A Rival at Rosings (Pride and Prejudice Mishaps #10)

Chapter One The Master of Silent Agony

THE BEDCHAMBER ASSIGNED to Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy at Rosings Park was a testament to his aunt's belief that there was no such thing as too much gold leaf.

Every surface that could be gilded, tasselled, or draped in crimson had been subjected to the treatment, rendering the room less a place of rest and more a monument to opulence.

Yet, on this evening, Darcy was oblivious to the décor.

He was consumed by the crisis of his cravat.

It was the fifth piece of starched white muslin to meet a tragic end in the last half hour. Darcy ripped the ruined fabric from his neck with a frustrated growl, tossing it onto a pile of its similarly vanquished brethren on the settee.

"If I may be so bold, sir," murmured Pimms, stepping forward from the shadows with the serene, unperturbed air of a man who had survived a decade of Darcy's moods. "The cravat is merely fabric. It cannot yield to physical intimidation, no matter how fiercely you glare at it."

Darcy paused mid-pace, turning his brooding eyes on his valet. "I am not glaring, Pimms. I am concentrating."

"Of course, sir. My apologies. The concentration bears a striking resemblance to a man contemplating a duel.

" Pimms smoothly presented a fresh, pristine length of muslin.

"Perhaps a simpler knot this evening? The Tr?ne d'Amour, while elegant, seems to be inciting an uncharacteristic level of hostility. "

Darcy sighed, dragging a hand through his carefully styled hair, ruining it entirely. He sank into the chair before his dressing glass, the silence of Rosings pressing down on him. "It is not the knot, Pimms."

"Indeed, sir. I had surmised as much. I believe the guests from the Hunsford parsonage are expected within the hour."

Darcy's jaw tightened. "She does not know I am here."

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet, sir?" Pimms asked, his tone neutral as he began to expertly wind the fabric around his master's neck.

"Yes." Darcy gripped the carved armrests of the chair.

It had been months since he had fled Netherfield, months since he had dragged his friend Bingley away from Jane Bennet, and months since he had last seen the flash of Elizabeth's fine eyes.

He had convinced himself that distance would cure him of the bewitchment.

He had thrown himself into estate management, into spending time with his sister Georgiana, and into the bustling distractions of London.

And yet, the moment Lady Catherine had mentioned in one of her lengthy missives that Mr Collins was hosting a guest—a Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire—Darcy had packed his trunks for Kent with an urgency that bordered on madness.

"She believes I am hundreds of miles away," Darcy continued, his voice tight.

"She has no high opinion of me, Pimms. That much was made abundantly clear during my time in Meryton.

And now I am to surprise her in the drawing room of my aunt, a woman who possesses all the warmth of a frosted windowpane. It is a strategic folly."

"A surprise can be an advantage, sir," Pimms noted, finishing the knot with a deft flourish and stepping back to inspect his work. "It catches the enemy—forgive me, the lady—off guard."

Darcy stood, resuming his anxious pacing across the garish Aubusson carpet. "I do not wish to catch her off guard. I wish to... to..." He stopped, unsure of what he wished to do. Proclaim himself? Apologise? Stare at her over a teacup until she realised the depth of his unspoken devotion?

"If I may offer a humble suggestion regarding your campaign, sir," Pimms said, moving to brush the shoulders of Darcy's blue evening coat.

"Speak."

"When you enter the drawing room tonight, and when you finally meet the lady's gaze..." Pimms paused, ensuring he had his master's full attention. "Try smiling with your mouth, sir, rather than your eyebrows."

Darcy blinked. "My eyebrows do not smile."

"Precisely, sir. They lower. They furrow.

They convey judgement on all they survey.

It is a highly effective look for intimidating recalcitrant tenant farmers and minor nobility, but it is historically less successful in the pursuit of romantic affection.

" Pimms held up the coat. "A gentle curvature of the lips.

A softening of the jaw. If you wish the lady to know you are pleased to see her, you must inform your face of the fact. "

Darcy slipped his arms into the coat, staring at his reflection. He attempted to soften his jaw. He attempted a smile. It felt unnatural, as if his facial muscles were rebelling against years of dignified stoicism.

"Better?" Darcy asked, feeling absurd.

Pimms hesitated for a fraction of a second too long. "It is a vast improvement, Mr Darcy. You look less like you are about to order an execution, and more like you have a mild indigestion. We shall count it as a victory."

Darcy descended slowly to the grand drawing room of Rosings Park, which was designed to make its occupants feel small, a purpose it fulfilled quite efficiently.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh sat in her usual armchair—which bore a suspicious resemblance to a throne—flanked by the fireplace and a small table bearing her medicinal drops.

Beside her sat her daughter, Anne, who was staring blankly at a fringe tassel, as though a strong gust of wind might blow her out of the county.

Darcy walked to stand in his usual place by the mantelpiece, clasped his hands firmly behind his back, and began practising the facial softening Pimms had recommended. He felt ridiculous. He felt exposed.

"I cannot fathom what is keeping Richard," Lady Catherine complained, her booming voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling.

"A military man should be punctual. It is a lack of discipline.

I shall have to speak to his commanding officer.

And where are the Collinses? I distinctly said half-past six.

It is now eight-and-twenty minutes to seven. Inexcusable."

"They are arriving now, Mother," Anne murmured, her voice barely louder than the rustle of her skirts.

The double doors swung open, and the butler announced the Hunsford party.

Mr Collins entered first, bowing so low and so frequently that he appeared to be navigating a localised earthquake.

He was followed by his wife, Mrs Collins, and a trembling young woman Darcy recognised as Maria Lucas, who looked at the gilded ceiling with wide eyes, stepping as though she believed the carpet might swallow her whole.

Then came Sir William Lucas, his chest puffed out with courtly pride, a jovial smile plastered across his face. And there, walking slightly behind his protective presence, was Elizabeth.

She wore a simple gown of pale green silk, unadorned compared to the fashions of Lady Catherine, yet she easily eclipsed everything in the room.

The familiar spark of intelligence danced in her eyes, and a bemused, slightly defensive smile played on her lips as she took in the overwhelming grandeur of her surroundings.

She had not yet seen him.

"Lady Catherine," Mr Collins began, his voice quivering with sycophantic delight. "Allow me to express my unending gratitude for this condescension. To be welcomed once more into the unparalleled splendour of Rosings..."

"Yes, yes, Mr Collins." Lady Catherine waved a dismissive hand. "Sir William, I trust you found the walk from the parsonage passable? I have instructed my groundskeeper to clear the pebbles, though he is terribly slow."

"A magnificent walk, your Ladyship!" Sir William declared, stepping forward and shielding Elizabeth from Lady Catherine's immediate scrutiny. "Reminiscent of the fine promenades at St James's, to be sure! The air in Kent is most bracing!"

Elizabeth stepped to the side of Sir William to offer her curtsey to the lady of the house. As she rose, her gaze swept the room, seeking Anne. Instead, her eyes landed on the tall figure standing by the fireplace.

Darcy saw the exact moment recognition struck her.

Her eyes widened, a sharp intake of breath parting her lips.

Mr Darcy! she seemed to mouth, the shock absolute.

The bemused smile she had carried into the room vanished, replaced by a guarded frost. The warmth in her eyes was extinguished, now presenting the same assessing glare she had levelled at him during their final dances at Netherfield.

Panic, hot and immediate, flared in Darcy's chest. She was furious to see him, and he had to fix it. He had to show her he was not the arrogant, disdainful lord she believed him to be. He had to be approachable somehow.

Smile with your mouth, Pimms' voice echoed in his head. Soften the jaw.

Darcy forced his lips upward. He commanded his facial muscles to convey warmth, pleasure, and welcoming delight. He stared into Elizabeth Bennet's beautiful face, and he smiled.

Elizabeth took a subtle, involuntary step backwards, bumping lightly into Mr Collins. Her features shifted from shocked to alarmed.

Darcy immediately dropped the expression, realising with a sinking feeling that whatever his face had just done, it had frightened the woman he loved. It must have looked less like a welcoming smile and more like the grimace of a man passing a kidney stone.

"And you must be Miss Elizabeth Bennet," Lady Catherine called, ignorant of the silent drama unfolding by the fireplace.

"Come forward, girl, let me look at you.

I understand you are acquainted with my nephew, Mr Darcy.

Though I am certain you did not travel in the same circles in Hertfordshire.

Darcy, you remember the Bennets, I presume? "

"I have the honour of being well acquainted with Miss Elizabeth," Darcy managed to say, his voice strained. He executed a stiff, formal bow.

Elizabeth dropped a curtsey so rigid it could have cracked ice. "Mr Darcy. It is a... surprise to see you in Kent."

"A pleasant one, I hope," Darcy offered, the words tumbling out before he could stop them, sounding far more desperate than he intended.