19. Chapter Nineteen #3
Bingley grimaced. “You might say that less readily.”
“I might.”
“You will not.”
“No.”
Mr. Gardiner, seated across from them, regarded both men over his glass. “Ladies determined upon a course rarely yield because gentlemen wish them sensible.”
“Experience, sir?” Bingley asked.
“I have daughters.”
Darcy almost smiled.
Mr. Hurst yawned. “Caroline needs marriage or travel.”
“Preferably both,” Bingley muttered.
No one contradicted him.
When the gentlemen joined the ladies, Elizabeth sat near the window with Mrs. Gardiner.
Lydia and Georgiana occupied a small sofa, their heads bent together over what appeared to be a list. Darcy did not ask.
Miss Bingley stood near the pianoforte turning pages of music without playing.
She looked up when he entered, and this time the expression upon her face carried resolve.
He had seen enough.
Darcy crossed the room, pausing first beside Elizabeth. “I must attend to a household matter. Will you forgive me if I am absent briefly?”
“Of course,” she said, though her eyes searched his face.
He wanted to reassure her. He could not, not with half the room watching. He contented himself with a small bow over her hand, more formal than he desired and perhaps more revealing because of it.
Then he faced Miss Bingley.
“May I speak with you in the morning room?”
Her whole manner brightened.
That troubled him.
“Certainly, Mr. Darcy.”
Bingley caught his eye from across the room.
Darcy gave him no sign beyond the smallest pause. Then he escorted Miss Bingley into the morning room adjoining the drawing room. The door remained ajar by an inch. He would not invite any accusation of secrecy, though the conversation required privacy enough to be plain.
The room was dimmer than the drawing room, lit by two lamps and the last violet light fading beyond the windows. Miss Bingley entered before him and faced him, arranging herself beside the small table where a vase of late roses stood. She looked pleased, triumphant even.
That displeased him.
“You wished to speak with me?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I had hoped we might have such an opportunity. These last days have been so crowded, and I have feared you misunderstood me.”
“I believe I understand you now.”
Her lashes lowered. “Do you?”
The tone was unmistakable.
So was the step she took toward him.
Darcy’s hand closed around the back of the chair beside him. “Miss Bingley.”
“Fitzwilliam.” She said his name softly, a liberty she had never before dared in private. “Surely we are beyond such formality.”
“We are not.”
She stopped.
Color rose beneath the powder on her cheeks, but she recovered quickly and gave a light laugh. “You are severe tonight.”
“I am clear.”
“Are you?” She moved to the table, touched one rose, then let her fingers trail along the wood.
“I wonder. You have been unlike yourself lately. Surrounded by novelty. Flattered by lively manners. Men may mistake amusement for attachment, especially when a lady is skillful enough to appear unconscious of her own designs.”
His fingers closed around the chair.
She addressed him again in low tones. “I know you better than she does. I know Pemberley. I know Georgiana. I know what is expected of you and what you owe your family. You cannot truly mean to cast away every advantage for a young woman whose connections would diminish you.”
“You will not speak of Miss Elizabeth Bennet in that manner.”
Miss Bingley’s eyes flashed. “Then I shall speak of you. You are being reckless. Everyone sees it.”
“I hope they do.”
That staggered her.
For the first time that evening, words deserted her.
Darcy stepped away from the chair. “You have mistaken my civility for encouragement. You have mistaken my regard for your brother as permission to command my sister and insult my guests. You have mistaken familiarity with this house for belonging in it.”
Her mouth hardened. “You cannot mean that.”
“I mean every word.”
“After all these years?”
“Years in which I never offered you any expectation.”
She crossed the space between them with more haste than elegance. “No expectation? You allowed me intimacy with Georgiana and received me at Pemberley. You danced with me—you cannot pretend I invented everything.”
“I allowed what I believed to be friendship. I danced because we were in company. If you built hopes upon such foundations, I regret the pain it causes you, but I will not accept responsibility for promises I never made.”
Her face hardened. “And Miss Eliza Bennet? What promises have you made there?”
Darcy said nothing.
A mistake.
Her attention sharpened.
“So, it is true.” She came nearer, close enough that he stepped back by instinct. “You would marry her.”
“If she will have me.”
Miss Bingley inhaled sharply.
The next moment she reached for his arm.
He moved before her hand could settle.
She froze, humiliated.
“Do not,” he said.
The word emerged lower than he intended.
Her eyes filled, though he could not tell whether from grief, fury, or calculation. “You would prefer her to me?”
“Yes.”
Cruel in brevity perhaps. Necessary.
“She is beneath you.”
“No.”
“She has nothing.”
“She has herself.”
Miss Bingley laughed then, a harsh, wounded sound wholly unlike her usual polish. “And what am I, then?”
Darcy’s anger, which he had held behind his teeth for days, pushed nearer the surface. He forced himself to speak without heat. Heat would serve her. Clarity would not.
“You are a lady who has enjoyed welcome in my house and used it to belittle those under my protection. You have injured Georgiana by presuming to govern her. You have insulted guests whose conduct has shown more generosity than your own. You have spoken cruelly of Elizabeth and her family, and when checked, you have sought subtler means to wound.”
“That is Lydia Bennet’s doing,” she snapped. “She has set Georgiana against me.”
“Georgiana has not been set against anyone. She is free to choose.”
“She is a child.”
“She is my sister.”
Miss Bingley flinched.
Darcy took a breath. “I will not marry you. I would never marry you. Nor would I subject my sister, my household, my tenants, or any future wife of mine to your contempt.”
Her face drained of color.
The room became unbearably still except for the murmur of conversation beyond the door.
Miss Bingley stared at him as though he had struck her.