Chapter 9
“Cheer up, Darcy,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said. “We shall have fun tonight, I dare say.”
“It will do you good,” Bramwell added.
Darcy looked across the carriage at his cousins, his brow arched.
“Granted, it is not your preferred way to spend an evening,” Bramwell admitted.
“Nevertheless, being amongst society is not such a bad thing, especially if you are to do as my dear parents all but demand you do and take a wife. I estimate you have two months to present them with a lady they find acceptable—you know what I mean—else you risk finding yourself shackled to Anne.”
He sniggered, and Darcy considered kicking him.
The subject of his marriage had arisen—yet again—just that day when he had dined with the earl and countess, their sons, and his sister at Lord Romsley’s Grosvenor Square townhouse.
He had said he did not object to the notion of marrying, but was ‘rather uncertain’ about Anne, hoping they would ask what he meant, and he would be able to explain his reasons for rejecting the match without sounding too harsh about his cousin.
Unfortunately, the earl and countess had not, and the conversation had moved on.
“I would prefer not to enter the ballroom—this one, any future ones, indeed, any room whatsoever—with the view of selecting a bride,” Darcy said to his cousins.
“When I meet a suitable lady, I shall know it, and I shall not be convinced to marry against my will.” Suppressing a yawn, he leant his head against the squab.
The past few weeks had been unaccountably busy.
He had gone to Pemberley after receiving news that there had been a fire in the kitchen—fortunately small.
While the steward was capable of undertaking repairs, it was his house and responsibility, and he had wanted to visit with the two servants who had been injured while battling the blaze.
Both would be well, to Darcy’s profound relief.
At present, all his family were in town.
He was glad of it, but spending time with them, his sister most of all, occupied the greater part of his days, meaning other activities were being neglected.
There were still calls he wished or felt obligated to make, some to people he had not seen since before he had gone to Ireland, some to maintain important family connexions, and others to friends.
Mrs Ryde was amongst them. He would have called on her in any case, but given how kind she had been to him and Bramwell in Dublin, he should make a point of going to see her as soon as possible.
Why did I have to think of Mrs Ryde? Now I shall have her image in mind all night.
It was better to use the time to review his tasks.
Primary amongst these was Georgiana. Darcy had recently met a middle-aged widow named Mrs Annesley who might be a good choice of companion for his sister.
The ladies, including Lady Romsley, were to meet in two days.
Once Georgiana had a new companion, she and the woman would live in Berkeley Square with him; a separate apartment was being readied for them, complete with bedchambers and a large sitting room.
“What news have you had from Bingley?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“You could write to him yourself,” Darcy suggested. “You are good enough friends for that. And then you would not need to learn what he is up to through other people all the time.”
The colonel shrugged. “You know how little I like writing letters. So, what does he have to say for himself?”
Again almost yawning, which was not an indication of his opinion on the subject or company, he said, “It appears he is enamoured of his new situation. The estate he let is everything it needs to be, the neighbours are excellent—notably the family who live closest to him—and the countryside is very pretty. He intends for his sisters and brother-in-law to join him there soon.”
In his latest missive, Bingley had repeated his invitation to visit him at Netherfield any time.
Darcy might spend a week or two with his friend, even though the coming months would likely be busy.
If he wanted to satisfy his aunt and uncle Romsley and keep them from pressing him to marry Anne, he would have to settle on another lady soon, despite what he had said earlier to his cousins about not being rushed into a decision.
In truth, he could withstand their insistence that it was time for him to take a wife, but he was prepared to, even eager to, begin the next stage of his life, one in which he was a husband and father.
After all, part of his responsibility as master of Pemberley was to ensure there was a subsequent generation to continue his family’s legacy.
“He is so close, I feel we ought to go see this estate of his,” the colonel said.
“Then why do you not arrange it?” Bramwell demanded. “You do not need Darcy to do it for you.”
The brothers bickered for the short period that remained before they arrived at the ball, which was being hosted by Mr and Mrs Ware.
His cousins’ behaviour did not worry or vex him; it was usual for them, and if they did not appreciate each other’s company, they could easily avoid being together.
Darcy considered them his closest friends, and he knew they viewed each other as friends as well as brothers.
After greeting their hosts, the three men walked about and spoke briefly to several people they knew. Bramwell and Fitzwilliam continued to discuss Bingley and the possibility of travelling to Hertfordshire.
“I have considered it,” Darcy admitted. “Currently, I am too occupied here to make a definite plan. Therefore, if you want to see him or Netherfield, you will have to write to him yourselves.”
“I am not the one who is desperate to go,” Bramwell said. “That is my broth—” The viscount abruptly stopped speaking, and he grasped one of Darcy’s arms, halting their progress through the room. His voice urgent and almost breathless, he continued. “Who is that?”
“Who?” Fitzwilliam demanded, looking about, his upper lip curled in confusion.
At the same time, Darcy said, “Bramwell, you know neither of us have any notion what you are talking about. Have you seen someone unexpected?”
The viscount’s eyes were wide, and he was motionless, even to the point that Darcy was not sure he was breathing properly. “Her. The young lady over there. No, do not look!” he hissed.
Catching Fitzwilliam’s eye, Darcy pressed his lips together to avoid laughing. Not only was Bramwell’s behaviour puzzling, but it was also decidedly unlike him. He was evidently transfixed, but there was no sign he was distressed.
“The lady in pink, golden hair, standing with another woman wearing green. I must find out who she is,” Bramwell said urgently.
Looking in the direction, the viscount was, Darcy chuckled. “Are you trying to be amusing? That is my cousin Rebecca.”
“Good lord, please tell me you have been struck by a coup de foudre!” Fitzwilliam said, doing little to disguise how diverted he was. “Your cousin, Darcy? That means my brother cannot play his usual tricks—”
“Be quiet!” Bramwell ordered, shaking his head. “It cannot be Rebecca Darcy. I have met her. She is a little girl.”
Darcy rolled his eyes. “She is twenty, and it most certainly is Rebecca. The lady she is with is my aunt.” Her back was mostly turned to them, so he understood Bramwell not recognising her.
Bramwell glanced at him, seemingly to ensure he was telling the truth. “Why have I not met her before? In society, I mean?”
Fitzwilliam laughing silently beside him, Darcy patiently said, “Aunt Darcy’s father died last year.
They were not in town. Do you not recall?
The year before that, they remained in Shropshire with him, at my uncle’s estate.
If you think you can manage to behave like a proper gentleman, let us go greet them.
Mind, Bramwell, I will not have you flirt with her or—”
His warning remained unfinished, because just at that moment, Darcy noticed three other ladies approach his aunt and cousin; only one of them could affect him into speechlessness, however. It is she! She is here. Elizabeth Bennet.
“Is that not Mrs Ryde?” Fitzwilliam said. “But who is with her?”
“It is Miss Bennet!” Bramwell exclaimed. “Darcy and I met her in Dublin. You have heard me speak of her. She was there with Lord Halsley and Mrs Ryde.”
“Well? Are we going to stand here looking stupid—which someone is sure to notice and comment on at any moment—or are we going to greet the ladies? My brother was bad enough, but whatever has got into you, Darcy?” Fitzwilliam asked.
The tone of his voice suggested that it was not the first time he had tried to get him to respond.
Darcy swallowed, hoping to ease the dryness in his mouth.
When he had mistaken her for Mrs Ryde’s paid companion, he had been certain he would see Elizabeth in town, and he had told himself he would remain aloof, no matter how much he might want to converse with her, or to have her enchanting eyes turned to him.
For some reason, it had not occurred to him that she might be here as her guest. But it should have; after all, he had seen how greatly Mrs Ryde cared for her and appreciated her lively company.
What a beautiful sight she was! Her gown consisted of a shimmering sheer fabric overtop a lovely rich blue, and candlelight made her hair glimmer.
Altogether, she was like a shining star, and—despite knowing it was wrong—he was drawn to her.
Indeed, rather than a star, he ought to consider her a lighthouse—a warning to beware because that way lay danger.
Nevertheless, Darcy led his cousins to the ladies; not only did politeness require it, but he could also not keep away from her. Once nearby, Darcy made his bow and, from the corner of his eyes, saw that Bramwell and Fitzwilliam were doing likewise.
“Darcy, I had no notion you would be here this evening,” his aunt said.