Naturally, Darcy would assign the last slot to Lord Coke. He would do it at the eleventh hour to forestall any other applicants’ pleas. And this ivory silk threaded with gold would be crushed under the weight of a hand she did not desire.
But she was Elizabeth Bennet, and she would be brave and face her defeat with her chin up and her spine stiff.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE GENTLEMAN PROTESTS
Richard’s letterarrived in the morning post, but Darcy carried it to White’s unopened. The day before a ball in a house full of ladies—even if the ladies were next door at Number 33—was sheer pandemonium. He sent Georgiana over to participate in the preparation. She would not be attending, thank heaven, though the mere thought of her future debut was enough to give him a headache on the spot. He had spent his morning arranging the carriages, coordinating with the coachmen, and finalizing Miss Elizabeth’s dance card.
The retreat to a gentleman’s club, White’s, was also a necessary haven from his aunt, Lady Matlock, who had earlier that morning stormed the Bastille of his townhome. She had arrived in a cloud of outraged silk to demand her son’s placement on the supper set, which this year included a scandalous new addition to the London boards—the waltz.
Almack’s had not approved the waltz, and Darcy could see why. Instead of the usual parade of partners and polite distance, the waltz glued a gentleman and lady together, his hand scandalously free on her waist, spinning them into their own little world. The idea of some fortune-hunter pressing close to Elizabeth—no, he would sooner let a wolf into the drawingroom. The thought of another man standing behind her chair at supper, all possessive, was enough to make him want to overturn the punch bowl.
Not that Elizabeth’s admirers had much chance to make themselves known to her. Darcy had kept her schedule packed: estate ledgers, lending libraries, Nettle’s muddy paws, sisterly chatter, Cheapside’s chaos, museums, parks, art shows—he had escorted her through every last one, the picture of dutiful supervision. If she had noticed, she had not objected. She was curious, enthusiastic, and seemed to enjoy every outing, every new sight and sound.
He collapsed into a leather chair by the window, coffee in hand, and let out a sigh that nearly fogged the glass. The Times sat ignored at his elbow. Three gentlemen snored gently in the corners, which made the library the most civilized spot in London.
He broke the seal.
My dear Darcy,
I trust the alteration in your spirits which I observed in February has since found some amendment. You bore the appearance, when we last parted in Kent, of a man who had received intelligence of a decidedly unwelcome nature, and I confess I have wondered since whether the intelligence proved as durable as your countenance that evening suggested. I do not enquire directly, as you have not volunteered the particulars, and a Fitzwilliam does not press where a Darcy has closed the door. But I observe, even from this distance, that your letters have improved. The March ones read as though composed by a man in the grip of some lingering fever. The more recent correspondence suggests recovery, or at the very least a sustained convalescence with tolerable prospects.
I hope to be in London for the latter portion of the Season. The regiment is to be redistributed in June, and my colonelhas intimated that my services might be better employed in persuading Lord Castlereagh’s secretaries that cavalry horses require actual feed rather than Treasury memoranda, which would place me in Whitehall by mid-month. If so, I shall call. You may warn Georgiana that her favorite cousin intends to eat her chocolate and monopolize her pianoforte.
Yours, etc.
R. Fitzwilliam
P.S.—I am told the Season is particularly animated this year. Lady Matlock’s letters are full of some young lady who has taken a house on Grosvenor Street and set the ton on its ear. Mother does not give the name, which suggests she is either protecting the lady’s reputation or reserving her for Coke. As these motives are not mutually exclusive, I offer no speculation.
Darcy folded the letter, feeling glad at the thought of Richard’s return. The Colonel always saw more than was convenient. He had watched Darcy stumble back from the parsonage, soaked and pale, and had the decency to offer brandy instead of questions. He had walked with Elizabeth, too—enough to make Darcy wonder if they had struck up a secret alliance. But Richard, ever honest, had confessed his affection and his lack of prospects, and Elizabeth had accepted it with that maddening, graceful composure of hers.
Except now Elizabeth had a fortune, and Richard would have to wrestle his own brother for the privilege of her hand.
Lady Matlock’s cryptic postscript meant she had written to Richard about Elizabeth without daring to use her name. Clearly, Elizabeth was now important enough to be both discussed and disguised. Lord Coke had the cotillion tomorrow. He was honest, self-aware, and—worst of all—someone Elizabeth might actually like. That made him more dangerous than every fortune-hunter in London.
And then a thought occurred, unbidden and disruptive. Miss Courtenay had complained that Darcy had assigned all of the dance slots without truly asking Elizabeth which gentlemen she preferred.
What if she wanted Lord Coke? She had looked perfectly content when he claimed the cotillion.
He grabbed his coffee, determined to read the paper and think about anything except the ball—or the woman who had teased him mercilessly with her wit.Last man. Last woman.She had him so tangled up in knots that he was unsure whether she had softened her disgust or only joked about it.
He opened the paper. He did not get past the headline.
Sir Geoffrey Hale’s voice cut through the adjacent coffee room like a sudden foul draft.
“She is the most direct creature I have encountered this Season, Leycester. None of this simpering behind the fan. She addresses you face-on with those extraordinary eyes, and you cannot determine whether she is amused by you or dissecting you, and either possibility is—well.” Sir Geoffrey’s laugh was warm, confident, appreciative in a manner that set Darcy’s teeth on edge. “Rather intoxicating.”
“So I am told.” The second voice belonged to Lord Leycester, Viscount Rainford’s son—a lazy, handsome youth with the slightly reddened eyes of a man who spent his nights at hazard. “My mother returned from calling on the lady Tuesday last and has spoken of little else. The figure, the fortune, the conversation, the talent, her love for books and novels. Mother says the conversation on Burney alone would justify the fortune, which is the most enthusiasm she has displayed since the Devonshire ball when Lady Jersey wore that turban.”
“Aye, but her conversation is more than just books,” Sir Geoffrey again, closer now. Darcy could hear boot heels on the polished floor, two men moving from the coffee room towardthe library. “She does not defer or retreat into pleasantries. You make a remark, and she returns it with interest, improved and sharpened, and the process is—Leycester, I tell you, it is like fencing with someone who has been trained when you have only been practicing.”
“Have you obtained a dance with her?” the young Lord Leycester asked. “I hear you visited her aunt and uncle. Quite accepted into the fold.”
“Yes, and the children were so very delightful. Her uncle, however, defers the dance card to a deputy of Lady Sophia’s, can you imagine that?”
“Do tell! Who is this man? I have not secured even a country dance.”
