Chapter 5 A Rose Revealed #2
Darcy shook his head. He was becoming hysterical.
Certainly, there were other Bennets in England.
He believed there was a wool merchant family of Bennets from Yorkshire, and another acquaintance in Staffordshire.
He couldn’t suspect every Bennet elevated to a deathbed warning.
Especially not an impudent miss with those perceptive eyes.
Across the circle, Wickham’s face remained pleasantly interested, but Darcy caught the flash of triumph in his eyes.
“Rose,” Wickham repeated, his voice warm as honey. “How lovely. Does it have some family significance, Miss Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth shrugged lightly. “If so, my father has never mentioned it. I have always assumed it was chosen simply because it is a pretty name.”
“It suits you perfectly,” Wickham said, his gaze lingering on her face with an intensity that made Darcy’s jaw clench. “Beauty, strength, and if I may say so, a few well-placed thorns for protection.”
Elizabeth laughed at the compliment, clearly charmed by Wickham’s attention. “You attribute thorns to me already, Lieutenant? We have only recently become acquainted.”
“Some qualities announce themselves immediately,” Wickham replied, his smile calculated to disarm. “A rose, after all, makes no secret of its defenses—nor of its beauty.”
The game continued around the circle, but Darcy barely registered the other revelations.
His attention remained fixed on Wickham, who had subtly maneuvered himself to stand beside Elizabeth.
Their heads were bent close in conversation, Wickham’s expression one of intense interest as Elizabeth spoke.
“They make a handsome pair, do they not?” Caroline Bingley’s voice at his elbow startled him. Her tone held a mixture of malice and satisfaction that grated on his already strained nerves.
“I had not considered the matter,” Darcy replied coldly.
“No? I thought perhaps you had been considering it these twenty minutes at least, given the intensity of your gaze. Lieutenant Wickham seems quite taken with Miss Elizabeth. One might even say unnaturally so, given their brief acquaintance.”
“Your observations on the attachments of others are always enlightening, Miss Bingley,” Darcy said, his voice edged with sarcasm he did not bother to disguise.
Caroline persisted, apparently immune to his displeasure.
“I merely find it curious that he should single her out so particularly. After all, while Miss Elizabeth is tolerable enough, she is hardly the beauty of the family—that distinction belongs to Miss Bennet—nor is she likely to possess any substantial dowry.”
The echo of his own unfortunate words at the assembly rankled, but Caroline’s observation aligned with thoughts that had troubled Darcy.
Elizabeth Bennet, while captivating to him personally, was not an obvious target for Wickham’s usual mercenary pursuits.
She was neither an heiress nor a recognized beauty.
Darcy decided, even though he knew better, that she would be quite safe from Wickham’s tendencies. More likely, George had sensed his own interest in Elizabeth, purely as an object lesson for country manners, mind you, and was mercilessly needling him.
He turned his attention away from Elizabeth and joined a conversation with Sir William and Mr. Goulding, a local landowner who extolled Jethro Tull’s horse-drawn seed drill.
Their discussion of planting and harvesting might have proven enlightening had Sir William not interrupted every third sentence with reminiscences of agricultural exhibits he had witnessed in London.
As the evening drew to a close, Darcy watched with a sense of disquiet as Wickham escorted Elizabeth to her family’s carriage.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Wickham’s voice rose above the general conversation. “Might I call at Longbourn tomorrow? I should very much like to continue our discussion about Derbyshire landscapes.”
Elizabeth’s smile was warm, her eyes bright with pleasure at his attention. “I would like that, Lieutenant Wickham. Though I fear my father may not be receiving visitors at present.”
“I require no formal introduction to the master of the house,” Wickham assured her. “The pleasure of your company alone would more than justify the journey.”
The practiced gallantry made Darcy’s teeth clench. Wickham was moving with unusual speed, even by his predatory standards. Unable to interfere, Darcy retreated toward the entrance hall, near enough to overhear a brief exchange between Mrs. Bennet and Lady Lucas.
“That girl will be the death of me,” Mrs. Bennet murmured, watching Elizabeth bid farewell to Wickham. “Such headstrong behavior, encouraging an officer’s attention when her father has explicitly forbidden association with the militia.”
Lady Lucas made a sympathetic noise. “Young ladies can be difficult to manage at that age. Though I confess, Elizabeth has always seemed uniquely resistant to maternal guidance.”
“She comes by her stubbornness honestly,” Mrs. Bennet replied with a peculiar emphasis. “Some qualities run in the blood, as they say. She’s always had her father’s temper laced with the sardonic Bennet wit.”
The wording seemed strange to Darcy’s ear, but Bingley appeared at his side, his expression one of determined cheerfulness despite the evening’s disappointments.
“The carriage is ready, Darcy. Caroline and the Hursts are already seated.”
Darcy nodded, offering perfunctory farewells to their host as they departed. The night air was crisp, stars visible in the clear sky. In another context, he might have found it peaceful.
“A pleasant evening, overall,” Bingley ventured as their carriage began the journey back to Netherfield. “Miss Bennet was as lovely as ever,” Bingley continued wistfully. “If only I could secure a private audience with her father, I am certain I could address whatever concerns he harbors.”
Caroline sniffed delicately. “I cannot imagine what concerns could justify such rudeness. To forbid his family from associating with respectable neighbors is beyond eccentric—it borders on insanity.”
For the first time ever, Darcy was inclined to agree with Caroline, although he would not give her the satisfaction of verbal assent. Instead, he stared out the window into the dark countryside, vowing to distance himself from Hertfordshire and its backwater mysteries.
He was not a superstitious man, and he wasn’t going to allow name coincidences to rattle him.
Elizabeth Rose Bennet would merely be a curiosity, a pretty stone or piece of seaglass for him to peruse whenever boredom struck. She would definitely not occupy his every waking thought, and he would no more beware of her than of any other unknown Bennet.