Darcy ignored him, flipping the page. They were seeing exponential growth from the new venture in India. That was satisfying, surely. But when he glanced up, Bingley had slumped into the chair across from him, looking for all the world as though he were down to his last penny without a friend in the world.
“We’ve built half of London’s trade on our backs. You realize that, don’t you?” Bingley said suddenly. “Grown this little empire of ours tenfold. Why, even the East India Company is feeling a bit threatened. All because I somehow guilted you into those beeswax candles. Which, I remind you, you thought was madness.”
Darcy did not respond. Hehadthought it was madness, of course—at the time. The idea of smuggling French beeswax during a war seemed not only unseemly but unsustainable. And yet here they were, nearly a decade later, their fortune secured many times over, turning on the lynchpin of that bizarre, brilliant idea of Bingley’s.
“I’m tired,” Bingley said. “Are you not?”
“Then go home.”
“Notthatsort of tired. I need a change of scenery, Darcy! I’m tired of seeing only your infuriatingly perfect face across the desk from me. I’m tired of sorting all the invitations we receive by which ones will result in meeting profitable contacts. I’m tired of not even remembering what my sister’s new husband’s name is.”
“He is not worth remembering.”
“Mypoint, Darcy, is that we don’t live at all! We’ve all this money, success beyond evenmywildest imagination—and you know exactly how wild that is—”
“Indubitably.”
“And tell me, when was the last time that you enjoyedanything?”
Darcy paused his writing. “Just last week I enjoyed seeing that shipment arrive from Lisbon.”
“There, you have proved my point! All the things you call enjoyment are to do with work! I say, tell me the last time you enjoyed the company of a lady, and if it was within the last year, I will eat my hat.”
“I took tea with Georgiana last Friday.” Darcy looked up. “Would you like some salt or perhaps a fine Hollandaise sauce to go with that beaver? We also have some excellent French Wine downstairs.”
“Your sister does not count. I mean arealfemale. Egad, man, don’t you have an estate for which you are meant to provide an heir? I don’t know if your father ever told you this, but sons need mothers, and before a woman can become a mother, she must—”
“All in good time.” The quill scratched against the page in a steady rhythm. “I will attend to that when we’ve perfected our position. The new numbers we had last quarter show a faint stagnation. If we do not capitalize on our latest opportunities, the business suffers. You know that.”
“More growth,” Bingley muttered. “More investments. More ‘perfection.’” He sat up, leaning toward Darcy with an exasperated, almost conspiratorial grin. “When is it enough, Darcy? We’ve made our fortune a thousand times over, and yet—” He waved a hand, exasperated. “Here you are, chained to that desk as if it’s the only thing keeping you alive.”
Darcy didn’t flinch. He kept his gaze on the numbers, on the precise, predictable columns of figures that laid out their success like a blueprint. “And where would you have me, Bingley? Pemberley?”
The word tasted faintly of dust, of something long abandoned. He had not set foot on Pemberley’s grounds in more than a year. There was no time to waste on wool and wheat—not when his steward could manage just as well.Thiswas where his talents shone. This was where he was needed.
“Yes!” Bingley slapped his hand on the desk, rattling a few of the carefully organized papers. Darcy looked up, more in surprise than irritation. “Pemberley! That’sexactlywhere I’d have you. I’d have you on horseback, striding through the moors, or—better yet—lounging in a grand library with a book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. You’ve forgot how to rest, Darcy.”
Rest?The thought was almost laughable. Rest was for men who had finished their work, men who had reached their limit. But Darcy, as far as he could see, was nowhere near his. There was stillmore. Always more.
“Pemberley,” Darcy repeated, his voice steady but faintly amused. “You make it sound like I am one foot in the grave already.”
“You might as well be. You live like an old man who’s decided that the only excitement left in life is—what?—balancing the books and managing shipments? Face it, Darcy, you haven’t set foot in the country in years. And it shows. Look at you! Egad, you are nearly translucent.”
Darcy flicked an eyebrow upward. “I wasn’t aware that my pallor was of such concern.”
“It’s not the pallor,” Bingley shot back, waving a hand in dismissal. “It’s the soullessness.” He gestured dramatically to the neat stacks of ledgers, the orderly maps of trade routes pinned on the walls. “You’re drowning in this. And don’t tell me you love it, because I know you, Darcy. Youendureit. You thrive in it because it’s predictable, and you can control it. But don’t pretend you find joy in it.”
Darcy leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. His mouth twitched, just a hint, like he might be considering a smile but had not quite committed. “The world does not turn on charm and hunches, Bingley. I’ve other ambitions, and this is a means to achieving them.”
“Ah, yes! It is not enough for you to kill yourself over a desk full of shipping manifests and profit forecasts. You must find new ways to do it in the halls of Westminster.”
“You yourself thought it a capital idea,” Darcy reminded him. “In fact, it wasyouwho suggested it, just like every other hare-brained scheme I’ve found myself considering these last several years.”
“That was before I realized I had created a monster,” Bingley fired back. “And what do you mean, ‘hare-brained scheme’? I should say you have ample evidence that my instincts are sound.”
Darcy gave a small shake of his head. “I never said they were not. I simply—”
“No, no, no!” Bingley held up a hand, feigning horror. “Let’s not walk back now. You’ve made it clear from the start. You thought the candles were absurd. You thought the wines were too risky. The silk trade, you swore, was pure madness. I distinctly remember the word ‘madness,’ Darcy.”
