And therein lay the question.
Months ago, he had thought he saw some interest in her for his friend—not in anything overt, certainly, but in the faint, unreadable shifts in her expression when Bingley was near. A slightly longer glance. A slight warmth in her tone. Perhaps nothing at all.
But if therehadbeen anything, it was long buried now.
Miss Bennet looked at Bingley much as she looked at everyone else—polite, vaguely interested, but hardly as if she were pining away for him. If she had ever been inclined to him, it had been a fleeting thing, easily dismissed.
Bingley, for his part, was as oblivious as ever.
At present, he was engaged in an animated discussion with Misses Lydia and Catherine, while Miss Bennet sat serene and undisturbed, making no effort to draw his attention.
Darcy took another sip of wine. Either Bingley had never held her interest, or he had lost it. Either way, it was not his concern.
Mrs. Bennet, at least, had lost none of her enthusiasm.
“Mr. Bingley,” she said, waving her hand in a vaguely grand manner, “you must be so very glad to have your good friend Mr. Darcy returned to Hertfordshire! Although, I daresay, you must hardly require more company, what with all the invitations you must receive.”
Bingley smiled politely, but there was no mistaking the way Mrs. Bennet’s gaze flickered—not toward him, but past him, to her daughters.
Darcy knew that look. He had seen it last autumn, when she had still imagined his friend might be inclined toward her eldest daughter.
Bingley, entirely unaware of the direction of her thoughts, merely said, “It is always a pleasure to see Darcy again, ma’am.”
Mrs. Bennet tutted. “Well, I suppose that is fortunate for him, indeed.”
Darcy caught the barest hint of a glance in his direction, but she did not address him directly. Of course she would not. He had nothing to offer her daughters—no grand fortune, no landed estate. And no red uniform.
That suited him perfectly.
He reached for his wine.
“I am certain,” Mr. Bennet said idly, “that Mr. Darcy must be relieved to have a brief escape from London. I can only imagine how exhausting it must be—what with all the terribly important matters he attends to.”
Darcy gave him a flat look, but Mr. Bennet only smirked, taking a leisurely sip of his own wine.
Oh, yes. At least one person at this table knew how to amuse himself.
They had just finished the second course when the commotion began. Footsteps in the hall. The murmur of voices. A moment later, Hill, the housekeeper, stepped into the dining room, looking slightly harried.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” she said to Mr. Bennet, “but there is a rider at the door with an urgent express. He says it is of some importance.”
Mrs. Bennet set her fork down with a gasp. “Oh, heavens! I knew it! It must be from your cousin, the parson—that patroness of his has surely died! I just knew this would happen,” Mrs. Bennet continued, fluttering her hands. “And no doubt he means to take possession of Longbourn at once—oh, Mr. Bennet, he will throw us all into the hedgerows!”
“I suspect my cousin and heir has yet to learn how to claim an inheritance from the living, my dear,” Mr. Bennet said dryly, pushing back from the table. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”
It took only a few minutes before Mr. Bennet returned, looking altogether too serious for news of his relative. In his hand, he held a sealed letter.
Darcy straightened.
Mr. Bennet paused by his chair, then extended it. “It is for you, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy took it, frowning. “For me?”
“The messenger went to Netherfield first,” Mr. Bennet said. “Upon being told you were here, he came directly.” He lifted a brow. “He is waiting outside for a reply.”
Silence settled over the table.
Darcy set down his napkin, rose, and inclined his head. “If you will excuse me.”
