“This tea,” Elizabeth said to no one in particular, “is going to be very inconvenient indeed.”
UNWELCOME REALIZATIONS
The day after the ball,Darcy sat at the breakfast table with his coffee growing cold, listening to Bingley extol the virtues of country entertainments with the enthusiasm of a man who had discovered religion. They had hired the finest musicians. The night had held the liveliest company. And surely Netherfield had offered the most gracious hospitality.
Caroline and Mrs. Hurst exchanged looks of identical martyrdom across the sideboard.
Darcy said nothing. He had slept poorly, his dreams a jumble of country dances and dark eyes and a laugh that cut through ballroom chatter like a blade through silk. He told himself it was fatigue.
“And Miss Bennet,” Bingley continued, helping himself to more toast with the air of a man in love with the entire world, “was she not the picture of grace? I do not think I have ever seen a lady so perfectly composed.”
“She is tolerable enough,” Caroline allowed, in a tone that suggested the opposite. “Though her connections leave much to be desired.”
“Her connections are her family,” Bingley said cheerfully. “And her family was perfectly amiable.”
Darcy's cup paused halfway to his lips. The Bennet family had been many things at the ball. Amiable was generous.
Mrs. Bennet's voice had carried across the supper room with mortifying clarity. The two youngest girls had flirted with officers until Darcy's teeth ached. The middle daughter had subjected half the assembly to a pianoforte performance of punishing length.
And Miss Elizabeth?—
Miss Elizabeth Bennet was nothing to him. A country gentleman's daughter with fine eyes and a quick tongue. They had danced and shared a single conversation. That was all.
That was entirely too much.
“I know I had spoken of returning to Town early, but I have decided,” Bingley announced, setting down his fork with the gravity of a man delivering a parliamentary address, “to remain in Hertfordshire through the winter.”
Caroline's teacup clattered against its saucer. Mrs. Hurst made a sound like a deflating balloon. Darcy merely stared.
“The neighborhood grows livelier each day,” Bingley continued, with seeming obliviousness to the consternation his words had caused. “And I have promised Miss Bennet—” His voice softened, grew almost reverent. “I have promised her that we should speak again soon. I cannot disappoint her.”
Darcy set down his coffee. He had counseled prudence. Reminded Bingley of the dangers of forming attachments too quickly, the importance of considering a lady's family and situation before committing his heart.
But the memory of Jane Bennet's serene composure at the ball gave him pause. She had been everything that was proper. Modest. Gentle. Clearly devoted to Bingley, though she expressed it with admirable restraint.
And Miss Elizabeth had watched her sister with such obvious affection, such unguarded joy?—
He clenched his jaw. This was absurd. He was thinking of Miss Elizabeth again, and there was no reason for it. None whatsoever.
“Bingley,” he said carefully, “you should consider what remaining here might imply.”
“It implies that I enjoy myself!” Bingley laughed, slapping the table with boyish delight. “And that the company is excellent. What more could a man want?”
Caroline's nostrils flared. “Company. In Hertfordshire.”
“The very best,” Bingley agreed, missing her sarcasm entirely. “And I mean to prove it. We shall host a tea. Tomorrow afternoon. The Bennet ladies must come.”
Darcy's stomach performed an uncomfortable lurch.
“All of them?” Mrs. Hurst asked faintly.
“All of them.” Bingley beamed. “I shall leave the arrangements to you, Caroline. You have such excellent taste in these matters.”
Caroline's smile was brittle as winter ice. “How delightful.”
The invitation was draftedwithin the hour.
Darcy watched Caroline compose it at the writing desk, her pen scratching across the paper with aggressive elegance. Each elaborate, sweeping line seemed designed to remind the recipients of their inferior position.
