“I talk to many women.”
Fitzwilliam scoffed. “When it suits you.”
It was evident he did not mean to be unkind, but it still stung. Perhaps it would not have, had Tomlinson not said something similar the previous week—or Elizabeth the previous autumn.
“You think I am of an unsocial disposition?”
That was the phrase she had used, if he recalled correctly.
“Far from it,” his cousin replied. “But neither are you easily impressed. If someone has caught your attention, it is bound to have been noticed.”
“Well, I assure you, no one has.”
No one in London, at any rate. Hertfordshire was another matter. That was largely the problem; he did not seem capable of having a conversation with any woman without being reminded in some way of Elizabeth. One might have similar colouring;another might be of a similar height. More often, it was an unfavourable distinction, and she would not be as clever, or as astute, or as interesting—and then, the memory of Elizabeth’s dark eyes or luscious mouth or arch wit would inevitably pop into his head to provide an unassailable comparison.
He had hoped the frequency with which he had been meditating about Elizabeth would diminish over time. It had not, and now that he had seen her again, she seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his thoughts—and, alarmingly, some exceedingly vivid dreams, which were assuredly not conducive to his forgetting her. It was fortunate that her relations lived in the City, well away from Mayfair, for if she were to trespass too often into his world, then there would be no hope of any other woman therein catching his attention.
Noticing his cousin’s irritating little smirk, Darcy became aware that he had been quiet for too long. He applied himself to cutting up his next mouthful, looking up only to insist, “There is nobody, Fitzwilliam. Cease grinning at me like a village idiot.”
Fitzwilliam did not cease grinning, but he did consent to changing the subject. “What else have you been doing, then? Seen much of Bingley lately?”
“Not since we left Hertfordshire.”
“No? Your new lady friend occupying all your time, is she?”
Darcy did not so much as acknowledge the gibe this time. “As it happens, it is Bingley who has been dallying—and in a most impolitic direction. I have been avoiding him.”
“Bingley? Gone rogue?” Fitzwilliam narrowed his eyes, then abruptly pointed at Darcy with his fork. “You must think I was born yesterday. This is your attempt to put me off. Thereissomeone, is there not?”
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Darcy grumbled. “There is nobody!”
“Would you tell me if there were?”
“Probably not.”
“Then I shall continue to think there is.”
“Please yourself, but pray stop needling me about it!” Darcy threw his knife and fork down on his plate and took an angry swig of wine. Lord knew which of his acquaintances he was supposed to have shown an inclination for, but if this was the degree of speculation that a mere conversation with someone in his own sphere could inspire, he could only imagine the furore that would start up if his partiality for Elizabeth should be discovered. It reinforced all his scruples against forming a true attachment to her.
This was precisely why he had not introduced her to his friend Atkins in Hyde Park at the start of the week. It was a slight that he was exceedingly fortunate she had not appeared to blame him for. Even so, he could not help thinking how well Atkins would have liked her. His sister certainly had—so well that she had asked afterwards whether she ought to have invited Elizabeth to call. His answer—that she had been right not to, for such a display of favour would give rise to expectations he could never answer—had not been well received.
“You mean you could not marry her?” Georgiana had asked. “Why not, if you admire her so well?”
“All the admiration in the world cannot alter a person’s circumstances,” he had replied. “I have a duty to Pemberley and our family. I cannot simply marry where I choose.”
This, as many conversations tended to do these days, had led to Georgiana berating herself for having almost eloped with George Wickham, and the subject of Elizabeth had been mentioned no more.
Somebody stood up nearby, scraping their chair legs noisily and making Darcy conscious that he had, yet again, been silent overlong. He said a private oath. He might as well be conducting a clandestine affair with Elizabeth, the amount of time he was spending thinking about her. It had to stop. He took anotherhealthy gulp of wine and asked Fitzwilliam a question about his fellow officers that was guaranteed to keep the conversation safely away from women for the remainder of their meal.
They parted ways with an agreement to meet again soon, and Darcy walked the mile back to Berkeley Square with his stomach pleasantly full and his mind unpleasantly troubled.‘When it suits you’. He wished he could dismiss Fitzwilliam’s flippant remark, but it kept swimming back into his head. It had been much easier to dismiss Elizabeth’s accusation of taciturnity, for he had been certain she was teasing. That, he surmised, was the root of his uneasiness: the comprehension that she had not been sporting; that was her true opinion of him.
It made him cross. Who could blame a man for being reserved when he was surrounded by the sort of people as had filled the drawing rooms and meeting places of Meryton? They had possessed very little beauty and no fashion, and from none of them had he received either attention or pleasure.
‘Neither are you easily impressed’.
He muttered an instruction for his cousin to stifle it, which was futile, for the words had been said, and the memory of them seemed set to plague him whether he liked it or not.
His butler opened the door to him when he arrived home, informing him that Miss Bingley had called on Georgiana and was presently with her in the saloon.
