evening to come.
He folded his letter, intending to return to it once he was capable of writing a sentence without grumbling. He looked out the window, enjoying the pleasant quiet in the parlor while Bingley’s sisters were away. The fallow fields looked softer here, spotted with beechwood groves running along springs. He half-expected to see Miss Elizabeth Bennet walking there, her bonnet in one hand and a handful of herbs and wildflowers in the other.
Leaning back in his chair, Darcy chastised himself for allowing the vivacious imp to cross his mind. He had never met a more confounding lady. She was clever, confident, and impertinent.
