“The inference would be that you had a personal interest.”
“Precisely. And I do not propose to give thetonammunition against Miss Bennet.”
“How admirably restrained. Then we are in agreement. You are not her guardian. You are simply managing her London Season for me. Your presence at Elizabeth’s side tells thetonthat she has Lady Sophia Mottistone’s protection, not Fitzwilliam Darcy’s affection. The distinction is everything.”
“A polite fiction, Lady Sophia, and we both know it. In reality, I will be at her side at every event, receiving gentlemen, managing her engagements, judging her suitors, and keeping her safe in a city she barely knows. That is not a deputy’s job. That is a father’s, or a brother’s, or a?—”
“A husband’s.”
“I was going to say, protector.”
“You were not.” Lady Sophia regarded him with the calm of a woman who had heard the word she expected and intended to let it sit. “But let us speak practically. The musicale, dinners, operas, card parties, promenades, and private balls. The Seasonlasts another two months. I mean to have her seen and protected.”
Darcy let the ball drop. Nettle pounced, stubby tail quivering, and sat at attention while he scratched her ears, grateful for the uncomplicated loyalty of a dog.
“I will claim every dance propriety allows,” Darcy informed the dog without looking at Lady Sophia. “Two per event, no more. I will stand beside her during intervals. I will make it clear that any man with questionable intentions should look elsewhere.”
“That sounds less like a deputy and more like a man marking territory,” Sophia said. “You are building a fortress around a woman who has already shown she can climb out of any window.”
“I am only doing my duty, as thoroughly as you expect.” He met her gaze. “Unless you would prefer someone less thorough.”
“Heavens, no. Thoroughness is your best trait.” Lady Sophia’s smile was all mischief. “But tell me, Fitzwilliam, what is the point of Elizabeth’s Season, in your opinion?”
“In my view, Miss Bennet does not require a Season.”
“Every young woman requires a Season.”
“Only young women without fortunes. Elizabeth has fifteen thousand a year, a house in Mayfair, and a mind sharp enough to run Parliament. She does not need a husband. She has never wanted one. She—” He stopped, nearly saying too much. “She merely tolerates me because the trust requires it, and as she proved by settling the accounts before I arrived, she is working to make even that unnecessary.”
“You are a coward with excellent manners,” Lady Sophia said, her tone suddenly sharp. “The worst kind, because no one can fault you, and so you never have to change. I am not asking for a declaration. I am asking you to consider that your attention may not be as unwelcome as you think.”
“You do not know?—”
“I know a great deal more than you credit, my dear boy.” She rose from her chair. “You will serve as my deputy for the Season. You will escort Elizabeth to whatever engagements I deem necessary for her. And, pray, do not spend the entire Season in such elegant misery—it fatigues us all, Nettle most of all.”
Nettle’s ears pricked at the mention of her name.
“Take her into the garden,” Lady Sophia said, moving toward the door. “The fresh air might improve your disposition. She has been at your boots these twenty minutes awaiting your attention.”
“Has she indeed?” Darcy replied, the faintest smile touching his lips.
“You have, at last, perceived the dog. A small triumph. Perhaps her patience may instruct you yet.” Lady Sophia paused at the threshold, her eyes gleaming. “Friday. Wear the blue coat.”
She swept out, and Nettle nudged his knee, her tail wagging with the optimism only a dog could muster. Darcy tossed the leather ball in his hand. “Come along, Nettle.”
Playing fetch with the terrier allowed him room to think.
Charm, he reflected, did not work on Elizabeth. Wickham had been charming, easy, warm, and confiding. Elizabeth had enjoyed his company and then released it without a bruise.
She had no regard for position either. Collins had offered her Longbourn’s future, and Lady Catherine’s patronage, and Elizabeth had refused him so quickly that the man had not finished his sentence before she had walked out, or so he’d heard from the Meryton gossip.
Insults, Darcy noted with a dry, punishing self-awareness, had failed most spectacularly of all.
What worked with Elizabeth was Nettle, loyal, watchful, and constant. She followed Elizabeth from room to room, droppedher leather ball at her feet, not because she expected anything in return but because being close to Elizabeth was where the dog wanted to be.
Darcy, too, wished to be there, close to Elizabeth, like a burr.
Lady Sophia had gifted him the mechanism to do precisely that. The deputy role was not a punishment. The suitor vetting, the social calendar, the escort duties, the musicale—she was handing him a reason to be at Elizabeth’s side every day for months. She was arranging the proximity, removing the obstacles. She was, he realized, with a slow dawning that rearranged the furniture of the entire conversation, helping him.
