14. The Art of Being Hunted
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE ART OF BEING HUNTED
Elizabeth kept her chin level and her eyes forward, which was no small feat when Lady Harewood’s townhome seemed determined to blind every guest with crystal and gold. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, cornices gleamed, and the entire house shouted, You are not nearly rich enough.
Had Lydia been present, she would have already squealed aloud at the sheer, blinding expanse of Lady Harewood’s entrance hall while Kitty coughed and Mrs. Bennet demanded to know if the marble underfoot had been imported from Italy.
Thank heaven the less polished half of her family was ankle-deep in Hertfordshire mud, leaving Elizabeth, serene Jane, and rigid Mary to perform their polite greetings and perfect curtsies for the assembled aristocracy. At least no one here would be demanding the provenance of the marble.
She might have faltered, if not for Darcy’s arm—solid, reassuring, and, she admitted, rather flattering.
He moved with the unhurried confidence of a man who had never once tripped over a carpet in public.
Elizabeth let him steer her through the sea of acquaintances, matching his bows and nods with her own best imitation of a gentle-bred lady.
The silks and feathers helped, but the raised lorgnettes and murmurs followed them like a flock of particularly judgmental geese.
“You are very quiet, Miss Elizabeth.”
“I am observing, sir,” she said, her tone a low murmur meant only for him. “A musicale requires careful study before one can properly satirize it. I am observing the expressions of the matrons near the door.”
“And here I thought we were here for the Clementi.” His mouth did that brief, tight thing that was not quite a smile. “Shall I find you a seat near the performers? Miss Mary looks as though she is preparing for a trial by fire.”
Elizabeth’s gaze darted across the sea of feathers and diamonds, finding her sister seated near the grand pianoforte.
In her twilight-lavender gown, Mary looked small, her fingers restlessly smoothing her skirts.
A familiar, fierce protectiveness swelled in Elizabeth’s throat, momentarily choking out her own anxiety.
Mary had been playing to indifferent audiences, but tonight’s audience would be paying attention, wondering about the sister of a woman worth fifteen thousand a year and whether she had had the proper piano master.
“My sister will acquit herself well,” Elizabeth said, her voice dropping an octave as she sought to convince herself as much as him. “She deserves to be recognized.”
“She will be,” Darcy replied, his tone steadying. “The company tonight may be fickle, but they know the difference between a schoolroom rattle and a true student of the instrument. Miss Mary has nothing to fear from them.”
They circled the salon, hunting for a seat near the front. Conversations adjusted as she passed by, and Elizabeth noticed fans lifting and matrons adjusting their Lorgnettes.
“Fifteen thousand a year.”
The whisper cut through the low hum of the room, distinct and sharp. It was a woman’s voice—aristocratic, drawling, and yet possessing the exact, heavy cadence of Mrs. Bennet’s daily recitations at Longbourn.
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened on Darcy’s sleeve. “It seems my name has been legally changed to a sum of currency, Mr. Darcy. Do you suppose if I am short a few pence for a ribbon, I might simply clip a piece from my hem?”
“Ignore them,” Darcy muttered. He did not look toward the whisperers, but his shoulder shifted, imperceptibly pivoting to block her from the view of a particularly rapacious row of matrons.
“They are accountants wrapped in lace, Miss Elizabeth. Their minds are terribly small, and their ledgers are entirely empty of wit.”
For the first time, Elizabeth wondered if Darcy had felt the same suffocation at the Meryton assemblies.
How many times had he stood frozen in a corner while her mother shrilly designated Mr. Bingley as “five thousand a year” and Darcy himself as “ten?” No wonder he had taken one look at her family and seen exactly what she was looking at now: small minds, empty heads, and mouths that opened only to chant the value of an estate.
She had called him proud, arrogant, insufferable—but had she ever considered what it felt like to be reduced to a sum on a ledger? Now, as Darcy guided her to a row of blessedly empty chairs, she understood all too well.
“How about near the wall? Close enough to see Miss Darcy and Miss Mary, but without an unguarded flank.”
“The benefits of being a wallflower. How strategic.”
“Mr. Darcy! What a pleasure.” A woman in puce silk intercepted them three steps from the chairs, trailing a young man with the resigned posture of livestock being led to market.
Excellent , Elizabeth thought. The first buyer has arrived to inspect the teeth.
“And this must be… Oh, I have heard so much… Miss Bennet, is it not? Mrs. Davenport. My son Frederick. Miss Bennet, he holds a vicarage in Suffolk. Frederick, do not slouch and do bow properly.”
Frederick bowed flaccidly, his eyes fixed firmly on the carpet.
“Mr. Davenport and I have something in common,” Elizabeth said archly. “I, too, have been subjected to a great many clergymen.”
And a mother who reminds her children not to slouch , she added in her mind.
Mrs. Davenport blinked, uncertain whether this was a compliment. “Frederick reads a great deal. Sermons, mostly.”
“How fortifying for both Mr. Davenport and his esteemed mother, no doubt.”
“Miss Bennet.” Darcy’s hand was at her elbow, gentle and unmistakable. “The chairs.”
But before they could advance a single step, a portly gentleman with impressive, curling side-whiskers planted his substantial frame directly between them and their destination.
A second bidder , Elizabeth noted grimly. And this one appears to have been raised on public dinners and self-importance.
“Darcy! Capital, capital. And is this the young lady all London is talking about? Rolleston. Charmed.” He seized Elizabeth’s hand without a by-your-leave and bowed so low over it she could smell the pomade in his hair. “Fine eyes, Miss Bennet. Remarkably fine. Has anyone told you?”
“You are the third this evening, Mr. Rolleston. I am beginning to suspect a conspiracy among the gentlemen of the town.”
“Conspiracy! Ha! Delightful wit. My mother will adore you. She is just over there, by the doorway. Mamma! Mamma! Come meet Miss Bennet!”
“Miss Bennet and I were attempting to reach our seats,” Darcy said. His voice was a marvel of perfect, aristocratic composure.
“Oh, plenty of time, plenty of time. The music won’t start for—Mamma, do hurry.”
Mrs. Rolleston descended upon them with feathers shaking and silks rustling. “Miss Bennet. I have been dying to meet you. Fifteen thousand a year, I am told, and such a complexion! Nathaniel, did you remark upon her complexion?”
“I remarked upon her eyes, Mamma.”
“Her eyes, yes, but the complexion, Nathaniel. And her sister—is that her sister? The fair one? She is excessively beautiful. Is she spoken for?”
Jane, apparently, was now a prime cut of mutton left out for inspection. Elizabeth’s patience snapped.
“Jane speaks for herself,” Elizabeth said aloud, her arch tone sharpening into something formidable. “I find it one of her more admirable qualities. She rarely requires a herald to announce her price.”
Mrs. Rolleston choked slightly on her lace handkerchief, while Nathaniel blinked like an owl caught in daylight.
“Miss Bennet.” Darcy’s voice had now acquired that particular, vibrating steadiness that Elizabeth had learned to recognize as the absolute limit of his patience.
His hand tightened on her elbow, physically turning her away from the predators.
“The performance begins shortly. We must not keep the musicians waiting.”
The Rollestons retreated like a routed army deserting their posts, and Elizabeth and Darcy finally reached the safety of the perimeter chairs.
“Thank you,” she said. “I believe you have saved me from Mrs. Rolleston’s complexion review.”
“Mrs. Rolleston’s reviews are legendary. They can last the duration of a sonata.”
“You know these people intimately, it seems.”
“I have been actively avoiding these people for twelve Seasons, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth did the sums. Two Seasons a year—Big and Little—meant Darcy had been dodging matrimony since two-and-twenty. No wonder he wore that formidable shell. She had pictured him striding through London like a monarch, never realizing he’d spent his twenties as a man under siege.
“Then I commend your stamina, Mr. Darcy. Years of strategic avoidance must be exhausting.”
“It was simpler when I had only my own fortune to make me interesting,” he said, his voice flat with a quiet, unvarnished weariness. “One becomes practiced at detecting the exact price of a smile.”
The honesty of it startled her. Darcy had always worn his wealth like armor—at Meryton, at Hunsford, everywhere. Now, the weariness in his voice was unmistakable. She was not sure what to do with the knowledge that Fitzwilliam Darcy found fortune hunters just as tedious as she did.
Before she could dwell on the discovery, Jane appeared on her other side, looking flushed and so thoroughly radiant in the white crepe gown that she seemed to be actively agitating every matron within a five-yard radius.
“Three women have complimented the lace on my sleeves in the last four minutes, Lizzy,” Jane whispered, her eyes wide as she sank into the neighboring chair. “I have been wearing sleeves for twenty-two years, and no one has previously found the custom worthy of specific notice.”
“Welcome to fifteen thousand a year, dearest,” Elizabeth said, patting her sister’s hand. “Everything you have worn since birth has apparently been remarkable. Society has only just noticed.”
The small bell near the instrument chimed, signaling the performers, but the seat immediately to Jane’s right was suddenly occupied before the echo died away.