“I had hoped,” Caroline continued, warming to her theme, “that you might speak with him again. Your opinion carries such weight with Charles. If you were to remind him of the... complications... that might arise from too close an association with certain families?—”
“I have said all I intend to say on the matter.”
Caroline blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Bingley is a grown man.” Darcy kept his voice even, though something twisted uncomfortably in his chest. “He is capable of making his own decisions. I offered my perspective. He has chosen differently. I respect his judgment.”
The words tasted strange on his tongue, not quite false, but not entirely true either. He had counseled Bingley toward caution. He had pointed out the deficiencies of the Bennet family, the dangers of an unequal match. And yet...
And yet, Jane Bennet's serene composure made a lie of his words. As did Elizabeth's obvious devotion to her sister. The genuine warmth between them, so different from the calculated performances of London drawing rooms.
Perhaps he had judged too quickly.
Caroline's smile had frozen. “You respect his judgment. In pursuing a country nobody with vulgar relations and no fortune to speak of.”
“I respect his right to form his own attachments.” Darcy met her gaze steadily. “As I would hope others might respect mine.”
The silence stretched between them, sharp-edged and uncomfortable.
Caroline's fan snapped open. “Well. How... magnanimous of you, Mr. Darcy.” She rose, her movements brittle. “I had thought we were of one mind on this matter, but I see I was mistaken.”
“It would appear so.”
She swept toward the door, then paused, her hand on the frame. “I do hope you will not regret such generosity of spirit.”
She was gone before he could reply.
Darcy stared at the empty doorway, his pulse unsteady.
He had not lied. He did respect Bingley's judgment—or at least, he was beginning to suspect he should. But the real reason for his sudden defense of the Bennets sat heavy in his chest, unacknowledged and unwelcome.
It had nothing to do with Jane Bennet's merits as a match for Bingley but everything to do with a pair of fine eyes and a laugh he could not make himself forget.
TEA AT NETHERFIELD
The followingafternoon broke cold and bright, and Elizabeth spent the carriage ride to Netherfield pretending she was not nervous.
She had no reason to be nervous. This was merely a tea—a simple social obligation that would last an hour, perhaps two, during which she would support Jane, endure Miss Bingley, and treat Mr. Darcy with the cool civility he deserved.
Her stomach, unfortunately, had not received this intelligence.
Mrs. Bennet had been most aggrieved to discover the invitation extended only to her daughters. “A slight,” she had declared at breakfast, fanning herself with the offending letter. “A deliberate slight from that Bingley woman. But no matter—I shall expect a full account of every word Mr. Bingley speaks to Jane. Every word, do you hear me? And Lizzy—” She had fixed Elizabeth with a pointed stare. “Do try not to be too clever with Mr. Darcy. Gentlemen do not like to feel outwitted.”
Elizabeth had promised nothing of the sort.
Beside her, Jane sat with her hands folded and her expression serene, though a faint flush colored her cheeks whenever Lydia mentioned Mr. Bingley's name. Across from them, Lydia and Kitty debated which officers might benefit from hearing about their visit, their voices rising and falling in competitive bursts.
“I shall tell Lieutenant Denny that Miss Bingley's drawing room has the most elegant curtains in all of Hertfordshire,” Lydia declared. “He will be mad with envy.”
“Lieutenant Denny does not care about curtains,” Kitty protested.
“All men care about curtains when a pretty girl describes them.”
Elizabeth caught Jane's eye and suppressed a smile. Some things, at least, remained predictable.
The carriage swept up the Netherfield drive, and Elizabeth's treacherous pulse began to quicken. She told herself it was the cold. The anticipation of warmth and tea. Nothing whatsoever to do with dark eyes and almost-smiles and the memory of a hand at her waist.
Nothing at all.
