Bingley strode in, bright as if he had slept twelve hours and dreamt of nothing but roses. “Fine morning for sport. A bit misty out, but I daresay it will clear. Hurst, are you ready?”
Hurst, adjusting his waistcoat with more resignation than enthusiasm, gave a grunt. “Ready enough.”
Bingley laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Hurst does not wake so early for anyone but me, Darcy. Consider yourself favoured.”
Darcy managed a faint smile. Anything more would have required real cheerfulness, which he did not feel. His sleep had been fitful; the memory of Miss Elizabeth’s recoil kept intruding at the edge of consciousness, accompanied now and then by that odd sickening heat he had felt the instant he first saw her. Foolish. Entirely foolish.
Bingley reached for a cartridge case, speaking as he checked the latch. “Caroline had much to say last night after we returned. She declared the Assembly a trial, of course, but even she could not deny that the Bennet sisters made an impression.”
Darcy stilled a fraction. “Did she.”
“Oh yes.” Bingley grinned. “She said Miss Bennet was perfection in every respect. And as for Miss Elizabeth—well—Caroline noticed that you and she held a rather spirited exchange.”
Darcy set his jaw. “Spirited?”
“That was her word. Though Caroline insisted she did not hear what was said.”
Darcy checked the strap of his gun case for the second time. “Nothing of importance.”
“Caroline claims otherwise. Something about a rebuke.” Bingley laughed again. “Though I told her she must have misunderstood.”
Darcy felt the memory of Elizabeth’s voice strike him again—her quick wit, her mockery of his grooming, her casting-off of him as though he were an inconvenience. Entirely undeserved. Entirely… vexing.
He tightened the strap. “Miss Bingley is mistaken.”
“Possibly,” Bingley said, fastening his gaiters. “But truly, Darcy—Caroline insists Miss Elizabeth looked at you with a rather curious sort of interest.”
Darcy reached for his gloves. “Women look. It means nothing.”
Bingley laughed. “Yes, but they do not usually look… likethat.”
“I observed nothing of the kind.”
“Of course you did not. You never do.”
Darcy had no intention of pursuing the subject further. He checked the clasp of his powder flask with unnecessary care. Brutus pressed his shoulder against Darcy’s leg, impatient for the door to open.
Hurst finally took up his gun. “If we are to shoot today, let us shoot. Standing about while Bingley speculates on romantic nonsense is no way to start the morning.”
Bingley only laughed again, undeterred. “Very well, very well. Darcy, shall we?”
Darcy nodded once. Ordinary movement. Ordinary conversation. The predictable morning routine would clear the remnants of last night from his thoughts.
The grass was heavy with last night’s rain, bending under their boots as they crossed into the lower meadow. Brutus ranged ahead in wide, eager arcs, nose sweeping the ground. Hurst muttered that the dogs ought to be kept closer this early, but Brutus ignored him entirely.
Bingley adjusted his stride to match Darcy’s. “We ought to try the northern covert this morning. The keeper swears a good covey settled there after the harvest.”
Hurst snorted. “That man says a good covey settles anywhere he wants an easy day.”
“True,” Bingley said cheerfully, “but we cannot shoot the same ground every week.Variety, Hurst. One must give the birds a sporting chance.”
Darcy lifted an eyebrow. “I had not realised you were so humanitarian.”
Bingley laughed. “If I cannot bring down a bird without feeling like a villain, I shall blame you entirely.”
They crested a slight rise, the earth soft beneath them, the smell of damp soil rising with each step. Brutus checked suddenly, tail rigid, then plunged into a patch of rushes. A pair of partridge burst from the cover, beating hard for open air. Hurst swung first and fired; Darcy took the second shot half a heartbeat later. The birds fell almost in tandem.
“Nowthatwas neat work,” Bingley called, already trudging forward to watch Brutus retrieve. “We shall have a fine dinner this evening.”
