Wickham once said something of Anne de Bourgh and Darcy…a betrothal. And had not Mr. Collins intimated the same? The first could not be trusted, yet the second?
She checked her spirits, touched with a desperation she prayed he would not perceive, and inclined away from him. “You surprise me, Mr. Darcy, that a man of your fortune and consequence is not yet married. Is it because you are already spoken for? What of Miss de Bourgh?”
His composure now shifted, just enough to betray surprise. “Anne?”
“I have heard from two sources that there is an attachment between you.”Please let it be false.I could not bear to lose him now.
She noted his bearing scarcely altered; he was too disciplined for that. But something affected him—surprise, perhaps even hurt.
“An attachment?”
“Yes,” she managed, forcing the words past the sudden tightness in her throat. “That you are to marry. Mr. Collins implied as much. And Mr. Wickham…” She pressed forward, fearful of being misunderstood. “He claimed it certain. I know that man’s words are suspect, but my cousin? I do not know what to think."
Darcy drew a breath sharply, and for an instant, she feared she had overstepped.
He leaned a fraction closer, his words low yet resolute. “Miss Elizabeth, I give you my word: there is no attachment between myself and my cousin. Nor have I ever wished there to be one.”
“I see.” Relief broke from her in a breath she could not wholly conceal.
Folly, to have let their falsehoods prey upon me. How near I came to believing him lost, to thinking he belonged elsewhere. And now he is free. Free, and I am foolishly glad of it.
“My aunt would wish it so. She insists my mother desired it, and that the arrangement is of a peculiar kind, long intended since our infancy. Anne and I have never shared such inclination. She is a sickly girl, and quite shy; she is not at ease in large gatherings. We are simply cousins, nothing more.”
She schooled her manner, though the impulse to reach for him was strong, so great was her relief. “I am sorry. I ought not to have credited them.”
Darcy’s reply was gentler still. “No, I am only sorry that you were given cause to doubt. As for him, suffice it to say that he will spread falsehoods no longer.”
He reached for her hand, clasping it briefly before letting go. Their eyes met, and for a long, suspended moment, silence held. Her fingers sought the chain at her throat, but she dared not draw it forth. She wondered if he would speak, if he would declare himself at last.
No,he will wait until Twelfth Night.
The sounds of returning footsteps were heard, and the company’s reprieve at an end. Mrs. Bennet bustled in, with Hill behind her bearing a tray of tea and cakes. At once came the chatter, Kitty and Lydia rushing headlong down the stairs in pursuit of sweets.
Darcy withdrew, his manner unreadable.
But Elizabeth’s heart beat all the faster.
Chapter Twenty-Two
January 3, 1812
Longbourn
Darcy
Mrs.Bennetwaskindenough to extend an invitation to dine. This suited Darcy exceedingly well, for it afforded him even more time in Elizabeth’s company before returning to Netherfield. The hours between their meetings had grown into a torment, especially now, when he had gained some assurance that her feelings toward him had changed. If the warmth in her air, the lively sparkle in her eyes when they conversed, and her gentle teasing were any indication, she was no longer merely tolerating him. She was enjoying his presence.
Upon accepting the invitation, Bingley had dispatched his man to fetch a change of clothing for the gentlemen. They were shown to a pair of guest chambers, likely intended for a marriedcouple, Darcy observed, for a single door adjoined the chambers. Longbourn, though elegant in its own modest way, did not boast an overabundance of accommodations for visitors.
In his chamber, Darcy stood before the looking glass, adjusting the folds of his cravat with precision. His fingers moved by habit, long-practiced in the ritual since he was at times obliged to travel without his valet, but his thoughts were far removed from the intricacies of linen and starch.
Her words echoed in his mind.“You surprise me, Mr. Darcy, that a man of your fortune and consequence is not yet married.”
“I am only for you, Elizabeth,” he murmured into the stillness. “No other lady is perfect for me, and I shall have only you, or no one at all.”
That gentle probing, an observation far from indifferent, had stirred something within him. Her curiosity was not idle; her intent was plain when she inquired of Anne and the supposed cradle betrothal. By all appearances, she was testing the waters. The memory of her question stirred his heart, no less than when she bravely raised it. Had he only imagined her distress until he had calmly reassured her? He thought not. Surely she would accept him when he proposed. He fastened the cravat pin and took a moment to study his reflection, smoothing the front of his waistcoat with exact attention.
Not much longer now.
