Mr. Bennet smiled, the picture of geniality. “Why, yes, Colonel. It is a delicate matter for certain gentlemen. Would you not agree, Mr. Darcy?”
The room suddenly felt much warmer. It was a dangerous game Mr. Bennet played, these offhand remarks laden with meaning, their true target concealed beneath a mask of levity. Was Mr. Bennet warning him away from Miss Elizabeth? Or was it something more? Did he suspect? Did heknow?
For a moment, Darcy could not speak. He reached for his wineglass to gain time, though he was not thirsty. As he sipped, he chastised himself for drawing a hasty conclusion. Of course the man did not know why they had come. How could he?
Finally, he replied in a carefully even voice. “As you say, sir, bloodlines are important matters and deserve consideration. But there are other qualities equally worth observing.”
“Ah.” Mr. Bennet’s gaze flicked to Elizabeth, who was now laughing with Jane over something Mr. Bingley had said. “Indeed, there are.”
The pause that followed was unbearable. Darcy stepped back. He felt Fitzwilliam’s eyes on him and glanced at his cousin, whose gaze asked what he was about. But he could not remain here, knowing that Mr. Bennet could see through him even if Miss Elizabeth did not.
The walls of the room seemed to press in, the combined warmth of fire and bodies stifling his breath. He tugged at the hem of his waistcoat. “You will excuse me,” he said, his voice as composed as he could make it. “I find myself in need of fresh air.”
Mr. Bennet merely smiled, that infernal gleam still bright in his eyes. “By all means, Mr. Darcy. I dare say the cold night air will do you some good.”
Darcy gave a faint bow and strode from the room, his steps precise though his mind churned. Mr. Bennet was too clever by half. Whether he suspected something was amiss or merely delighted in making Darcy squirm over his admiration of Miss Elizabeth, Darcy could not be sure. But one thing was certain: if Mr. Bennet meant to unnerve him, he had succeeded.
The door to the house closed behind him with a satisfying click. Darcy drew in a breath, the frigid air burning in his lungs. He had needed this distance, this silence.
The frosty darkness enveloped him, bracing after the stifling cheer of the sitting room. Snow lightly dusted the ground in uneven patches, and the stars above were scattered like diamonds against a black velvet sky. He breathed deeply, exhaling a cloud of mist that lingered before him.
Mr. Bennet’s veiled barbs echoed in his mind, each one a reminder of how close they had come to the truth.
His gaze drifted to the windows of the house. Light illuminated the glass panes, golden and inviting.
Darcy turned away to sweep his hat from his head and rake a hand through his hair. The chime of the bells from Meryton rolled across the countryside like distant thunder. The New Year had begun. Best to return before his absence caused remark. He made his way back to the house, his boots crunching against the frozen ground. As he reached the door, it flew open suddenly, and there stood Elizabeth.
“Mr. Darcy?” Her voice was surprised but not displeased. “Papa thought you might still be out here. Come inside, for it is bitter this evening.”
Before he could reply, Miss Lydia’s shrill voice rang out from down the main hall. “It is him! It is Mr. Darcy! And Lizzy saw him first!”
“What are you on about, Lydia?” Elizabeth called over her shoulder, frowning as Darcy stepped inside.
Miss Lydia appeared in the doorway, her face flushed with triumph and mulled wine. “Why, do you not see? He is the First Footer! The first dark-haired man to cross the threshold in the New Year. And it is you, Lizzy, who greeted him, so it must mean good luck for you!”
“Lydia, that is not the story . . .” Miss Elizabeth said, but her sister was already gone to tell everyone what she had seen.
Miss Elizabeth glanced up at him, her cheeks the colour of the holly berries that graced the garlands. Her expression hovered somewhere between annoyance and amusement.
The cold air was no longer performing its office. He forced himself to look away.
“I do apologise, Mr. Darcy.” She spoke under her breath. “My youngest sister enjoys making a fuss over the least things.”
He shook his head at the signs of her embarrassment. “There is no need, Miss Elizabeth. I should have recalled the tradition and not stepped out of doors on this of all nights. I am only sorry I do not have any bread, coal, or salt to offer you. And even if I had whiskey, I do not think your father would prefer it to port or brandy.”
She tilted her head, eyes alight with humour. “Do you put stock in such superstitions then?”
He considered her for a moment, laughter from the sitting room spilling into the hall like music. “I am not a man given to superstition,” he admitted quietly. “But in this case, I hope it proves true and that you do have good fortune this year.”
Elizabeth’s gaze lingered on his, her smile softening. “Thank you. I hope the New Year is kind to you as well.”
He was not at all sure that it would.
“Thank you, Miss Elizabeth.” He offered her the faintest of bows before stepping further into the house. Whatever Mr. Bennet’s game might be, and whatever truth he and Fitzwilliam might uncover, Darcy could not deny the feeling that had taken root within him—that this house, these moments, and, above all, this woman—were becoming more significant to him than any other truth he might seek.
The clock chimed its final note. The year had turned, and with it, perhaps, his fate.
Chapter Fifteen
