Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Darcy! Are you attending to the conversation?” Matilda Fitzwilliam, Lady Matlock, slapped her fan in her hand.
The sharp sound cut cleanly through his thoughts, which had wandered—quite against his will—into familiar territory.
“Forgive me, Aunt, I was not attending.” No, Darcy’s thoughts had been agreeably engaged in meditating on Elizabeth’s fine eyes. “What did you wish for me to hear?”
His slightly sarcastic reply was not lost on his lady aunt, who narrowed her eyes in disapproval. Lady Matlock had raised three sons and survived the ton for more than four decades; she was not easily cowed by tone.
“I merely wished to ensure you would attend my annual ball. Lady Hertford has accepted her invitation. She is chaperoning two young ladies this season. With her patronage, they are certain to make fine matches.”
Darcy struggled to keep his expression neutral. Everyone knew Lady Hertford was Prinny’s mistress. Her husband ignored the affair, but that hardly made it…appropriate. The ton pretended otherwise, of course, but Darcy had never been adept at polite self-deception.
“Are these ladies respectable?”
Lady Matlock laughed, a low, amused sound. “Of course, they are! The ladies are cousins, from what I have been told. One of them is Elizabeth de Bourgh. Why, she must be nearly one-and-twenty now. I wonder why her guardians have waited so long to present her.”
The name Elizabeth first drew his attention, but it was the surname that made his brow crease in consternation. His cup paused halfway to his lips.
“Who is Elizabeth de Bourgh?” Surely, there was no relation to his aunt and cousin in Kent.
“You were at school when the accident happened, and Catherine has tried to forget her unwanted relations.” Lady Matlock poured tea and added cream and sugar with deliberate calm. “Do you recall—Sir Lewis had a younger brother?”
“I do not recall—this Elizabeth is their daughter?”
His aunt nodded. “Yes, Nathan de Bourgh married a young lady from the country. No connections, little fortune. I believe she lived near the estate he inherited from his maternal grandfather. Lady Catherine was incensed—she kept crying about how the family line had been polluted. I saw nothing wrong with the match. Nathan was a younger son, and he had no need of a large dowry. Catherine refused to have anything to do with her sister-in-law, and after the accident that claimed the couple and Sir Lewis, refused to recognize the child. Her guardianship fell elsewhere.”
Darcy listened in growing stillness. The details settled uncomfortably into place—an estranged branch, a rejected child, a name quietly erased. His mind leapt ahead before he could stop it, assembling possibilities he did not yet wish to acknowledge.
Curiosity satisfied, Darcy merely nodded. “I suppose I shall be forced to acknowledge the lady.”
“You will be polite.” Lady Matlock fixed him with a look that brooked no argument. “The poor dear likely has no experience with the cruelty that can be found in our society. And it would look favorable to Lady Hertford if you were not your usual, taciturn self.”
Darcy frowned. “You wish to gain the lady’s favor? Why?”
“The Prince Regent’s illicit love or not, Lady Hertford wields great power. She also influences politics through her husband and the prince. Your uncle desires the connection, and so I shall endeavour to do my part.”
This did nothing to improve Darcy’s mood. He did not relish the idea of currying favor with a woman whose power rested on indulgence rather than principle, nor did he wish to lend himself to the advancement of insipid young ladies—particularly ones presumed incapable of defending themselves.
“We have another matter to discuss.” Lady Matlock raised her gaze to meet his, her tone sharpening. “Catherine and Anne have arrived at de Bourgh House. Your aunt has demanded you squire her and her daughter around town and to gatherings, in recompense for your…abandonment.”
“I will not be dictated to in such a manner.” Darcy set his cup and saucer down on the tray with a clatter. “Why can Richard or Bramley not do it?”
“Really, Darcy, it is not so great a task. You merely need to collect them in your carriage and then stalk the corners of the room while they mingle.”
“That is easy for you to say. You enjoy such events. I find them intolerable.” Darcy almost shuddered.
He would be expected to dance, and he would not be able to use the same excuses to abstain as he had in Hertfordshire.
The attendees would not be beneath him in any way.
In fact, many would surpass him in rank.
“Please, Darcy?” Lady Matlock looked imploringly at him. “Catherine has not been to Town in some years. And Anne has never—”
“Very well! Will they attend your ball?”
“They will.” Lady Matlock looked pleased. “We will likely have ruffled feathers. Lady Catherine will not be pleased to see her niece there. But could I refuse Lady Hertford?”
“No, I imagine my aunt will be dismayed and insulted,” Darcy said dryly, “especially if the young lady who shares her daughter’s name is better favored.”
“That was harsh, Darcy,” Lady Matlock said, though her lips twitched, “but true, nonetheless. Very well, I shall expect you to be on your best behavior. Bramley and Richard will be there, so you will not be entirely friendless.”
Lady Matlock dismissed him then, already turning her thoughts to invitations and arrangements. Darcy took his leave and made his way back to his townhouse, the winter air doing little to cool the heat of his thoughts.
Elizabeth de Bourgh.
The name refused to be dislodged. If Lady Hertford was indeed chaperoning her—if she had been seen openly in Town—then something far larger was at play than a belated presentation.
Darcy felt a familiar tightening in his chest, the uneasy sense that he was being drawn once more into a current he had neither chosen nor escaped before.
He closed the door behind him and resolved—without much conviction—to put thoughts of Elizabeth from his mind for a while.
He did not succeed. Darcy found himself longing for Richard’s company and his advice more than he had expected, particularly at those moments when a frank word or unvarnished perspective would have been most welcome.
Elizabeth had known the moment the carriage drew up beneath Lady Matlock’s blazing portico that there would be no retreat.
Lantern light spilled across the steps, catching on silk and jewels, and she felt herself suddenly, acutely visible.
The house itself seemed to hum with expectation, windows glowing, music faintly audible even from outside, as though the evening had been holding its breath for their arrival.
Lady Hertford descended first, immaculate and unhurried, her gown a masterwork of restrained elegance—deep amethyst silk cut to perfection, her diamonds chosen for authority rather than sparkle.
She moved as a woman accustomed to being observed and obeyed, her presence smoothing the way before her without effort.
Jane followed, and Elizabeth’s breath caught despite herself.
Jane’s gown was ivory shot through with the faintest gold, soft and luminous, her hair dressed simply, a single strand of pearls at her throat; she looked not adorned so much as revealed.
The choice of simple adornment only accentuated her natural beauty.
There was nothing studied about her appearance—no artifice, no excess—only quiet grace.
Elizabeth’s own gown—pearl-grey with silver embroidery and a delicate spray of diamonds pinned at the bodice—felt at once armor and invitation.
It was not designed to overwhelm, but to assert, and she felt the truth of it as she stepped onto the threshold.
Her pulse fluttered, nerves skittering beneath the practiced calm she summoned as she slipped on her society mask, serene and composed, and deliberately kept Jane close as they advanced to greet Lady Matlock.
If she must be examined, she would not be examined alone.
She had just completed the necessary courtesies to Lord and Lady Matlock when she felt Jane falter beside her—not from fear, but surprise.
Elizabeth followed her gaze and understood at once.
Their hosts’ son, Viscount Bramley, stood in the receiving line, and for one extraordinary moment he simply stared, struck utterly dumb by Jane’s beauty.
It was not the bold admiration of a practiced flirt, but something quieter and more startling: astonishment.
Then he recovered himself with visible effort and bowed.
“Miss Bennet, may I beg the honor of your first set?”
Jane’s cheeks bloomed pink as she answered, her voice soft but steady, pleased and shy in equal measure. Elizabeth—still exposed, still trembling beneath her calm—felt a quiet surge of triumph that at least one good thing had begun this night exactly as it should.
“That is quite the coup, Miss Bennet.” Lady Hertford smiled at her young charge, clearly pleased. “Bramley is notoriously particular. It is said that he is looking for a love match. I have spoken with you enough to know that you are not merely a pretty face.”
Jane thanked her ladyship politely, her composure returning even as the color lingered in her cheeks, and Elizabeth could not help but feel a swell of pride. Jane had always inspired affection; tonight, it seemed, she inspired something more immediate.
As Jane and Elizabeth followed Lady Hertford into the ballroom, the full spectacle revealed itself.
The room glittered—crystal chandeliers, polished floors, silk gowns in every fashionable hue.
There were already many guests sprinkled in groups around the room, laughter and conversation rising in a lively undercurrent, and Lady Hertford wasted no time introducing them to her associates.