“Oh, do include my compliments,” Caroline purred, adjusting the fall of lace at her sleeve. “And tell her I anticipate seeing her again soon.”
Darcy inclined his head politely. “I will convey your regards.” Without waiting for further conversation, he rose. “If you will excuse me.”
He left the breakfast room, the rustle of his coat and the sound of his steps the only noise in the corridor as he made his way back to the guest wing. His footsteps echoed lightly on the polished floors, the scent of woodsmoke lingering from the fireplaces in the halls. Entering his chambers, he closed the door behind him, the soft click of the latch sealing him away from the morning’s chatter.
Darcy crossed to the window, looking out over the sodden grounds of Netherfield, the sky heavy with remnants of the storm. Pulling a chair close, he sat, resting his elbow on the arm and pressing his fingers to his lips, his thoughts a tangle he could no longer ignore.
Elizabeth.
A few years ago, he would have dismissed any notion of her with a cool, practised certainty. She was not what he had envisioned for himself—no wealth to recommend her, no powerful family to advance the Fitzwilliam Darcy interests. Yet here he sat, unable to cast her from his mind, recalling the lively intelligence in her fine, dark blue eyes, the quiet strength of her bearing, the way she had set aside her own comfort to walk through mud and rutted fields for her sister.
Having become acquainted with grief, with the suffocating weight of loss, Darcy found himself unable to fathom setting aside the possibility of happiness for paltry reasons of wealth and connection. The idea of marrying for affection, for mutual regard, for companionship…it no longer seemed a youthful fancy but a necessity for a life well lived.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Lady Catherine. She had long assumed he would marry Anne, her ambitions for Rosings Park andPemberley firmly entwined. Would she view any lady Darcy pursued as a replacement, as an interloper? Or would she welcome the match, provided it was respectable enough?
Darcy shook his head with a rueful half-smile. Why was he even thinking about marriage? He barely knew Miss Elizabeth. Yet he could not deny that he wished to know her better, wished to speak with her, to walk with her, to discover the depths behind the lively expressions and quick wit that had so thoroughly captivated his thoughts.
He was forced to admit to himself—reluctantly, honestly—that he would have noticed Elizabeth even if her young brother did not bear the look of a Fitzwilliam. That mystery remained, of course, lingering at the edges of his mind, but the lady herself had become an intrigue entirely separate from it.
Darcy exhaled, leaning back in his chair, his gaze distant. The question now was not whether he would pursue Miss Elizabeth Bennet, but why. Was it out of duty to find answers about the child, or was it the lady herself drawing him?
Perhaps if he did the first, he might find the second.
And perhaps, in seeking the second, he would find the courage to embrace what he truly wanted.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Miss Bennet, are you certain you are well enough to return home?” Mr Bingley sat next to Jane at the breakfast table, concern written upon his countenance as he leaned forwards, elbows on the table, completely forgetting the toast cooling on his plate.
“Really, Charles, she has assured you of the fact multiple times.” Miss Bingley rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically, tapping her spoon against the edge of her untouched cup with a sharp clink. “It is obvious Miss Bennet wishes to be gone. Why do you persist?”
Jane, though pale and drawn from her restless night, flushed at Miss Bingley’s implications, delicately folding her napkin in her lap. “On the contrary, Miss Bingley, I would like nothing more than to spend a pleasurable day in your brother’s company. However, I know from experience that these megrims require rest and quiet. I always do so better in my own bed. Our overnight stay was unexpected, and we are very grateful for your hospitality. We will not impose upon you any longer.”
“If you are certain…” Mr Bingley moved his hand to cover Jane’s briefly before he realised himself and withdrew with a sheepish glance at his sister.
“Wonderful!” Miss Bingley clapped her hands, the lace at her wrist fluttering like pale wings. “I shall order the carriage made ready after breakfast.”
Elizabeth watched it all with amusement as she stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea, inhaling the comforting scent of warm bread andthe faint aroma of the orange marmalade Mrs Nicholls had set out. Mr Bingley’s face darkened into a scowl as he glanced at his sister, who had resumed stirring her tea with unnecessary vigor, her lips pressed thin with disapproval. He shook his head and offered to refresh Jane’s teacup, gently replacing the cup on its saucer and pouring with a care that spoke of his admiration. The two then bent their heads together, conversing in low tones through the rest of the meal, Jane smiling shyly as Bingley whispered something that made her blush.
“Mr Darcy, I mean to take a turn in the garden after breakfast.” Miss Bingley turned a cloying smile on the gentleman, her fingers toying with the pearl buttons on her morning gown. “Would you care to join me?”
“I thank you, no,” he replied, buttering a piece of toast with deliberate precision. “I have a few matters of business to which I must attend. My cousin is to join us here soon—
“Oh yes, dear Mr Fitzwilliam! It has been an age since we last met. Tell me, how does he do at his estate?” Miss Bingley leaned forwards eagerly, her tea forgotten, her eyes glittering as she sought to capture Darcy’s attention.
“My cousin is very industrious.” Mr Darcy’s vague reply had Elizabeth smiling into her teacup, only to nearly choke when he turned his calm gaze upon her.
“Miss Elizabeth, I have yet to properly explore Meryton. What are your favourite shops?”
She blinked, teacup halfway to her lips, and opened her mouth, but Miss Bingley cut in with a sharp, dismissive laugh. “Surely, you are not interested in what little this village has to offer?” She scoffed, her fingers drumming on the polished table.
Elizabeth saw Mr Darcy's jaw tighten, though he hid his pique well. He waited a moment before replying.
“One often finds unique and memorable items in market towns and small villages.” Mr Darcy took a measured sip of tea, setting down the cup with quiet finality. “Local artisans and creators do not peddle their wares anywhere else. I mean to find gifts for my family. Christmas is approaching.”
Miss Bingley looked as though she had sucked on a lemon, her nostrils flaring. “How quaint,” was all the reply she could manage, turning her face away to hide her irritation.
“Miss Elizabeth?” Mr Darcy’s prompt came gently, his dark eyes fixed on her with polite expectation.
