"Because," Darcy sighed, "I separated her sister from Bingley, who showed great interest in her while at Netherfield. And she knows it. Or suspects it. And now Bingley is gone, and her sister is heartbroken, and I am the villain of the piece."
"You separated them?" Robert looked impressed. "I didn't know you had it in you. Why?"
"Because I thought the sister indifferent!" Darcy defended himself. "She smiled at everyone. I thought she did notcare for him. And the family... the connections... I thought I was saving him."
"And now?"
"Now I have seen her with you," Darcy said, running a hand through his hair. "I have seen a warmth and a spirit that I claimed she did not possess. I fear I was blinded by my own arrogance. I assumed because she was not demonstrative, she did not feel. But seeing her today... I realize that I likely mistook a deep, quiet reserve for indifference."
"Or," Robert preened, adjusting his cuffs, "I am simply more inspiring than Bingley."
"It is a disaster," Darcy concluded.
"You can call on them," Richard pointed out. "If they are still in town."
"In Cheapside?" Darcy looked horrified. "It is not done, Richard. One does not simply call on Gracechurch Street."
"One does if one is desperate," Robert said, a glint in his eye. "And we are going to be desperate. But first, we must survive dinner with Mother and Father. And remember—not a word about the trade connections. If Mother hears 'Cheapside' before the soup course, she will have an apoplexy."
"I am saying nothing," Darcy promised. "I intend to be a mute."
"Good luck with that," Richard grinned. "Mother has a stare that pries secrets loose like a dentist pulling teeth."
Matlock House was everything Darcy House was not: ostentatious, loud, and filled with the weight of centuries of political manoeuvring. The dining room was vast, the table set with enough silver to ransom a small country, and the air was thick with expectation.
At the head of the table sat the Earl of Matlock, a man whose eyebrows were his most expressive feature. He loved his sons, but he despaired of them. Robert was too wild. Richard was too poor. He looked at Darcy as the only sensible male in the family, which was a burden Darcy felt keenly.
Opposite him sat the Countess. She was a woman of sharp intelligence and sharper tongue, who saw everything and forgave nothing, though she hid a soft heart under layers of silk and sarcasm. Next to her was Georgiana, whom they had delivered there right after the morning trip to the bookstore.
"So," the Earl rumbled over the soup, glaring at his eldest son. "I hear you were in a bookshop today, Robert. Did you get lost on your way to a gambling hell?"
"I was purchasing your Christmas gift, Father," Robert said smoothly. "A tome on agricultural reform. I know how you love manure distribution theories."
"Hmph," the Earl grunted, though he looked pleased. He turned to Darcy. "And you, Fitzwilliam. You look peaky. Grey. Is it the liver?"
"I am perfectly well, Uncle," Darcy lied, staring at his consommé.
"He needs a wife," his aunt declared from her end of the table. "That is what is wrong with all of you. You are roaming feral. Fitzwilliam, have you written to your aunt Catherine yet?"
Darcy choked on his soup. "I beg your pardon?"
"Catherine wrote to me last week," she continued, sipping her wine. "She claims you are to visit Rosings at Easter. She is under the impression that you and Anne are finally tosettle the date."
Richard kicked Darcy under the table. Darcy winced.
"There is no date to settle, Aunt," Darcy said firmly. "There is no engagement. There never has been."
"I know that," the Earl waved his spoon dismissively. "Anne is a wet rag, and you need a wife with a backbone. But Catherine... she is convinced. She talks of some compact with your mother."
"A fantasy," Darcy said. "My mother never mentioned it. It is a fabrication of Lady Catherine's will."
"Then tell her," the Earl said. "Be a man, Fitzwilliam. Write to her. Tell her you will not marry Anne. Stop lingering in this grey area. It is dishonourable."
"I... I intend to," Darcy stammered. "But the timing... with Christmas..."
"You are afraid of her," the Earl accused.
"I am not—"
