Chapter 23
WHERE MR DARCY IS SEEN WITH ELIZABETH AT THE THEATRE, AND LADY CARLISLE IS SEEN BY MR DARCY.
Darcy’s carriage, one in a long line of countless others, rolled slowly towards the entrance to Covent Garden Royal Theatre.
He drummed his fingers against the upholstered seat, his impatience to reach the front of the line at odds with his desire to remain within the obscurity and privacy of his conveyance.
He glanced at Elizabeth, who was seated across from him beside her aunt, and felt his heart swell with adoration.
She looked beautiful. Her hair, her complexion, her figure, her gown—Darcy could not focus on any one feature for long else he become irrevocably distracted by her loveliness.
Her eyes were bright with curiosity as she absorbed every detail of her surroundings; her lips were upturned with delight.
He turned aside his head with a measured exhalation.
In that moment he dearly wanted to kiss her.
At last, they reached the theatre’s entrance.
The footman opened the door to the equipage, and the comfortable atmosphere of the conveyance turned brisk, prompting the ladies to wind their wraps more securely about their shoulders.
Darcy alighted quickly and extended his hand to Elizabeth.
She grasped it firmly with her gloved fingers, paying careful attention to the placement of her feet as she descended the carriage steps.
Once she was standing safely on firm ground, she gave Darcy a beatific smile that made him wish they were not surrounded by a horde of people about to enter Covent Garden, but ensconced within Darcy House and much alone.
“Thank you,” she said, making a slight adjustment to her wrap.
Darcy resisted the urge to kiss her tempting mouth and tucked her hand securely into the crook of his arm instead. “You are very welcome.”
As Mr Gardiner alighted and assisted Mrs Gardiner, they were joined by the Bingleys, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Mrs Lawrence, who appeared well entertained by Darcy’s charismatic cousin.
She wore a spectacular gown of royal blue satin, a fur cape, and a mischievous expression that immediately put Darcy on his guard.
Fitzwilliam was speaking to her of God only knew what, making her laugh.
Darcy hoped it was not a colourful account of his cousin’s exploits in the army.
“Shall we go in, Darcy?” Bingley suggested, grinning despite the frosty bite to the air. Without waiting for a reply, he led Jane towards the entrance.
The rest of their party followed.
They entered the lobby, and though the air was decidedly warmer, Darcy felt a coldness descend upon him.
The crowd assembled within was a crush. His spine stiffened and he felt his mask of composure slip into place.
Beside him, Elizabeth tightened her grip upon his arm, and he instinctively drew her closer as they slowly made their way through the elegantly attired throng of theatregoers.
Conversation was impossible over the noise, but that did not stop at least a dozen acquaintances from greeting them along the way.
Though the interactions were brief, Darcy noticed many of the gentlemen eyed Elizabeth appreciatively, while the ladies’ looks ranged from curiosity to scrutiny.
Elizabeth, Darcy was pleased to see, bore it all with her customary grace and good humour.
At long last they reached the sanctuary of Darcy’s box.
He saw the Gardiners and the Bingleys settled towards the front, then guided Elizabeth to a seat directly behind her sister.
He claimed the seat beside her as Colonel Fitzwilliam ushered Mrs Lawrence into the seat to Darcy’s left.
Once all the ladies were comfortably situated, the gentlemen followed suit.
“What a lovely evening, Mr Darcy,” Bingley’s aunt said to him. “I must thank you again for including me in your party. It has been many years since I have been to the theatre. This is a treat I will not soon forget.”
“I am pleased to have you join us, Mrs Lawrence. You are staying with the Hursts and Miss Bingley in Grosvenor Street, are you not?”
At the mention of her nieces, Mrs Lawrence emitted a long-suffering sigh.
“I am grieved to discover,” she said with a conspiratorial lilt to her voice, “there is not much fun to be had in Grosvenor Street. Though the neighbourhood appears quite fashionable, my relations who reside there are rather tiresome. I am considering decamping to Park Street tomorrow for the duration of my stay else I either lose my composure or die of boredom. As I have yet to see anything of London, it would be a most untimely demise.”
Beside her, Colonel Fitzwilliam chuckled. “Your husband, Mrs Lawrence, must have been a most affable gentleman, and extremely fortunate in his choice of wife. You do not suffer fools gladly.”
“Can one suffer a fool any other way?” she enquired with a twinkle in her eyes.
She inclined her head towards Bingley. “Charles’s excellent disposition notwithstanding, I have always considered it a misfortune that, while one can pick one’s friends and one’s neighbours, sadly, one cannot pick one’s relations. ”
“I suppose it depends upon where one looks,” the colonel replied. “You can always take another husband, madam, if you want amusement.”
Bingley’s aunt laughed merrily. “Goodness! You are a troublemaker! If I were thirty years younger, I daresay I would be in some danger.”
“If I were twenty years older, Mrs Lawrence,” he proclaimed with a roguish wink, “the danger would be entirely mine.”
She returned his wink and patted his hand fondly. “That it would, young man. That it certainly would. Do not doubt it for a moment.”
Darcy leaned towards Elizabeth, who was making a valiant effort to contain her laughter. “They are incorrigible,” he whispered, endeavouring to repress his own mirth. “I ought to have known better than to introduce the two of them.”
“Indeed! It appears the good colonel has met his match with Mr Bingley’s aunt.”
“Why did you not caution me?”
“This is a fine thing, sir,” she replied archly. “You can hardly expect to hold me accountable for your lapse of sound judgment! It is most unfair of you to cast blame where blame is not due. You are a man of the world. You ought to have known better.”
Darcy laughed. “And you, my dear, ought to know you are entirely to blame for my lack of attention to such matters. If you were not so lovely—if you had not bewitched me so—perhaps I would have had my wits about me instead of my head in the clouds.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened, though her smile remained. “I believe you are the incorrigible one, Fitzwilliam. But I cannot fault you for it. I can only admire you, most ardently.”
Darcy stared at her—at her blushing countenance, her artless smile, and the sincerity in her eyes—and felt a lightness, a completeness he only ever felt in her presence.
A wayward curl rested upon her cheek. Boldly, he extended his hand and gently wrapped it around his finger. “I cannot imagine my life without you.”
“I am very pleased to hear it,” she replied tenderly, “for I feel much the same.”
The following morning found Darcy in his study, sitting at his desk attending to his correspondence when his butler informed him of Lady Carlisle’s arrival.
Glancing first at the clock upon the mantel and then at the pile of letters requiring his attention, Darcy repressed an oath.
It was a most unwelcome interruption. He considered telling his butler to send his aunt away but dismissed the idea at once.
Refusing to see her would only serve to offend the countess.
It mattered little the purpose of her visit was likely to offend him.
Darcy’s reply to his steward would have to wait.
She swept into the room with her usual self-possession, the train of her gown swirling dramatically about her feet in what Darcy had long suspected was a practiced contrivance. Rather than claim a chair beside the fire, she took up residence before his desk and remained standing.
Darcy remained standing as well. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Lady Carlisle?” He linked his fingers behind his back and awaited her reply.
She did not answer but watched him with a steady, indecipherable expression.
Darcy grew uncomfortable under her scrutiny but maintained an air of neutrality as he studied her in turn. He had the distinct impression she was taking his measure. For what purpose he could not begin to guess.
“You were at Covent Garden last night,” she said at last.
“Yes.”
“I was there as well, as Lady Harrow’s guest.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I did not have the pleasure of seeing you there, nor did I happen to see Lady Harrow.”
“No,” she said briskly. “You only had eyes for the young woman seated beside you. Even when her attention shifted to the performance on stage, yours remained fixed upon her. I believe I am correct in assuming she is the one you intend to marry. What is her name? Miss Eliza…”
“Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Our engagement has not yet been made public, but our attendance of the performance was alluded to in the society page this morning.”
“I saw that, too.” Lady Carlisle walked to the hearth, ran her gloved fingers over the mantel, and examined them for signs of dust.
Darcy’s tolerance for her theatrics was waning. “I trust you did not come all this way to ensure that my housekeeper is diligent in her duties.”
Lady Carlisle continued to look peevish, but when she spoke her voice sounded less harsh. “She made you smile, Darcy.”
It was the last thing Darcy expected his aunt to say to him.
The countess continued in the same vein. “She made you laugh. I do not remember the last time I saw you laugh, but suspect the occasion likely involved Richard and some sort of boyhood antics, not a pretty, young woman in a pale, satin gown. Tell me, do you often laugh with Miss Bennet?”
“Miss Bennet often makes me laugh, yes.”