Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
As Darcy rode back to Netherfield after the visit, Mr Grant’s words echoed with unwelcome persistence. He could scarcely recall how the remainder of the visit had passed; his thoughts had been too thoroughly overturned, his composure too shaken to recover it quickly.
The steady rhythm of his horse’s hooves did little to ease the tight, twisting unease within him. He had only just begun to admit—if only to himself—that his admiration for Elizabeth Bennet had slipped into something far more dangerous. If he were honest, he was already halfway in love with her.
It troubled him to admit that a marriage to her felt suddenly practicable now that her heritage was known, and he disliked himself for the quiet relief the knowledge inspired.
Before learning of it, he might have resisted her.
Understanding that she would not endure the ton’s censure for her lack of fortune and connexions—that he would not be obliged to defend her against whispers of ambition or watch her be wounded by being branded a fortune hunter—had altered something in his mind.
Despite the sharp ache that truth produced, he could not—would not—stand in Richard’s way if his cousin formed a sincere attachment to her.
His cousin deserved happiness. He had earned it through years of loyalty, service, and unflagging good humour.
Darcy would sooner wound himself than deprive Richard of a chance at an affectionate marriage.
But the thought hollowed him nevertheless.
He could too easily imagine Elizabeth smiling at Richard, laughing with him, offering him that warmth and openness Darcy had come to crave. Richard would almost certainly fall in love with her. Mr Grant had been correct; the two did share much in common.
She might choose him. Not because he was the second son of an earl, but because Richard was everything Darcy was not.
He was easy in company—jovial, approachable, effortlessly engaging.
He never faltered for words, never lingered at the edges of a room hoping no one would press him into conversation.
Moreover, he would never have insulted a woman he had not yet met simply because he had been in a foul humour.
As Darcy considered the possibilities before him, he realised that none of them were palatable in the least—at least not where Elizabeth Bennet was concerned.
He scarcely needed to dwell on Mr Grant’s proposal regarding Georgiana; he had reached his decision nearly the moment the offer was made.
In this, Mr Grant had also been correct: Georgiana would wish to spend time with their cousin, and she would undoubtedly benefit from an introduction to Elizabeth.
She was precisely the sort of young lady Georgiana might safely admire. She was steady, without artifice, and unlikely to fawn or scheme for advancement like Miss Bingley and so many others were prone to do.
Likewise, Darcy welcomed the opportunity to assist his friend while maintaining a prudent distance from that friend’s sister, whose behaviour had only worsened during his stay in Hertfordshire.
It appeared she had convinced herself that his agreement to visit Netherfield had signalled an intention to offer for her, and she had grown increasingly proprietary of late.
No matter what Darcy did to discourage her, she persisted.
The prospect of residing under the same roof as Elizabeth brought its own complications.
To be near her—to observe her, speak with her, come to know her better—would only intensify the very desire he dared not act upon.
If Mr Grant meant to bring Richard to Millbrook Cottage expressly to introduce him as a suitor, then he had likely already concluded that Richard was a suitable match.
Darcy did not know how he was to endure watching the woman he admired courted—perhaps even claimed—by another.
Still, he would not deny her the opportunity of meeting Richard and forming her own impression of him, free from his interference.
If her grandfather’s intentions had been limited merely to presenting her to London society, Darcy might not have hesitated to speak.
But if the earl truly believed Richard ideally suited to her, what right had he to prevent her from discovering that for herself?
His hand tightened on the reins before he realised it, the leather creaking beneath the force of his grip. A faint stiffness settled through his shoulders, the kind born not of physical strain but of a deeper, more unwelcome turmoil.
He fervently wished that matters of the heart could be governed with the same clarity and order that directed the management of an estate.
There, logic prevailed; choice was guided by practicality, duty, and experience.
But here, in this realm of feeling and uncertainty, he was quite at a loss.
Every path before him seemed fraught with danger—to his hopes, to his cousin’s future, and most of all, to Elizabeth’s freedom to choose her own happiness.
In truth, he suspected he ought not to remain in the neighbourhood at all.
A short absence would serve them all, making it easier for him to remove himself from Netherfield and take up residence at Millbrook.
He would travel to Derbyshire himself to fetch Georgiana.
She could have made the journey without him—her companion competent and the road well-guarded—yet he felt compelled to go himself.
A few days away might permit him to regain his balance, to school his thoughts, and—though he scarcely wished to admit it—to resign himself to the possibility that Elizabeth might choose another.
He considered how best to make the journey.
The idea of spending long hours confined within his travelling coach, with nothing but his own restless uncertainty for company, made his breath tighten.
No—he rejected it almost immediately. It would be far better to ride.
The coach at Pemberley would suffice for Georgiana’s return, and the solitary hours on horseback would give him the space he needed.
The steady rhythm of the horse beneath him, the sweep of the landscape, the silence—those might help him think clearly again.
Yes, he would ride north with just one of his grooms as company.
With each mile, he would attempt to order his thoughts, to determine how he ought to conduct himself upon his return… and how to bear it, should Elizabeth Bennet offer her heart to another.
Thus resolved, Darcy wasted no time upon his return to Netherfield. After retreating to his chamber to change and to inform his valet of his intentions, he descended the stairs intending to speak with Bingley at once.
Instead, he found Miss Bingley stationed at the foot of the stairs as though she had been lying in wait for him.
Before he could so much as greet her, she seized his arm—tightening her grip in a manner that made it impossible to withdraw without causing a scene.
Irritation flared instantly. He scowled and opened his mouth to demand she release him, but she spoke first—not before looking around to ensure that her actions were being observed by the servants.
“Fitzwilliam, darling,” she cooed, adopting a tone she clearly believed seductive. It had quite the opposite effect, grating most unpleasantly. “Where have you been? We missed you this morning at breakfast.”
The sound of his Christian name upon her lips—used without leave, as if she claimed any right to such familiarity—sent a sharp surge of anger through him.
Any restraint he had intended to exercise vanished at once.
No longer concerned with the appearance of gentility, he removed her hand firmly from his arm and stepped back, establishing a cool, unmistakable distance between them.
“My movements are no concern of yours, Miss Bingley,” he said, his voice low and unyielding, coloured with open distaste.
“After such an exhibition of impropriety, any regret I might once have felt at leaving your brother in the lurch has been entirely eradicated. I shall quit Netherfield the moment I have changed back into my riding clothes, and proceed directly to Pemberley.”
He did not add that he would soon return to the neighbourhood, and wondered—without the slightest inclination to care—whether she would attempt to persuade her brother to follow upon his departure.
Her eyes widened, startled as much by his tone as by his words; yet he pressed on, resolute in denying her even the comfort of feigned innocence.
“You have repeatedly endeavoured to imply a degree of intimacy with me and my family that has never existed,” he continued, each word delivered with measured contempt.
“Although you have never been introduced to my aunt, you have made use of my friendship with your brother to thrust yourself into a society to which you possess no rightful claim. You have allowed others to believe you were known to Lady Matlock, and my aunt has been obliged to contradict such assertions more than once. I have urged your brother to correct this behaviour, but whether he failed to do so or you chose to disregard him, is immaterial.”
He paused, ensuring the full severity of his disapproval could not be mistaken.
“This ends now. You will never again presume upon any connexion with my family. Should your brother see fit to ignore my express wishes in this matter, I will not hesitate to sever my acquaintance with him as well.”
“Mr Darcy!” Miss Bingley exclaimed, heat rising in her cheeks as astonishment warred with indignation at his words.
The sharp sound of a door closing somewhere down the corridor snapped through the charged silence, startling them both.
Darcy turned at once, shoulders stiffening, as Bingley stepped into the passage.
His friend halted mid-stride, his gaze moving between them—first to Darcy’s cold, unyielding expression, then to his sister’s startled face.