“If that be the case,” argued Lady Daphne, “he ought to have employed whatever arts were at his disposal, for I can think of no occasion with more need for disguise. Every woman wishes tobelieveshe will be respected and esteemed by her husband, even if it is not likely to be the case.”
“Do stop, Daphne. You are making yourself ridiculous,” Lady Philippa said sharply, perhaps because her friend had been looking at her when she spoke.
“No, I quite agree with Miss Darcy,” she insisted. “A woman ought to be flattered at such an auspicious moment, not treated as so much chattel.”
Darcy breathed in. Then he breathed out. Then he was quite sure he breathed in again, but it did nothing to alleviate the horrible squeezing of his chest. The conversation moved on, but he heard none of it. He stared at his glass. It was empty.
He had assured Elizabeth of his regard! He made a bloody fool of himself declaring his ardent bloody love. He certainly recalled the passion with which he detailed the obstacles his attachment had overcome, the scruples he had set aside, the injury to his consequence he was overlooking—in retrospect, hardly quixotic sentiments.He twisted the stem of his glass between his fingers, spinning it back and forth.
He was certain he must have complimented her, even if he could not remember what words he used. Though—damn! Now that he hadbegun dwelling on the whole infernal scene, hedidrecall excusing his want of flattery as an unashamed form of honesty, blaming her affront on her own pride. And to what great pains he had gone to illustrate that he did not respect her situation, that she was not worthy of his declaration! He signalled again for more wine.
Her reproof that he had not behaved in a gentlemanlike manner, which had wounded him so deeply at the time, seemed positively generous in this new light. Any other woman might have wept to receive such insults. Yet, even as the thought occurred to him, he realised she had. Her red-rimmed eyes when he handed her his letter the next day were testament to it. He had dismissed it in his resentment—or perhaps revelled in the sense of vindication it afforded him.
“Darcy!”
He started and looked up. Fitzwilliam was standing over him, looking concerned. All around the table, the ladies were rising to take their leave.
He lurched to his feet. “Excuse me.”
“You look ashen, man. What ails you?” Fitzwilliam whispered.
“Naught, I am perfectly well.”
That earned him a dubious look, but the appearance of some exceedingly fine port on the table saved him from further questioning and eased all the gentlemen into their usual after-dinner languor. Darcy sat down and swallowed most of the contents of his glass, attempting to swill down his shame and regret with it.
“What the devil are you thinking,” said one of the guests to Darcy’s uncle, “hobbling poor Ashby to that hideous woman? She did nothing but carp throughout the entire meal.”
Fitzwilliam snorted. Ashby, at the far end of the table, did not appear to have heard, though Darcy wondered whether he would have objected if he had.
“It was his choice,” Matlock replied. “He could have had Miss Blake.”
“That was rather like choosing between the French disease and a venereal wart,” Fitzwilliam whispered to Darcy, almost making him spit out his wine.
He could not disagree. Lady Philippa was insufferable, and Miss Blake had been worse. He waited until his cousin raised his glass to his own lips before asking, “Which one is which?”
Fitzwilliam did spit out his wine. Darcy smirked. Adrift as he was in a sea of remorse, his cousin was a lighthouse to his sinking ship.
“I know not for whom to feel sorrier,” Fitzwilliam whispered, wiping his chin with a napkin. “Shewill be saddled with Ashby, and I doubt she was given a choice. Women generally are not, I understand.”
“We will give Georgiana a choice.”
“We will?”
Fitzwilliam was not alone in his surprise. Heretofore, the list of suitors Darcy had deemed acceptable for his sister had been nominal, and he had certainly never considered her preference as having much bearing on the selection. When had that changed? He knew precisely when. He refused to think her name.
“Then she will be one of a happy few,” Fitzwilliam continued, taking Darcy’s silence as an answer. “Come to think on it, Miss Bennet is another. She did not feel duty-bound to wed, did she? Though I doubt her parents were in accord with that particular choice.”
Darcy blanched. “I… she… what?”
“Precisely. They cannot have been pleased, for it would have secured all their futures. I cannot blame her, though. She would have been miserable.”
Deeply wounded he should think so, Darcy forced himself to enquire how Fitzwilliam knew of it.
“Anne told me.”
“Anneknows?”
“I cannot believe the fool offered for her. Heir to Longbourn or not, it was an insult.”
