Chapter 2
UNWELCOME REALIZATIONS
The day after the ball, Darcy sat at the breakfast table with his coffee growing cold, listening to Bingley extol the virtues of country entertainments with the enthusiasm of a man who had discovered religion.
They had hired the finest musicians. The night had held the liveliest company.
And surely Netherfield had offered the most gracious hospitality.
Caroline and Mrs. Hurst exchanged looks of identical martyrdom across the sideboard.
Darcy said nothing. He had slept poorly, his dreams a jumble of country dances and dark eyes and a laugh that cut through ballroom chatter like a blade through silk. He told himself it was fatigue.
“And Miss Bennet,” Bingley continued, helping himself to more toast with the air of a man in love with the entire world, “was she not the picture of grace? I do not think I have ever seen a lady so perfectly composed.”
“She is tolerable enough,” Caroline allowed, in a tone that suggested the opposite. “Though her connections leave much to be desired.”
“Her connections are her family,” Bingley said cheerfully. “And her family was perfectly amiable.”
Darcy's cup paused halfway to his lips. The Bennet family had been many things at the ball. Amiable was generous.
Mrs. Bennet's voice had carried across the supper room with mortifying clarity. The two youngest girls had flirted with officers until Darcy's teeth ached. The middle daughter had subjected half the assembly to a pianoforte performance of punishing length.
And Miss Elizabeth—
Miss Elizabeth Bennet was nothing to him. A country gentleman's daughter with fine eyes and a quick tongue. They had danced and shared a single conversation. That was all.
That was entirely too much.
“I know I had spoken of returning to Town early, but I have decided,” Bingley announced, setting down his fork with the gravity of a man delivering a parliamentary address, “to remain in Hertfordshire through the winter.”
Caroline's teacup clattered against its saucer. Mrs. Hurst made a sound like a deflating balloon. Darcy merely stared.
“The neighborhood grows livelier each day,” Bingley continued, with seeming obliviousness to the consternation his words had caused. “And I have promised Miss Bennet—” His voice softened, grew almost reverent. “I have promised her that we should speak again soon. I cannot disappoint her.”
Darcy set down his coffee. He had counseled prudence. Reminded Bingley of the dangers of forming attachments too quickly, the importance of considering a lady's family and situation before committing his heart.
But the memory of Jane Bennet's serene composure at the ball gave him pause. She had been everything that was proper. Modest. Gentle. Clearly devoted to Bingley, though she expressed it with admirable restraint.
And Miss Elizabeth had watched her sister with such obvious affection, such unguarded joy—
He clenched his jaw. This was absurd. He was thinking of Miss Elizabeth again, and there was no reason for it. None whatsoever.
“Bingley,” he said carefully, “you should consider what remaining here might imply.”
“It implies that I enjoy myself!” Bingley laughed, slapping the table with boyish delight. “And that the company is excellent. What more could a man want?”
Caroline's nostrils flared. “Company. In Hertfordshire.”
“The very best,” Bingley agreed, missing her sarcasm entirely. “And I mean to prove it. We shall host a tea. Tomorrow afternoon. The Bennet ladies must come.”
Darcy's stomach performed an uncomfortable lurch.
“All of them?” Mrs. Hurst asked faintly.
“All of them.” Bingley beamed. “I shall leave the arrangements to you, Caroline. You have such excellent taste in these matters.”
Caroline's smile was brittle as winter ice. “How delightful.”
The invitation was drafted within the hour.
Darcy watched Caroline compose it at the writing desk, her pen scratching across the paper with aggressive elegance. Each elaborate, sweeping line seemed designed to remind the recipients of their inferior position.
“There,” Caroline said, setting down her pen with satisfaction. “That should suffice. The Bennet ladies will be suitably honored.”
“The Bennet ladies will be suitably confused,” Mrs. Hurst murmured. “Your handwriting grows more elaborate by the day, Caroline.”
“Elegance is never wasted on the deserving.” Caroline's gaze slid toward Darcy. “Would you not agree, Mr. Darcy?”
He did not answer. He was thinking of Elizabeth reading the invitation. Would she roll her eyes at Caroline's pretensions? Laugh to herself at the absurdity of such formal prose for a simple country tea?
Would she think of him at all?
“Mr. Darcy danced with Miss Elizabeth at the ball,” Mrs. Hurst observed, as though reading his thoughts. “Quite remarkable, given how seldom he takes the floor.”
Heat crept up Darcy's neck. “It was nothing. A matter of circumstance.”
“Circumstance.” Caroline's smile sharpened. “And yet you seldom dance with those you are not well-acquainted, Mr. Darcy.”
He rose abruptly. “I have correspondence to attend to.”
“Of course you do.” Caroline's voice followed him to the door. “Though I confess, I did not know letter-writing required such haste.”
He did not dignify this with a response.
The library offered no refuge.
Darcy stood at the window, watching the footman depart with Caroline's invitation, and felt an uncomfortable twist beneath his ribs.
In a matter of hours, Elizabeth Bennet would hold that letter in her hands.
She would read Miss Bingley's overwrought prose and form opinions about the household that had produced it.
She would come to Netherfield.
She would sit in this very room, perhaps, drinking tea and making conversation with that sharp wit of hers, and Darcy would be expected to behave as though her presence meant nothing.
He turned from the window and attempted to read.
The book was some fashionable amatory tale Caroline had acquired in London—full of swooning heroines and improbable coincidences. He made it through three pages before giving up entirely.
His mind kept circling back to the ball.
Elizabeth's laugh, bright and unrestrained. The way she had challenged him about country dances, her chin lifted in defiance, her eyes sparkling with mischief. The warmth of her hand in his during their set—proper and yet somehow electric.
She had nearly made him smile. He had tamped it down in time, but the moment lingered with embarrassing clarity.
He remembered the slight catch in her breath when he had taken her hand for the second dance. The way her cheeks had flushed when Sir William Lucas pushed them together. The arch of her brow when she had accused him of being too serious for country entertainments.
“I am attempting to determine your character, Mr. Darcy.”
Her voice echoed in his memory. He had given some stiff reply—something about the danger of sketching characters too quickly. She had laughed, and the sound had lodged itself somewhere beneath his breastbone like a splinter he could not remove.
“Mr. Darcy.”
He started. Caroline stood in the doorway, her expression arranged into something between sympathy and conspiracy.
“You look quite pensive,” she said, gliding into the room with the air of a woman bearing confidences. “I confess I am not surprised. This morning's announcement must have been... disappointing.”
Darcy closed his book with deliberate care. “I am sure I do not take your meaning.”
“Charles remaining in Hertfordshire.” Caroline settled into the chair opposite him, uninvited.
“Through the winter, no less. After all the wise counsel you offered about the dangers of forming attachments too hastily.” She shook her head with practiced sorrow.
“It must be vexing to see such sensible advice disregarded.”
Darcy said nothing. He was aware of the trap being laid—Caroline's attempt to recruit him as an ally in her campaign against Jane Bennet and, by extension, her entire family.
A week ago, he might have taken the bait.
“I had hoped,” Caroline continued, warming to her theme, “that you might speak with him again. Your opinion carries such weight with Charles. If you were to remind him of the... complications... that might arise from too close an association with certain families—”
“I have said all I intend to say on the matter.”
Caroline blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Bingley is a grown man.” Darcy kept his voice even, though something twisted uncomfortably in his chest. “He is capable of making his own decisions. I offered my perspective. He has chosen differently. I respect his judgment.”
The words tasted strange on his tongue, not quite false, but not entirely true either. He had counseled Bingley toward caution. He had pointed out the deficiencies of the Bennet family, the dangers of an unequal match. And yet...
And yet, Jane Bennet's serene composure made a lie of his words. As did Elizabeth's obvious devotion to her sister. The genuine warmth between them, so different from the calculated performances of London drawing rooms.
Perhaps he had judged too quickly.
Caroline's smile had frozen. “You respect his judgment. In pursuing a country nobody with vulgar relations and no fortune to speak of.”
“I respect his right to form his own attachments.” Darcy met her gaze steadily. “As I would hope others might respect mine.”
The silence stretched between them, sharp-edged and uncomfortable.
Caroline's fan snapped open. “Well. How... magnanimous of you, Mr. Darcy.” She rose, her movements brittle. “I had thought we were of one mind on this matter, but I see I was mistaken.”
“It would appear so.”
She swept toward the door, then paused, her hand on the frame. “I do hope you will not regret such generosity of spirit.”
She was gone before he could reply.
Darcy stared at the empty doorway, his pulse unsteady.
He had not lied. He did respect Bingley's judgment—or at least, he was beginning to suspect he should. But the real reason for his sudden defense of the Bennets sat heavy in his chest, unacknowledged and unwelcome.
It had nothing to do with Jane Bennet's merits as a match for Bingley but everything to do with a pair of fine eyes and a laugh he could not make himself forget.