“I beg your pardon?”
“That is part of the problem.” Mr. Bennet waved a hand. “Yes, you may court Jane, if Jane allows it. I warn you, however, that she is not so easily read as some imagine.”
Bingley’s face lit. “I would not wish her to be.”
“Excellent. Then perhaps you are not quite so simple as you appear.”
“Thank you,” Bingley said, then hesitated. “I think.”
Richard laughed aloud, then turned to Darcy the moment Bingley moved away. “And you, cousin. Have you determined when this wedding of yours is to occur?”
Darcy, a small smile lingering on his lips, glanced toward the door. “Not yet.”
“You had better do so before I am ordered elsewhere. I intend to be present.”
“You have only just arrived.”
“And already invested. Besides, if I write to my parents that Darcy of Pemberley has attached himself to a lady who found Roman treasure and captured his heart, do you imagine my mother will remain in town?”
Darcy lowered his voice. “Richard.”
“I did not say it loudly.”
“You said it at all.”
Richard grinned. “My father will come too, and Milton if he can be dragged from whatever responsible occupation he pretends to enjoy. You should prepare yourself. The family Matlock will descend with affection, advice, and luggage.”
“I shall warn Miss Elizabeth.”
“You should warn Longbourn.”
The thought of Lady Matlock meeting Mrs. Bennet ought to have alarmed Darcy. Instead, he found himself almost amused by it. Elizabeth would manage them both, somehow, with a smile that made everyone believe she had done nothing of the kind.
When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies, Darcy paused briefly in the doorway.
The drawing room glowed with candlelight and conversation. Mrs. Bennet was speaking to Jane with barely restrained exultation. Mary sat near Georgiana, explaining something about a particular sermon with solemn enthusiasm, while Georgiana listened with more patience than comprehension.Lydia inquired about the house facilities, and she Kitty stepped out of the room arm in arm, chatting animatedly about the promised ball, each correcting the other on which officers must be invited first. Elizabeth stood surveying it all with mild amusement.
It struck Darcy then that, had his life been different, he might have despised this room.
Not Elizabeth. Never Elizabeth. But the noise, the impropriety, the too-eager talk of balls, husbands, officers, gowns, and neighborhood triumphs. He might have judged Mrs. Bennet harshly and dismissed the younger girls as beneath serious regard. He might have retreated into coldness, believing refinement the same thing as virtue.
But five years in the militia had shown him good men with rough manners and polished men with rotten souls. His father had taught him that elegance could conceal depravity, that birth and fortune did not prevent selfishness, and that a gentleman’s drawing room might hold more corruption than a tenant’s kitchen ever could. Mrs. Bennet’s exclamations were fatiguing, yes. Lydia and Kitty were unformed, forward, and in desperate need of steadier guidance. Yet there was innocence here. Affection. Hope. A warmth that overflowed its proper boundaries but had not curdled into vice.
Darcy found, to his own quiet wonder, that he preferred it.
He crossed the room toward Elizabeth.
She looked up before he reached her, as though she had felt his approach. The smile she gave him was not broad, not improper, not even wholly unguarded in such company. But it was his, and he felt richer for it than any dowry could have made him.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
“I hope the gentlemen did not find the dining room too unpleasant. You returned very swiftly.”
“Mr. Bingley was impatient.”
“Only Mr. Bingley?”
