“You cannot hide yourself away at Pemberley every season, my dear boy! At eight-and-twenty, it is time you settled. The estate requires an heir. Surely, there is a lady somewhere who appeals to you!”
Heremembered that scene vividly—and the image that had arisen before him:Elizabeth. He had kept his counsel, however. His aunt knew her slightly but had no notion of the regard he bore her. Then he had believed her far beyond his reach. Now all was changed. She was here, and she had not remarried.
But what ofherheart? Did she still mourn her husband—or did her widowhood conceal some deeper disappointment? There were men enough who would gladly seek her hand. What reason, then, could there be for her remaining unwed?
“Really, Charles.” Miss Bingley’s irritation was plain. “You are far too easy to please. There was little refinement to be found amongst the local rustics. Even Sir William Lucas—a knight, no less, had nothing to recommend him beyond an inflated sense of his own importance.” She turned to Darcy with a practised coy smile. “Do you not agree with me, sir?” She lifted her eyes beneath her lashes in a show of artful innocence. “Did you not find the evening insufferably dull? Though I must confess you seemed to revive somewhat during the latter half of the assembly.”
He considered a moment before answering, unwilling to lend her the satisfaction of agreeing with her. “New society often affords its own amusement once one learns to appreciate it. I found quite enough to render the evening quite pleasant.” Indeed, he had—a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman.
Miss Bingley blinked, momentarily wrong-footed. “I never should have expected it ofyou,sir. Your tastes are generally more discriminating.”
“The society here differs little from that which surrounds my own home,” he replied with indifference. “Country folk are often more amiable than those of fashion, for they are content to please and to be pleased by whoever makes the effort.”
“And such indiscriminate tastes are deserving?” Miss Bingley retorted, clearly affronted. “I cannot agree, Mr Darcy. Surely you set more store by the company you keep. You are, after all, the grandson of an earl.”
He did not deign to reply. Miss Bingley was a social-climbing harpy who would never understand that good company—time spent with people who valued the man and not his fortune—was more precious than jewels and far rarer. Whispers of his incomehadreached his ears within minutes of his arrival, driving him to take up a position near a wall during the first half of the evening. The second half, however, had been entirely different. After standing up with Elizabeth, he had engaged several other ladies in turn; not one had questioned him regarding his circumstances. Most were content to speak of the neighbourhood and the entertainments to be found nearby.
Bingley’s laugh was easy. “Youare far too discriminating for the daughter of a tradesman. Upon my word, sister, you act as though you were a countess gracing the dregs of society with your presence. Do try to keep your pretensions in check.”
Hurst roared with laughter, applauding his brother-in-law’s wit with evident amusement. “Trade does not trouble me a jot.” He drained his glass. “If one keeps a good table and provides excellent entertainment, I ask for no more.”
Miss Bingley’s lip curled, showing her disgust. “Of course you would say that. You are a man of fashion without fortune—simple-minded and easily satisfied.” Rising in a sweep of silk, she glided to the tea service. “It is why you and my sister will remain in your little circle, whileIshall rise above you.” Turning, she lifted a cup to her lips and cast a meaningful look at Darcy.
He resisted the urge to recoil. Marriage to such a woman was inconceivable.
“Am I to wish you joy, then?” Hurst asked, laughing at his own wit. “When is the happy day?”
Miss Bingley’s cheeks pinked. The pleading glance she sent in Darcy’s direction might have been comical under other circumstances. He nearly laughed but checked himself as a sobering thought struck him.Can she truly believe I intend to offer for her?
Frantic, he searched his recollection for any instance that might have given her cause for such delusion.No, he concluded,my conduct is always above reproach. Yet he could not dismiss the notion entirely; a lady’s imagination was notorious for its rapid progress from admiration to matrimony.Perhaps she fancies that my friendship with her brother must lead to such an outcome.
“I believe I shall retire.” He set down his glass and moved towards the door. “Good night.”
“You will ride out with me in the morning, will you not?” Bingley called after him. “I mean to survey the estate.”
Darcy lifted a hand in acceptance without looking back. Bingley would not be able to make any changes to the estate without the steward’s counsel and the owner’s consent, but to ride the land was the fitting behaviour for a gentleman of property. A conscientious master knew every field and hedge row, every tenant and path. His friend did not own Netherfield Park, but he would purchase an estate one day, and it was well to begin as he meant to continue.
On entering his chambers, Darcy turned the key in the lock. “Brisby, see to it that no one enters my rooms without my express approval.”
Brisby’s eyes gleamed knowingly. It had become a standing jest amongst Darcy’s servants—wagers were placed on how soon Miss Bingley would attempt a compromise whenever she was in residence. “Very good, sir.”Brisby struggled not to smile, though his mouth quivered slightly. “Shall I place my cot before the door?”
The cot usually stood in the adjoining dressing room; his valet was always close at hand. “If it is not too much trouble. And see to it that the door to the adjoining sitting room is locked, will you?”
“At once, sir.”
Feeling more at ease, Darcy allowed Brisby to assist him changing out of his evening clothes. He rolled his shoulders once freed from the constraint of his coat and muttered something unflattering regarding fashionable tailoring. When at last he lay in bed, he snuffed the candle and stared up into the darkness above.
For the first time in four years, the image that rose before him was new. The vision of Elizabeth seated beside him on the park bench at Hyde Park—his long-cherished memory—had been replaced. Now she appeared as she had that evening, clad in satin and elbow-length gloves, smiling up at him with a warmth that stirred something within him that had long been silent.
Rest eluded him. He had rejoiced to see her at long last, yet some instinct warned that all was not well. The notion unsettled him more than he cared to acknowledge. Until he understood it, he could not be fully at peace.
Chapter Twenty
September 1811
Longbourn
Elizabeth
