“You are suggesting that Miss Bingley is merely tolerable?” Elizabeth asked without thought.
Mr. Darcy’s brow furrowed, as though puzzled by the question. “I would not presume to judge my hostess so harshly. I simply meant that Gracie prefers peace in the mornings.”
Elizabeth inhaled sharply.He does not recall his insult from the assembly, that I was barely tolerable.His words had made no impression on him; thoughtlessly delivered and forgotten. While she had nursed the wound for weeks.
She could press the point. Could remind him of his words, watch his expression shift as he realized what he had said. But to what end? If she angered him or embarrassed him, he might withdraw entirely, retreating behind his forbidding exterior. And she would lose Gracie. These precious morning moments.
Instead, Elizabeth stroked Gracie’s neck and said, “Of course. I should return to Jane. She will wake soon.”
Mr. Darcy inclined his head. “Please give my regards to your sister.”
“I shall. Enjoy your ride, Mr. Darcy.”
She slipped through the gate and started toward the house, refusing to look back. Behind her, she heard the murmur of Mr. Darcy’s voice as he spoke to Gracie, then the creak of leather when he mounted.
Elizabeth climbed the stairs to Jane’s room, her emotions in turmoil. She should despise him for that slight and hold onto her righteous indignation. But standing in the paddock with a horse between them, his face lit with genuine pleasure—it had become considerably more challenging to do so.
Darcy urgedGracie into a trot as they left the stable yard, acutely aware of the windows of Netherfield behind him. Was she watching again? He sat a little straighter in the saddle, then caught himself with a grimace.
He gave Gracie her head when they reached the open field, letting her stretch into the gallop she craved. The wind against his face should have cleared his thoughts. Instead, they returned to Miss Elizabeth Bennet and her keen observations with stubborn persistence.
He genuinely felt sorry for her. Not having a horse to ride would take much of the pleasure from his life. The circumstances in which she was raised denied her a pleasure she clearly would have loved. It was not fair, though fairness had little to do with reality.
His own sister had been born with every advantage: horses at her disposal, skilled instructors, the freedom toride whenever she pleased. Yet Georgiana had come within a hair’s breadth of losing it all for a man who saw her only as a source of income. Did she ever stop to think what marriage to Wickham would have cost? No elegant gowns. No presentation to the Queen. No comfortable, warm bed to sleep in or a horse of her own to ride. No self-respect, love or devotion.
His hands tightened on the reins at the thought, and Gracie immediately responded, her stride shortening, her head coming up in question. Darcy eased his grip. The mare transitioned into her rhythm, but he could sense her wariness, her sensitivity to his tension.
“Easy, girl,” he murmured, stroking her neck in apology.
Even Miss Bingley, though not born to a gentleman, had her own horse. Certainly, she possessed the latest riding habits. He had seen her parade through Netherfield’s drawing room in them more than once, the dark velvet tailored to perfection. Though now that he considered it, he could not actually recall ever seeing her seated upon a horse. Strange, that.
Likely, Miss Elizabeth had no riding habit in her wardrobe. Why would she? Why did he care?
Miss Elizabeth unsettled him in ways he could not quite articulate. On paper, they were entirely unsuited. She had no fortune, no connections, no claim to his world beyond the accident of geography that had brought her to Netherfield. Her prospects were limited to whatever local squire might overlook her lack of dowry.
Yet, when she had spoken of riding that plough horse as a child, he had heard himself in her words. Had seen in her expression the same longing he would feel ifsomeone denied him Gracie. And this morning, she had studied Gracie’s movement with such hungry attention. She loved horses. Not the shallow affection of those who treated them as conveniences. She loved them as he did. With her whole heart.
The realization threatened his carefully maintained reserve.
Darcy had the resources to satisfy her longing. The horse, the equipment, the skill—all of it was at his disposal. However, providing her the means to ride would create expectations he could not fulfill. Society would read intentions into the gesture. Would she?
He would never attach the Darcy name to someone with uncles in trade, no dowry to speak of, a vulgar mother, and younger sisters who ran wild through Meryton without a thought for propriety or decorum.
But Miss Elizabeth was… She was… He sighed heavily. Lord, but her eyes drew him in. She sacrificed her own comfort to care for her sister, which meant tolerating Miss Bingley’s thinly veiled disdain. Her wit was sharp and refreshing, a contrast to years of simpering debutantes who agreed with everything he said. And her eagerness when Gracie had taken that treat from her palm, the pure joy that had transformed her face—he delighted in it. He could admit that much to himself, at least.
No. It was more than delight. If he were honest—and he prided himself on honesty—he wanted to see her expression again. Wanted to be the cause of it. He knew better. Yet…
He pulled Gracie into a canter, then a trot, needing to slow his thoughts as much as his horse. His mind driftedto the assembly, to his first sight of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. How had he overlooked her? How had he dismissed her?—
The memory hit him like a physical blow.She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me.
Good lord.He had said that. Loud enough for her to hear, apparently, since she had stiffened beside the paddock when she mentioned the word “tolerable.”
He was an idiot. He had been in a foul mood that evening. Irritated by Bingley’s insistence that he dance, by the gossip of his income bouncing from one matron to the next, and by the assumption that every unmarried woman in the room was angling for his attention.
That was no excuse.
He had insulted her. Carelessly. Cruelly. And she had borne the slight in silence, even standing beside him at the paddock to speak of horses and dreams and all the things she had been denied. While he, fool that he was, had not even remembered his own words.
