25. Your Choice
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
YOUR CHOICE
The morning after a ball was designed for sleeping, as a ball did not end until almost dawn.
But Darcy had not touched a pillow. He had stayed at Harewood Place until the bitter end, as did Elizabeth and her sisters.
Retreating was not an option in the face of scandal.
Fiction was, and his cousin Anne had shaped the narrative as effectively as her mother’s most inventive tales.
Darcy’s supper waltz with Miss Elizabeth Bennet was a matter of pure, unadulterated duty. The country miss was overwhelmed, the waltz was a treacherous, new-fangled invention, and Lady Sophia had commanded him to protect the girl from the clumsy feet of the London set.
It was perfectly proper. Done as Lady Sophia’s deputy.
The fiction held, fragile though it was.
Lord Coke had retreated to the card room, nursing a bruised ego, having nearly challenged the ancient Lord Fusington to a duel over who held the superior right to escort Elizabeth back to Grosvenor Street.
Lady Matlock, meanwhile, had calculated the political cost of a rift between the Darcys and Fitzwilliams in full view of the most venomous gossips in Mayfair, deciding it was safer to frame the “country miss” as a piece of curated entertainment provided by Lady Sophia.
So dawn finally came, and Darcy walked across the garden, thirty steps, to call on Lady Sophia. Seven o’clock was an unconscionable hour, but not for a man in the turmoil of uncertainty.
Elizabeth had said nothing when he claimed her in the corridor.
She had neither acknowledged it nor dismissed it.
Her expression had been one of shock and mortification, and when Jane and Mary appeared, she had offered a brittle, hurried curtsy, pointedly ignored Lord Coke, and vanished into the safety of her sisters.
All three Bennet ladies danced the night away, returning to 33 Grosvenor Street with their now exhausted escorts in the carriages Darcy had arranged.
Darcy, naturally, returned home alone.
The garden door of Number 33 opened before he reached it. Mrs. Alford stood in the entrance with her hands folded.
“Mr. Darcy. Lady Sophia is expecting you. She is in the drawing room.”
Nodding to the housekeeper, he entered the drawing room, surprised to find Allegra Courtenay sitting across from Lady Sophia, the two women sharing chocolate and wearing expressions that suggested considerable entertainment had already been derived from the events of the preceding evening.
Nettle jumped up from the hearth rug and picked up her leather ball, wagging her tail in hearty expectation of another game of fetch. Darcy bowed to the ladies while taking the ball from Nettle and bouncing it to the dog’s delight.
“Please, sit,” Lady Sophia ordered. “And drink the coffee, much stronger than chocolate.”
He then accepted a cup from the housemaid and sat in front of the fire, in between Allegra and Lady Sophia.
“I had hoped,” he began. “That Miss Elizabeth is up?”
“Miss Elizabeth,” Lady Sophia remarked, taking a deliberate sip of her chocolate, “is currently dead to the world, buried beneath three feather quilts and dreaming, no doubt, of a world where gentlemen do not possess hard shoes. The girl danced twenty-four miles on parquet. If she wakes before noon, I shall consider her a marvel of country robustness.”
Allegra did not look up from her cup. Her fingers tightened around the porcelain until the knuckles showed white against the dark glaze. “She was spectacular. And entirely reckless.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Sophia drawled, her cane tapping a light, mocking rhythm.
“She was magnificent. To survive an introduction by Lord Fusington and an assault by Lady Matlock in the span of six hours requires the skin of a rhinoceros and the wit of a playwright. But our Fitzwilliam looks remarkably un-magnificent this morning. Look at his cravat, Allegra. It looks as though it has been laundered by a disgruntled bulldog.”
“Please, Lady Sophia, spare me your mockery.” He stared into the black sludge of his coffee. “I simply wish to ascertain Miss Elizabeth is well.”
“As well as any goddaughter who had the most significant night of her life.” Lady Sophia smiled from behind her chocolate. “Do not fret, Darcy. She mentioned the waltz specifically. You redeemed yourself well. No bruised toes, jutting elbows, head bumps, or wardrobe mishaps.”
“That is good to know.” Darcy, nevertheless, wrung his hands, wondering if Miss Elizabeth had mentioned anything about Lord Coke and the scene in the corridor.
“Godmama,” Allegra said. “Miss Elizabeth’s reputation has been questioned. You must do something. Some say she is presumptuous in writing Fitzwilliam’s name on her dance card, but the card was under your purview.”
“Under my purview?” Lady Sophia gave a short, aristocratic snort that would have silenced a bishop.
“My dear Allegra, at my age, the only thing under my purview is the temperature of my chocolate, my Madeira stock, and the insolence of my apothecary. I delegated all of Miss Bennet’s social engagements to Fitzwilliam weeks ago.
He manages her calling cards, dance cards, invitations, and promenades.
You know this. I am a duke’s daughter; I do not haggle with the sons of baronets over a country dance. ”
“But that is precisely the difficulty, Godmama,” Allegra said, her voice rising with a rare, unchecked urgency.
“Because you delegated the vetting of those gentlemen to Darcy, the ton is already whispering of a double-dealing. They are claiming a gross variance of trust. They say the guardian has cleared the field to suit his own palate—that he used his authority as your deputy to discourage respectable suitors like Arthur Craster, only to claim the prize himself when the music turned scandalous.”
Darcy’s hand tightened on the arm of his chair until the mahogany groaned. “I executed my office with the strictest attention to Miss Elizabeth’s protection. Every name on that card was weighed for character, not interest.”
“Mayfair does not care for your weights, Fitzwilliam,” Allegra countered, her eyes finally meeting his with a look that was almost painfully intense.
“They see a gentleman who holds the key to the counting-house also holding the lady by the waist in a waltz that outrages his own family. They are calling it an abuse of your proxy. If Lady Matlock persuades the Earl that you have used your legal mantle to insult Coke, the family alliance is broken before breakfast.”
“Let her persuade him,” Lady Sophia said, her cane coming down with a decisive thud that made Nettle sit up.
“If Lady Matlock wishes to talk of proxies and variances, she may do so with me. I shall simply inform the patronesses that Darcy acted under my private and absolute command to test the girl’s fortitude against the clumsy feet of the ton . ”
“I do not believe it is quite that simple,” Allegra countered.
“Mayfair is currently dividing itself into two distinct camps. The first camp believes Darcy is the most chivalrous trustee in Christendom, executing your divine commands to preserve a country mouse from the predatory heels of the ton . The second camp—led, I believe, by Lady Jersey—is currently debating whether Darcy is a blackguard who has been hiding behind his trustee duties to seduce his ward under the very nose of a duke’s daughter. ”
“Let them debate,” Lady Sophia said. “The ton debates everything regardless of merit.”
The drawing room door opened, and Elizabeth stood, catching her breath when she spied Darcy.
She had clearly been dressed in a desperate hurry; her lavender morning dress was missing its collar pin, and her dark hair was hastily pinned, with several curls spilling against her neck.
Her face was pale, and her eyes held the wide, startled look of a sleepwalker who had stepped into a trap.
“I… I apologize,” Elizabeth stammered. “I thought I heard voices from the stairwell. I did not mean to intrude upon your morning council.”
Darcy rose instantly, his coffee cup rattling against the saucer. He bowed, his posture rigid. “Miss Elizabeth.”
“You are no intrusion, my dear,” Lady Sophia said. “We were merely discussing the delights of the waltz and the glorious conversations it sparked. Come, have some chocolate.”
“No, thank you, Lady Sophia,” Elizabeth said, backing up, her gaze pointedly refusing to meet Darcy’s. “I am entirely unready for company. In truth, I only descended because Nettle was… because the creature required the air.”
The terrier let out a sharp yip, snatched the leather ball, and trotted directly past Darcy’s boots toward the garden doors.
Darcy took a step forward, his hand half-raised, but stopped short, uncertain of his welcome.
“Go, Fitzwilliam.” Lady Sophia tapped her cane. “The dog clearly requires your throwing arm. And do keep the ball out of my rosebushes. I would hate to see the puppy’s nose bloodied from a particularly vicious encounter.”
“Then, I shall, indeed, do my duty… to the dog, at least.” Darcy bowed to the two ladies, feeling as stiff as a tin soldier.
Had it come to this? The formality. The awkwardness.
He and Elizabeth had flown through the waltz not eight hours ago.
He had held her in his arms, turning her around in circles, gliding across the dance floor, and she had told him it was the best dance.
Now, she acted as if they were strangers.
Behind him, Lady Sophia’s cane tapped toward the stairs. “Come, Allegra, we shall observe them from the sitting room upstairs, where we cannot hear. Everything proper. Imagine the ton calling my godson a rake or blackguard indeed.”