“He loathes Fitzwilliam for blocking his suit with Georgiana and her thirty-thousand-pound dowry,” Lady Eleanor concluded. “But with Wickham, there was always another angle. Monetary advantage. If he held on to the papers, it could mean he would sell them to the highest bidder.”
“What will you do?” Elizabeth asked.
“I suppose I might contact my sister first or pose as Darcy’s concerned aunt.” Lady Eleanor rose. “I don’t suppose you young ones require my presence much longer. The breeding season is over for the sheep, and I have a marriage license to locate. Thank you, Elizabeth, for a most invigorating autumn.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CORN DOLLIES AND CONSEQUENCE
Darcy surveyedthe breakfast table with a sense of displacement that had become all too familiar in recent weeks. Lady Eleanor’s announcement had caught him entirely off guard.
“I must depart for London this morning,” she had declared, buttering her toast with the same casual air she might employ when discussing the weather. “A matter regarding some investments requires my attention.”
“London?” Darcy had repeated, aware he sounded rather dull-witted. “But the harvest festival preparations?—”
“Will proceed admirably under your guidance,” Lady Eleanor had finished for him. “The festival will do you good, Fitzwilliam. Remind you of what truly matters beyond London society and its suffocating conventions.”
And that had been that. His aunt’s carriage was already being packed, her lady’s maid fluttering about with last-minute items, while Darcy found himself unexpectedly appointed master of ceremonies for a rural tradition he scarcely remembered. Her departure felt like a test—though of what, exactly, he could not determine.
Most unsettling of all, it left him alone to navigate the increasingly problematic matter of his attraction to Elizabeth Bennet.
The woman appeared in the breakfast room doorway, her son balanced on her hip. William’s dark eyes—those unnervingly familiar eyes that sparked recognition he could neither explain nor ignore—fixed immediately on Darcy with delighted recognition.
“Da-Da-Da!” the child announced, pounding his small fist against his mother’s shoulder.
Elizabeth’s face flushed scarlet, her composure cracking. “William, no. It’s Darcy, remember? Darcy.”
Darcy felt something tighten in his chest at the exchange. The child’s attempt to call him “Da-Da” should have meant nothing, yet it stirred longings he had no right to entertain.
“Good morning, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, her voice carefully modulated despite the lingering color in her cheeks. “I hope we are not intruding on your breakfast. I heard Lady Eleanor’s carriage departing and thought perhaps…”
“Not at all,” Darcy replied, rising automatically as training demanded. The conventional courtesy felt inadequate given the way his pulse had quickened at the sight of her. Her morning dress was a simple sky-blue muslin, yet it complemented her coloring in a way that struck him as almost calculated to attract masculine attention. “Please, join me.”
She settled William into his modified chair—a process that involved considerable negotiation regarding the placement of his cup and the acceptable distance between his spoon and his plate. Darcy found himself watching this domestic routine with fascination that bordered on impropriety, noting the gentle patience with which she guided her son’s small hands.
What manner of gentleman took such absorbing interest in another man’s child? What manner of fool allowed himself to be charmed by a woman whose circumstances placed her entirely beyond the bounds of respectable connection?
William, having been provided with a piece of bread and some apple slices, regarded Darcy with undisguised fascination.
“Da-da, da-see,” the boy declared, pointing a jam-sticky finger at him.
“Darcy,” Elizabeth said. “It’s Dar-see.”
Darcy nearly choked on his tea. “I beg your pardon?”
Elizabeth’s cheeks colored as she wiped her son’s hands with a napkin. “He’s trying to say your name, Mr. Darcy. We’ve been practicing, haven’t we, William? Mr. Dar-see.”
“Da-see!” the child agreed happily, clearly pleased with himself.
“A creditable attempt,” Darcy managed, ignoring the curious pang of disappointment that had accompanied Elizabeth’s explanation.
“He’s quite determined to master everyone’s names,” Elizabeth continued. “Though his pronunciation leaves something to be desired. Poor Mary remains ‘May’ and Georgiana has been relegated to ‘Ana.’”
“Children do have their own peculiar logic when it comes to language,” Darcy observed, relieved to find himself on firmer conversational ground. “Georgiana once spent an entire summer referring to me exclusively as ‘Fitz,’ much to my father’s amusement and my mother’s dismay.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened at this small confidence. “I can imagine Lady Anne preferring the dignity of your full name.”
“She did,” Darcy confirmed, surprised by the ease with which the memory surfaced. “Though I believe her objection stemmed more from the fact that ‘Fitz’ was my father’s name for me. She insisted on maintaining the distinction.”
