Epilogue #3
He spied his wife across the room beside his mother.
Elizabeth had recovered her composure, though not entirely.
She held her fan a little too high and would not look in his direction.
His mother, who missed nothing, glanced from Elizabeth to Darcy and appeared pleased by whatever conclusion she had drawn.
He did not mind, for he was pleased too.
Beyond them, Miss Bennet—Miss Mary Bennet—was arguing with a grave young clergyman from Derbyshire.
He had offered some mild opinion Darcy could not hear.
Mary had disagreed, and he seemed to be attempting to qualify his position.
He was now leaning towards her with considerable animation, while Mary argued on with evident enjoyment.
He was not certain Mary Bennet would require his mother’s help after all, for she was more like Elizabeth than he’d believed.
He wandered over to join his wife just in time to hear his mother speak.
“There he is,” his mother said.
Darcy heard the brightness in her voice and knew at once she was not speaking of him.
He followed where his mother was directing her words.
There, at the far end of the saloon, his uncle Matlock was standing beside the fire with a glass in his hand.
He had spent the whole of the previous season avoiding his sister’s attempts to improve the marital prospects of her family, and had likely considered himself especially fortunate when she turned her attention from Darcy to his sons.
Evidently, he still believed himself safe.
Darcy addressed his mother. “No.”
She turned to him, all innocence. “I beg your pardon?”
“You promised me you would not attempt to match anyone without their agreement.”
“And I shall not.” She sipped her wine and then set the glass on a table.
Elizabeth caught on to the meaning of their conversation, and one hand came up to her mouth.
“I am not certain I believe you,” Darcy said.
“It is true.” She looked back towards her brother. “I shall not match your uncle to anyone without his consent.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Nothing at all.”
Darcy had lived eight-and-twenty years in his mother’s company. He waited. “Mother. What is your plan?”
She smiled. “To allow your uncle to consider what my plan might be. The uncertainty will trouble him exceedingly, until he begs me to get on with it so that he may regain his peace.”
Elizabeth’s eyes opened wider, and behind him, somebody laughed at the card table. Darcy did not turn to see who.
“You are diabolical, Mother. Have you no wish to match yourself instead?”
“One day, perhaps,” she said, and patted his cheek twice. “But there is much work to be done first.”
Darcy was still composing his objection when his uncle glanced up and found his sister watching him. Whatever he read there, he disliked it at once. His shoulders came back. His glass stopped halfway to his mouth.
“Anne,” he said, a bit too loudly. “No.”
The nearest conversations faltered.
“Brother.” His mother’s voice carried without any effort at all. “I believe it is your turn.”
“I am fifty-eight, Anne.”
“So much the better. You will require less training.”
His lordship looked about the room. His sons discovered a sudden and profound interest in their feet. Lady Euphemia turned away and began speaking very rapidly to her Scottish peer about the weather in Perthshire. Even the clergyman found his conversation with Mary rather more urgent than before.
Uncle Matlock looked about him. “Not one of you will help me?”
Darcy shrugged. He had tried.
His mother moved towards the door.
“Anne,” his uncle said, drawing out her name. “Where are you going?”
“To write a letter.”
Lord Matlock set his glass down on the mantel. “In the middle of your party? To whom?”
She paused upon the threshold. “A widow.”
Darcy noted that she had not said she was writing a widow to match her with his uncle. Only that she meant to write to one.
“Do not be ridiculous.”
“I am never ridiculous, dear brother. Merely thorough.”
Then she was gone. The door was left standing open behind her, which Darcy thought was very probably deliberate.
His uncle said something under his breath that Darcy thought fortunate the clergyman could not hear and then finished his wine in two large swallows.
Elizabeth met Darcy’s eye but said nothing. Together, they watched the earl set down his glass and leave the room in pursuit of his would-be matchmaker.
“Do you suppose he has any chance of escaping?” Elizabeth murmured.
Darcy considered the matter seriously. “None. She already has the only thing she requires.”
“Which is?”
“His attention.”
Darcy realised then that Georgiana had gone up to her room around midnight, and his mother had now left the room. He took Elizabeth’s hand and tilted his head towards the door.
Her smile was all the approval he required.
When they climbed into the carriage, Elizabeth settled back. “You have from here to our own door,” she said. “It is not a long drive. You had best be efficient.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your complaints, Mr. Darcy.”
“You agreed to sneak away with me. I have no complaints.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
He smiled slowly. “The bargain permitted me to complain. It did not oblige me.”
“Truly?” she asked, disbelieving. “Not a single one?”
He looked out at the wet street. “Very well. My mother invited more than twice as many people to her rout than she admitted to me. And from one hundred to more than two hundred is not an insignificant difference.”
“Go on.”
The carriage turned. Darcy watched the shuttered fronts go by and felt how aware he was of Elizabeth sitting beside him.
“I do have another.”
“Tell me,” she replied.
“You put your hand upon my chest in my mother’s hall this evening, where nobody could see it.”
“I did,” Elizabeth said. “Is that a complaint?”
“No,” he said, and leaned down to say in her ear, “The complaint is that you did not leave it there.”
She began to breathe a little quicker, which made Darcy smile.
“That is not a complaint about the party,” she said.
“You did not specify a subject.”
Elizabeth turned her face towards the window.
“I have others,” he said.
“I am quite certain you do not.”
He placed his hand beneath her chin and gently turned her face to his. “Your eyes distract me. Though that is not a new complaint.”
“You are being absurd.”
He kissed the nape of her neck. “Your skin is too soft,” he whispered. “It drives me mad.”
She shivered, and her breathing grew ragged. “Fitzwilliam—”
The carriage slowed.
“And there is another. You say my name in that voice and expect me to behave as a gentleman ought.”
Elizabeth put one hand against his cheek and stared into his eyes until they heard the footman opening the door.
“You may finish complaining in our chambers,” she whispered.
They exited the carriage, Elizabeth walking ahead of him with his hand in hers. Darcy had one complaint remaining and no intention of announcing it upon the stairs.
It would keep until the door was shut.
Keep the Romance Coming
Darcy and Elizabeth: two clever minds, one enduring love.