Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Darcy frowned upon hearing the heavy step of his cousin’s boots coming down the hall towards his library, where he sat with his book and a cold cup of coffee.
He wondered whether he should feign sleep to avoid the conversation, but it was too late.
Fitzwilliam came bursting through the door with Saye close behind.
“There you are. Mother believed you died, but I told her we surely would have seen that in the papers.” Saye sat down in a chair, poured himself a bit of coffee, and added a healthy dose of something from the flask in his pocket. “You have gone to ground, Cousin. What ails you?”
“Nothing,” Darcy replied though it was not precisely true.
In the weeks past, he had been forced to suffer watching Elizabeth being paid court by nearly every unmarried man in London.
He stood by at several balls, not daring to risk rejection by asking her to dance but watching her do so with other men, knowing that, at any moment, an announcement of her betrothal could come.
He looked for it anxiously each time he saw her, seeking any indication of a peculiar regard for one to whom she spoke or with whom she danced.
He knew not how he would bear it when he saw it.
Darcy’s cousins continued to stare at him, causing him to protest, “I have been out with a few people.”
“I am not among that number,” Saye informed his brother gravely. “I have tried several times to have him join me at Jackson’s or Angelo’s, even his own club, but nothing has tempted him from this chair.”
“Not tonight,” Fitzwilliam informed Darcy cheerfully. “My mother is having a dinner party, and your attendance is required even if my brother and I must pick you up and carry you there ourselves. Pray, do not oblige us to do so.”
Darcy gave no response to this edict. He rose and went to stir the fire.
“Lady Courtenay will be there,”
“What is that to me?”
Saye blithely poured himself another of his special coffees. “So, you love her. You will hardly win her from your nest in the dark library.”
“Someone who has offended her as I have could never reasonably hope to win her no matter my position.”
“Your gloom bores me,” Saye informed him. “Stop moping about like a simpleton.”
Darcy frowned in annoyance. “You are not aware—”
Saye waved his hand, increasing Darcy’s annoyance.
“I do not need to be aware of anything. See here; if you saw a jump you wished to clear on your horse, you would practise until you could do it. When you meet one who can best you with his blade, you practise until you can beat him. If this were a game of chess and you found yourself in a corner, you would manoeuvre your way out of it. To win a lady is not different from any of that. Persuade her she needs you, and the rest will come.”
As if that would be easily done.
“Your problem,” Saye continued, “is that first, you attempted not to court her, and then, you tried rather unexpectedly to court her. You changed direction too quickly.”
Strangely enough, Saye was beginning to make sense.
“What you must do is put aside romance and befriend her. She has suitors lined up throughout London; distinguish yourself by not being a suitor but a friend.”
Fitzwilliam took his brother’s flask and added to his coffee. “You astonish me, Saye. Every so often, you say something rather wise.”
Saye gave a little nod, admitting modestly, “Even a blind squirrel occasionally finds a nut.”
Reluctantly, Darcy said, “Very well, then. When is dinner?”
“Her ladyship says if you are not there by half-six, one of Lady Courtenay’s beast-like footmen will be dispatched to retrieve you.”
Darcy rolled his eyes. “I shall be there.”
Darcy dressed with almost ridiculous care that evening, turning away four of his valet’s suggestions before finally settling on a waistcoat. As he was shaved, his mind lingered on the words his cousins had said to him.
It was unlike him to surrender when presented with a challenge, and in truth, that was all this was.
He had made a horrid first impression because he had behaved proudly in Hertfordshire, but he changed that.
He would no longer be haughty, and he would no longer designate people as beneath him.
Such thinking could only be counter to his purpose.
He would regard everyone as a person worth knowing, irrespective of standing.
He entered the drawing room wherein waited his aunt, uncle, and two cousins.
Minutes later, Lady Courtenay and Miss Bennet were announced.
Elizabeth was pleasant to him, Darcy noted, seeming to look on him kindly, and from it, he drew some hope.
Be her friend. Put aside notions of marriage for now, and just be her friend.
It was a familiar group, and soon, friendly conversation and laughter filled the room. Lord Matlock was in high spirits, regaling Elizabeth with some amusing tales that she appeared to tolerate with good humour.
After a time, his lordship abruptly ordered, “Darcy show Lady Courtenay that little sculpture in my study.”
Darcy had been speaking to his aunt, and he looked at his uncle at once, a bit chagrined by his rather obvious machinations. It seemed Elizabeth was surprised as well though she quickly covered it.
Lord Matlock tried belatedly to make his design less obvious. “I was speaking to Lady Courtenay of sculptures or, rather, the gardens at Matlock, and it came to my mind. I am sure she will enjoy it.”
With a smirk on his lips, Saye said, “Ladies do love military statuary more than anything, do they not?”
Elizabeth laughed at him but rose, saying, “Oh, yes. It is my passion.”
Darcy stood and offered Elizabeth his arm.
Saye, after a look from Lady Matlock, followed behind as though he would accompany them for the sake of propriety, but he disappeared almost as soon as they had cleared the room, wandering down a different hall with vague words of looking for something somewhere.
“Lady Courtenay, I apologise for my family’s rather obvious designs.”
“You need not apologise.”
“I would not embarrass you.”
“I am not embarrassed.” She smiled as they entered the book room wherein resided a little bronze sculpture of Wellington on his horse that Lord Matlock had commissioned.
Elizabeth picked it up, studying it closely. “So lifelike, other than the size, of course.” They both laughed a little, and then she turned to him, setting the sculpture back in its place.
“I have seen very little of you of late.”
“I tend to be disinclined towards more invitations than not, and”—he took up the sculpture and examined it—“I have been spending my time engaged on a course of introspection and improvement in my character.”
“A worthy endeavour for us all,” she said gently. “But I do hope our past disagreements have not prompted it.”
He put the sculpture back into its place and turned to her.
“Your reproofs were well-laid. I cannot deny, as I think back over my behaviour—not only in Hertfordshire but for many years—that I am ashamed of how I have acted. I was given good principles by my excellent parents but left to follow them in pride and conceit. I have grown accustomed to looking at those outside my immediate circle with meanness and disdain. I can only thank you for bringing it to my attention and permitting me to see, with candour, the error of my ways.”
Her eyes were fixed on the sculpture. “I spoke too freely. I must be more temperate in my expression.”
“I cannot despise your honesty. I have seen much to improve in myself, and I am grateful for that.” He hesitated a moment and then went on. “Though I must say, while you were correct in many things about me, in one thing you were mistaken.”
“Yes?”
“You think my regard for you is untrue, but I do love you, more so each time I see you. My expression of it is wanting; I have not known what it is to love or how to love another. Yet, already you have taught me that love must not be selfish. It must be courageous, placing itself above all other considerations.”
She blushed, still not able to raise her eyes to his. “You should not alter your character to please me. Whatever regard you might hold for me, I am unable to offer you more than my friendship.”
“My greatest honour would be to call myself your friend,” he responded gently.
She raised her eyes and offered him a smile. “Then we are friends, Mr Darcy. It is settled.”