“You must bring her to Matlock House. I hold a small musical evening every third Wednesday. Nothing elaborate, just intimate company, superior refreshments. Augustus is extremely fond of music, are you not, my dear?”
“Passionately,” Augustus said, gazing at Elizabeth as if she were a refreshment table laden with superior lobster patties.
Elizabeth caught Darcy’s eye. His face was all composure, but the set of his shoulders betrayed him. He was watching his aunt parade her son with the same relentless energy Mrs. Bennet had once reserved for Jane. Elizabeth swallowed her mortification and prayed Darcy would not mention the resemblance.
“You are very kind, Lady Matlock,” Elizabeth said. “I shall convey your invitation to Mary. She will be honored.”
“And you must come as well, naturally. Both Bennet sisters. All three! The more the merrier.” Lady Matlock beamed with the warmth of a woman who had just secured three potential targets for the price of one invitation. “Fitzwilliam, you will bring them, of course. As Lady Sophia’s deputy.”
“Of course,” Darcy said with the same intonation as a funeral director. “Aunt Matlock, I shall give your regards to Lady Sophia.”
Nodding absently, Lady Matlock announced that she spotted a duke’s granddaughter and blessedly swept away her son, whose hooded eyes roved from side to side so aimlessly that Elizabeth worried he had lost all his sheep.
She turned to Darcy, her eyebrows raised in a silent plea.Must we endure this?
“Lord Coke is Colonel Fitzwilliam’s elder brother,” Darcy noted, his voice tight. “You recall the Colonel from Rosings.”
“The Colonel’s brother?” She couldn’t hide the disbelief. “He lacks every ounce of his brother’s graciousness. I recall the Colonel very well. He was by far the most agreeable conversationalist I encountered in Kent.”
“The Colonel, being the second son, would naturally develop a sense of decorum not required by the heir,” Darcy admitted. “I would not advise welcoming Lord Coke’s attentions, Miss Elizabeth, although my position requires me to return Lady Matlock’s calls and attend her events.”
“I see… family obligations preclude you from your guardian duties.”
“It is not like that at all.” Darcy’s voice held suppressed anger. “You are, perhaps, aware that having a fortune makes it terribly difficult to distinguish what is performative from genuine attachment.”
“A problem you’ve no doubt encountered.” Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. “Tell me, Mr. Darcy, when you met my family in Meryton, did you believe I performed for your ten thousand a year?”
Darcy looked down at her, his dark eyes arresting her with a sudden, intense focus that made the salon chatter fade to a distant hum.
“Never,” he said, the word low and entirely unvarnished. “You did everything in your power to provoke me, Miss Elizabeth, and absolutely nothing to please me. I could neveraccuse you of a performance.” He stepped a fraction closer, his jaw tightening as he looked in her eyes. “My error was not in doubting your sincerity. My error was in believing that you would eventually… that you might?—”
He cut himself off, turning away from her, leaving Elizabeth unsure of whether he was about to apologize—before reminding herself forcefully that aristocrats like Darcy had no need to apologize when stating the facts of their societal differences. His error was believing she had so little pride that she would accept his fortune in lieu of his good opinion of her person.
Her breath hitched at the thought, so she turned eagerly to a pair of mothers and their highborn sons, who claimed acquaintance.
“Miss Bennet! What an unexpected delight,” a loud, brassy voice interjected, shattering the fragile glass of their privacy. A plump dowager in a towering turban of amber crepe wedged herself between them, dragging a young man who looked as though he had spent his entire morning in a stable and rather regretted his current presence in a parlor.
“Lady Wharton,” Darcy said, his tone instantly freezing into a defensive block.
“Mr. Darcy! Excellent, excellent. Miss Bennet, you must allow me to present my son, Sir George. He has just returned from Newmarket. George, do tell Miss Bennet about your new filly. The one by the Eclipse bloodline.”
Sir George brightened, his eyes darting to Elizabeth’s emerald gown with a sudden, calculating look that belonged on a jockey inspecting a prime thoroughbred. “A magnificent beast, Miss Bennet. Clean hocks, superb chest. She is entered for the Gold Cup at Ascot next month. You must join our party in the Wharton box. The view of the turf is unmatched.”
“You are very hospitable, Sir George,” Elizabeth said, her arch sweetness returning as a shield. “Though I fear myknowledge of horseflesh is terribly limited. In Hertfordshire, we value a beast more for its capacity to pull a cart through the mud than its lineage.”
Sir George blinked, visibly horrified by the introduction of a cart into a discussion of racing aristocracy. “A cart? Good heavens. No, no, my filly is built for speed, Miss Bennet. Fifteen thousand… Ah, that is to say, fifteen hundred guineas I paid for her. A bargain, really.”
“George,” his mother admonished with a sharp tap of her fan against his sleeve. “Do not speak of the purse. Tell Miss Bennet about the sport! He rides himself, Miss Bennet. He won the sweepstakes at Epsom.”
“I was very fast,” Sir George added with profound self-congratulation.
“Stirringly described,” Elizabeth murmured, catching Darcy’s eye over the lady’s amber feathers.Another buyer, her mind snapped,though this one appears to judge a woman by the very same metrics he uses at the auction block.
“And you must see him in the saddle, Miss Bennet,” Lady Wharton continued, oblivious to the frost in the air. “The Wharton stables are legendary. You must allow George to drive you out to the course. He has the most wonderful seat.”
“I am sure his seat is everything it ought to be,” Elizabeth said.
The second matron, a woman with an impressively low decolletage, nudged a pale, long-limbed young man forward. “Miss Elizabeth, I hear you are a great walker. My Oliver is also a great walker. He composes poetry while on his jaunts.”
