His brother flashed him a cocky smirk. “Who better to tell us what is really the matter with Darcy?” Both he and Mrs Sinclair fixed him with identical looks of expectation.
Fitzwilliam crossed his arms. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“You never were any good at lying, Dickie. It is obvious something is afoot, for I have never known Darcy as dull as he was at Father’s dinner two weeks ago.”
Mrs Sinclair nodded her agreement. “I must say, I recall him being far better company when he was younger. Most men grow out of petulance. He seems to have grown into it.”
“And I could have sworn he was half cut by the time he left.”
“I am surprised you noticed, Brother. You were cut to pieces by the third course,” Fitzwilliam parried. “Darcy had a headache that evening, nothing more.”
“You are fooling nobody. Do not think I have not heard about his scrape at Jackson’s. Darcy has not received serious injury in a fight since Nathaniel and he boxed each other off Pemberley’s veranda the summer before Mother died. If he has done so now, it is because he allowed it to happen.”
Fitzwilliam could not argue with that, so he did not.
Ashby gave a self-satisfied nod. “That and the way you are squirming in your regimentals lead me to suspect there is more truth to Lady Catherine’s claims than my father would believe.”
Curse his brother’s nose for scandal! “You must know I would not break Darcy’s confidence, even were I in it.”
“Oh, no! He is in love,” announced Mrs Sinclair with the utmost disdain.
“What makes you say that?”
“It is the only thing stupid enough to warrant your obstinacy in keeping it a secret.” She turned away from him to face the horses. “I have lost interest. Let us talk of something else.”
“Nay,” Ashby objected, “let us talk ofthis, now we have got to the crux of it at last.Isit this upstart from Hertfordshire with whom he is involved?”
“I did not say there was a woman involved.”
“Neither did you deny it. Is she truly the penniless niece of a tradesman? Are her connections truly so dire?”
“If they are not now, they soon will be, for she will gain the devil of an aunt with the husband,” Mrs Sinclair said huffily.
“What does it matter what her connections are?” Fitzwilliam replied impatiently. Darcy would never be required to contend with the ignominy of Miss Bennet’s low connections, for Miss Bennet did not want him!
“So thereisa woman involved?”
He bit back an imprecation and feigned an easiness he did not feel. “What would you do about it if there were? You could never talk Darcy out of it.”
Ashby shrugged. “Probably not, but forewarned is forearmed. You of all people ought to know that. I would know if Darcy is about to make a fool of me.”
Fitzwilliam eyed his brother’s hat and privately challenged anyone to make a greater fool of him than he already had himself. “I am sorry to disappoint you, but I can say with authority that Darcy is not engaged to anybody and certainly not to a fortuneless nobody from Hertfordshire. The most you must prepare for is Lady Catherine’s disappointment.”
Ashby snorted. “’Tis not I who must prepare for that.Youare the last unattached male cousin—and Anne will need to marrysomebody.”
“Over my dead body!” cried Mrs Sinclair, twisting in her seat to glare angrily at Ashby.
“Make certain not to repeat that in my father’s hearing,” he replied. “It will only see Dickie down the aisle sooner.”
“Oh, for heaven's sake, take me home, boy, before I am asphyxiated by foppery.”
Fitzwilliam watched them roll off through the park with a resigned sigh. He hoped Darcy would be suitably grateful that thesecret of his disappointed hopes had been preserved only by dint of him skewering himself squarely on Lady Catherine’s.
Tuesday 9 June 1812, London
His aunt’s philippic had done nothing to diminish Darcy’s regard for Elizabeth. He knew she was not faultless. She had neither fortune nor connections, but that was long since any concern of his. Her looks may not be classical, but her beautiful dark eyes and comely figure afforded her a staggering allure. Her courage rendered her impetuous and her loyalty gullible, but her compassion and sanguinity only made those qualities more endearing. She cared less than she ought to for social conventions but flouted them with such éclat that no one much cared. Elizabeth was not perfect, but to Darcy, she was perfection. Being without her felt like drowning.
Days, weeks, months had not lessened her grip on his heart. He knew now what he felt for her was not in the common way. Elizabeth had all but broken him—shattered his misplaced reserve, unravelled his mistaken principles and revealed a man in desperate need of redemption. Then she had entwined herself about his heart, reformed him by her design and made a true gentleman of him. She was not merely the woman he loved; she was the architect of his soul. He could no more stop loving her now than he could stop breathing.
