“That remains to be seen.” Uncle Henry tapped his nose with a calculating smile. “I have news he may not like. The Prince Regent has given me a marquisate, and I have decided to give your father the earldom of Glentworth. As my heir, he can no longer hide in the fields of Hertfordshire, lovely though they may be. It is to be hoped that his serious cogitation and resolve will not render him a complete nonentity.”
She laughed and opened the door. Elizabeth was her grandmother’s confidante and had already received intelligence about her father’s elevation in rank.
“You should present it as a scheme he cannot refuse.”
“I shall try my best,” he allowed as he entered the house.
Voices drifted out of the parlour where Mrs Bennet and Lady Lucas were still discussing the previous night’s assembly.
“…he is Mr Bingley’s dearest friend. Eliza may have ruined Jane’s chances by expressing her pert opinions.”
“I can assure you that Lizzy will be brought to see reason. I shall speak to her directly. She is a very headstrong, foolish girl, who does not know what is in her own best interest, but I shall make her know it.”
Lady Lucas was nodding vigorously in agreement when Elizabeth entered the parlour.
“Mrs Bennet!” Elizabeth’s mother exclaimed, rising from her chair.
“You may call me Mother,” the older lady declared, knowing it would vex her daughter-in-law no end to do so. Their relationship had begun badly—something that time and distance had done nothing to alleviate.
“The Marquis of Limerick and Mrs Bennet,” Mrs Hill announced belatedly, which sent the younger Mrs Bennet into a flutter of nerves.
Lady Lucas called for smelling salts, and in the same breath, invited the marquis and his sister to her Christmas dinner party, thirteen days hence. Her pleasure was excessive when the marquis accepted.
“I feel a sudden need to stretch my legs after sitting so long in the carriage. Will you accompany me,Eilís?”
Her mother revived from her almost swoon. “It is Elizabeth. Her name is Elizabeth!”
“Not in Ireland,” the matriarch drawled.
“We arenotIrish!” Mrs Bennet screeched whilst stealing furtive looks at Lady Lucas.
“You are not, but I certainly am, and so is my brother, the marquis.”
Lady Lucas had known the former mistress of Longbourn since childhood and was no stranger to her origins. Why her mother was still trying to conceal what had been widely known for decades, Elizabeth could not fathom, but she hastened after her grandmother.
“So, whom did you lecture at last evening’s assembly?” her grandmother enquired with mirth twinkling in her eyes.
Elizabeth did not mind relating her encounter with the disagreeable gentleman from Derbyshire and found a willing ear in her grandmother.
Lucas Lodge, Christmas Party.
Darcy did not mean to follow Miss Elizabeth with his eyes. He tried to convince himself it was to find more faults to add to the impertinent miss’s flaws. It did not work out quite as he had intended. Her conversation was too intelligent, her movements too elegant, and her comportment had not contributed one iota to his cup of grievances. The only thing he had found to accuse her of was having too pleasant a voice. A voice that she was currently using to enthral him entirely too much. If he had the choice, he would prefer not to be the slightest bit intrigued by any lady. The opposite sex was of no great significance, until he decided to marry, sometime far into the future.
He moved away quickly, to discourage himself from furthering the descent of his character, but was intercepted by Sir William, the most tedious man in the neighbourhood. It must be his punishment for leaving his impenetrable aloofness back at Netherfield.
He was listening with half an ear, when the object of his fascination turned in their direction.
“Miss Eliza!” the buffoon beside him called out. Taking the lady’s hand, he offered it to Darcy, and to his consternation, he was not unwilling to accept it. It must have been the uncommon green eyes that had tilted him off kilter. He must be excused from this, since he had never encountered such deep emerald-green in anyone’s eyes before, and they were made even more beguiling by a deep-blue outer ring and specks of silver. Their expression was ever changing, between decidedly wicked or irresistibly bewitching, and often both.
“Miss Elizabeth, why are you not dancing? Mr Darcy, may I present this young lady as a most desirable partner. You cannot refuse, I am sure, when such beauty stands before you.”
He was about to take her hand when the lady snatched it out of his reach, and an engaging twinkle lit her eyes. She did not blush, nor lower her eyes in maidenly demureness, but boldly met his gaze, and he realised, to his amusement, rather critically so.
“Mr Darcy is all politeness and the very epitome of a gentleman. It is with abject regret that I must decline. I simply cannot, without the risk of becoming insufferably conceited. Although I have not witnessed his lightness of foot myself, I have heard such extraordinary accounts of his excellent dancing that I believe he has no equal. And may I remind you, Sir William, that he would, and should, only dance with diamonds of the first water. The likes of Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst, whom you must admit are exceptional beauties and would be infinitely better suited. Their address and comportment are incomparable to any country miss—least of all me. They can hardly be expected to even recognise a daughter of a mere gentleman. I have not been informed about the Bingleys’ private estate, but I am convinced Longbourn must be modest in comparison. Please do not believe that I came this way to beg for a partner. Oh no. I would never expect to be singled out by such exalted company.”
Miss Elizabeth dipped into a deep curtsey and bestowed upon him a dazzling valedictory smile. “Excuse me,” she said sweetly and walked away from the stunned gentlemen to join the sister of the newly appointed Marquis of Limerick.
“Miss Eliza does favour her grandmother,” Sir William observed. It took Darcy a moment to piece together that he meant the marquis’s sister, who was indeed Mr Bennet’s mother. “Mr Bennet is the marquis’s heir and may call himself the Earl of Glentworth very soon,” he added before he moved along, leaving Darcy to dismal contemplations of his own conduct.
