Chapter Thirty
Darcy’s focus over the next weeks was scattered.
Guilt filled him, pressing him to call upon Bingley and explain what he had learned, but in his pride, he resisted.
He also felt a desperate need to see Elizabeth again, though he hesitated to call on Lady Hertford.
He had questions—so many questions—and the only person who could answer them in full was Miss Elizabeth de Bourgh.
Darcy needed to know if he had a chance at winning her favor.
The need was not merely curiosity, nor even longing—though there was plenty of that—but a gnawing uncertainty that left him restless and ill at ease.
Every partial truth he possessed only sharpened his awareness of what he did not yet understand.
Elizabeth had stepped fully into a world he thought he knew, and in doing so she had overturned every assumption he had made about her place within it.
De Bourgh. He still could hardly believe that the lady with whom he had fallen in love—the thought surprised him, for he had not voiced it even in his thoughts until then—was connected to his formidable aunt. Lady Catherine seemed determined to ignore her niece’s existence.
The denial itself now struck him as willful blindness, and the more he reflected upon it, the more untenable it seemed.
Elizabeth bore the name openly, carried it with ease, and moved within society under protection far stronger than Lady Catherine’s own.
That his aunt could pretend otherwise spoke less to Elizabeth’s insignificance than to Lady Catherine’s pride.
I wonder how she would feel if she knew my affections were now entangled with the niece she longs to forget.
The thought brought him no satisfaction. He did not wish to wound his aunt—only to live honestly. Yet honesty, he was discovering, was often the most disruptive force of all.
Elizabeth’s association with Lady Hertford meant her connections were above and beyond his own. Was he to be relegated to the position of unworthiness by comparison? It was truly ironic how Providence sought to humble him.
He had always moved through society with the unexamined confidence of rank and fortune, assuming himself secure. Now, for the first time, he felt the awkward sensation of being evaluated from above rather than below—and found the reversal deeply unsettling.
She ought to have told me. He had left Hertfordshire, afraid he had raised her expectations—fearful that if he lingered, he would succumb to her charms and offer her his hand in marriage. I struggled to conceal my preference. She had to have known.
When he replayed their conversations, he could not find a single moment when she had actively deceived him. She had answered what was asked, withheld what was not demanded, and carried herself with a reserve that now appeared less like concealment and more like self-protection.
Perhaps there was a reason she had not given the truth of her circumstances. Whatever the case, Darcy wished for a private conversation with the lady.
Not in a ballroom, not under watchful eyes, but somewhere she might speak freely—and where he might listen without defensiveness.
Darcy began to attend far more society events than was his wont, in hopes of seeing Elizabeth. Rumors began to swirl that Mr. Darcy finally sought a wife, such was the change in his usual behavior. Still, he never saw Elizabeth and her party.
Each disappointment weighed heavier than the last. He arrived earlier, stayed longer, forced conversation where once he would have retreated.
He smiled—often awkwardly, sometimes too late—and endured engagements he would previously have declined without hesitation.
Still, Elizabeth remained elusive, her absence more conspicuous with every night she did not appear.
Desperate, he begged his aunt to accompany her to more exclusive events—ones where he had once received invitations, but no longer did, thanks to his frequent refusals.
As his aunt had frequently cautioned, access to exclusive events was not a given for one of his standing.
If he continued to refuse, he would lose his access to the most fashionable events.
Connections must be maintained, and he had done an abysmal job of that.
The irony was not lost on him. He had once disdained the very machinery of society he now strained to re-enter, all because he had believed himself immune to its consequences.
What a fool he had been! In seeking his own comfort and avoiding uncomfortable situations, he had essentially crippled himself in his quest to see Elizabeth. In his arrogance, he had believed it would not affect him—that the lack of invitations would do nothing damaging long term.
Now, each reclaimed invitation felt like penance.
“I warn you,” Lady Matlock said for the fifth time as the Matlock carriage arrived at the portico. They were to attend Lady Sefton’s private ball tonight. “If you do anything to my detriment, I shall never forgive you.”
“Yes, Aunt, you have made that abundantly clear.” Darcy pinched the bridge of his nose. Her lectures had begun the moment he climbed into her carriage and had not ceased. “I promise, I shall take heed to your sage advice more readily in the future.”
“See that you do.” The door opened, and a footman handed his aunt down. Darcy followed, impatiently entering the house and handing his things to the butler. The receiving line was long, and he struggled to contain his impatience.
“Mr. Darcy, it is very good of you to join us.” Lady Sefton’s tone sounded somewhat…condescending. He smiled—something he rarely did—and watched as the lady’s expression softened.
“I am very pleased you graciously included me in my aunt’s invitation. It has been far too long since I engaged in the season.”
She smiled wryly. “Indeed, it has. Does this mean we shall see more of you?”
“I should hope so, if I can earn my way back into society’s good graces.”
As he walked away with his aunt, he heard Lady Sefton say to her husband, “It is no wonder the boy never smiles. I am nearly undone!” Her declaration amused him greatly—he had no idea his smile was so disarming.
“Private balls are far more enjoyable than public ones, do you not agree, Darcy?” Lady Matlock snapped her fan open and began waving it in front of her face. “Ah, there is Bramley.”
Darcy followed her gaze across the room. Bramley stood with Miss Bennet. Elizabeth and Lady Hertford were with them. His heart leaped. For a moment, he forgot everything else—the effort, the frustration, the weeks of uncertainty. She was here. And with her, the possibility of answers.
Perhaps he could secure a dance and beg for a moment of her time.
“Lady Matlock, it is a pleasure to see you. Your son has been very attentive to our needs.” Lady Hertford smiled pleasantly at Darcy’s aunt. Her gaze, speculative and discerning, lingered on Darcy for a moment. He wondered what Elizabeth had told her about him.
“I should hope so. I raised Bramley to be a gentleman. If he has been anything less, then I shall know how to act.” The ladies chuckled, and even the viscount joined in.
Darcy returned greetings from the young ladies, his attention divided between courtesy and anticipation, and then turned to Elizabeth.
“Miss de Bourgh, do you have any sets free?” Darcy and his party were not the first to arrive, but surely she had dances left unclaimed.
“One, Mr. Darcy. My sixth is yet unclaimed.” She kept a neutral expression, which Darcy supposed was to hide her feelings from her chaperone. Lady Hertford watched their interactions closely, making Darcy exceedingly uneasy.
Darcy graciously asked if he might claim her sixth, despite feeling rather annoyed that he must wait until after supper to claim her hand.
Still, the promise of that dance—brief though it would be—was enough to steady him. At last, he would have the chance to speak to Elizabeth, to look her in the eye and discover whether the distance between them was born of caution…or of something far more difficult to repair.
Elizabeth had not expected the interval between dances to feel so…crowded.
No sooner had Mr. Darcy withdrawn than another gentleman approached—one she vaguely recalled being introduced to earlier in the evening. His manner was eager to the point of intrusion, his smile too fixed, his compliments too readily offered.
“Miss de Bourgh, I wonder that dances are not entirely claimed. Might I prevail upon you for the next—”
“I am engaged,” she replied, with polite firmness.
“For all the sets?” he pressed, stepping closer than was strictly proper. “Surely one might be persuaded—”
Elizabeth’s composure held, but only just. Lady Hertford was momentarily engaged with Lady Matlock, and Jane had been claimed for the next dance. She found herself, for the first time that evening, without immediate protection.
“That will not be necessary.”
Darcy’s voice, quiet but unmistakable, cut cleanly through the exchange.
He had returned without her noticing. There was no display in his manner, no overt challenge—only a calm certainty that admitted no argument.
“The lady has already informed you she has no free sets,” he continued, his gaze steady upon the gentleman. “You mistake persistence for gallantry.”
The rebuke was mild in tone, but not in effect.
The gentleman flushed, bowed stiffly, and withdrew with a muttered apology.
Darcy turned then, not to claim credit, but simply to ask, “Are you well?”
Elizabeth met his gaze, momentarily disarmed.
“I am, sir. Though I begin to understand that London requires more vigilance than I had anticipated.”
His expression softened—just perceptibly.
“Not vigilance,” he said. “Only the expectation that you will be treated with the respect you are due.”
Something in the way he said it—without presumption, without condescension—struck her more forcibly than the words themselves.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.