Darcy gritted his teeth.Thiswas what he had given up Bingley’s confession for? “I am afraid you have been misinformed. I have no flame. I am still very much unattached.”
Stewart looked momentarily affronted before erupting into a gleeful smile. “Ah, I see! Like that is it?” He touched the side of his nose as though he had been let into a great secret.
There was little point arguing; it would only make the conversation more memorable, when what Darcy wanted was for the entiretonto forget this nonsense and find something else to talk about.
“I daresay it is for the best,” Stewart continued. “If word got out thatyouhad settled on a wife, polite society would loseits head!” He gave a phlegmy chuckle. “Still, be sure to make her known to me at the first opportunity—this acquaintance to whom you are so staunchly unattached—won’t you? You know how I loathe to be the last to know someone.”
Darcy gave no assurances—only a vague smile and a curt bow. The old snoop winked dramatically and tottered away.
Darcy strode home. He gave up any thought of chasing after Bingley, for the man was evidently intent on evading him—and since looking for him only ever seemed to result in being thrown together with Elizabeth, the risk of continuing the search was too great. It might not be long before rumours of an alliance were rife amongst the first circles, and he would have a serious problem on his hands. He had warned Bingley to take care; he would have to hope that was enough. There was nothing more he could do.
The concession put him in a melancholy humour. He had enjoyed seeing Elizabeth so often. Their recurrent encounters had been pockets of pure joy spread throughout his days. He did not relish the prospect of actively avoiding her. Would that she was better connected! Would that her mother was not engaged in an adulterous affair! He cursed Bingley; he cursed society—he cursed the invitation that was awaiting him when he arrived home too.
A ball, with all its attendant obligations to dance, was not high on his list of enjoyable diversions—even less so one hosted by someone outside his usual set—but he knew he must go. Sir Aubrey Staunton was one of several men who had been infamously used by Wickham in the past, and Darcy had long ago assured the man of his support in society by way of reparation.
He tossed the card back down on the salver and rubbed a hand over his face. The ball was two weeks hence, and he supposed, if nothing else, his dancing with some other womenwould be an opportunity to prove to the world that he was not involved with Elizabeth. He did not rate his chances of finding any partner able to render a quadrille as enjoyable as she could, but he was getting used to disappointments of that vein. Nobody was a match for Elizabeth.
17
A REPORT OF A MORE AGREEABLE NATURE
In the first week of February, Darcy dined with the Earl of Matlock. It was an invitation he might ordinarily have declined, for much though he respected his uncle, he found him a little long in the tooth, and evenings in his company tended to drag. Two things persuaded him: firstly, his older cousin, Viscount Cunningham, was to be there, having recently returned from a stay in the North; secondly, it had been six days since Darcy saw Elizabeth at Gunter’s, and the longest he had gone without thinking about her in that time was about half an hour. He had taken to jumping at any engagement that presented itself in search of distraction.
It was not wholly successful—more than once, he caught himself wondering what she would have replied to this or that remark—but by the time dinner was cleared away and a bottle of Madeira was brought out, she seemed to have relinquished her grip on his mind.
“Fitzwilliam mentioned you do not intend to bring Georgiana out this Season,” Lord Matlock said.
“It is not completely settled, but she is still exceedingly credulous.”
“That is as may be,” Cunningham said, “but wait too long and she might take matters into her own hands.”
Darcy looked at his cousin sharply, wary that Fitzwilliam had mentioned the affair with Wickham, but Cunningham seemed as casual as ever as he grinned and said, “You need a wife.”
“What?” The speed with which Darcy’s mind supplanted the word ‘wife’ with a picture of Elizabeth gave him a palpable feeling of helplessness.
“To oversee the matter. I daresay the influence of a good woman would do you and your sister the world of good.”
“Speaking of marriage prospects, are you planning on visiting Rosings this Easter?” Lord Matlock asked.
Darcy’s mind skipped directly past his lordship’s allusion to the supposed alliance between him and his cousin Anne to a far more pleasing memory: Elizabeth had told him she would be visiting her cousin in Hunsford at Easter. His abject failure to avoid all thought of her notwithstanding, this recollection buoyed his spirits as nothing else had all evening. In Kent, they would be away from London’s prying eyes; he could enjoy her company without fear of judgment or censure.
“Yes, certainly I shall,” he replied.
“And you?” his lordship asked his son.
“Not on your life,” Cunningham replied. “I was the sacrificial lamb last year. Let Darcy take Fitzwilliam this time. Or you could go. She is your sister.”
Lord Matlock grunted. “That would never do. She hates to be outranked.”
“Ah. Much better to send Darcy, then. All the pomp and none of the pedigree.”
Darcy became aware there had been a lull in proceedings when Lord Matlock asked, “Is everything well with you, Darcy?”
He looked between the two men. His uncle was frowning; his cousin was inspecting his cigar and smirking faintly to himself.
“Perfectly so, thank you,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”
“You seem distracted. You would not usually allow such a comment to go unchallenged.”
