“My esteemed Lady Catherine,” Mr Collins beamed, “it is with the deepest pleasure that I present, as requested, my betrothed, Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire, to help celebrate the nuptials of our dear Miss de Bourgh. May I again protest the very great honour bestowed upon your humble servants by giving notice of us at such a venerable occasion as the solemnisation of Miss de Bourgh’s marriage to Mr Darcy? Your ladyship is too kind, to consider our satisfaction on sharing such a happy day.”
He could not breathe. She had scarcely raised her eyes, but there could be no question that she had noted his presence. For no other reason would she stare so steadily at a bit of Indian carpet, but that she had been dragged here against her will by that idiot, presented as his unwilling affianced, and then confronted with none other but himself! He longed to go to her, to lift her chin and to bodily remove that simpering idiot’s arm from hers, but all eyes were now on his Elizabeth.
“Your betrothed does not speak,” observed Lady Catherine. “Is she so disrespectful that she cannot express proper courtesy at the introduction?”
“Oh, quite the contrary, My Lady! She is the most modest and exemplary woman, and I feel quite certain that she is merely overcome with gratitude for your ladyship’s notice and condescension. Mr Darcy,” he turned and bowed again, “pray, forgive my manners, for we have not been introduced. May I express my most joyous congratulations upon the occasion of your marriage!”
She did glance up to him then, and within those fine eyes flickered a spark of… something… but it was quickly dampened by a deep shadow of humiliation. Crimson stained those soft cheeks he had only an hour ago caressed as his own, and he could see her desperately trying to swallow. He had no right to speak to her, for she had not yet responded to Lady Catherine. Angels above, could anyone else see the inferno threatening to consume him if he did not go to her at once?
“Miss Bennet,” Lady Catherine repeated, as if the young lady were deaf, “you are either exquisitely modest, as Mr Collins claims, or unfavourably reticent.”
She blinked, slowly, and with deliberate lassitude, lifted her eyes to his aunt. “I believe you might be the first person to ever think me reticent, My Lady.”
“That is well. Anne,” Lady Catherine gestured to his silent cousin, “does her appearance please you?”
Darcy had scarcely even noticed Anne’s arrival, and as he glanced in her direction now, he could not miss the faint narrowing of her eyes as she acknowledged him. Well, let her be displeased with him! She was party to all this fallacy, let her suffer some of his disdain. But why was Anne to pass any approval on his Elizabeth? Could not everyone else see the contrast between the two? One vibrant and healthy, the very angles of her face formed by every expression of feminine goodness and cheer; the other sallow, ill-disposed toward civility, weak, and pale. They were not even of the same class!
Anne glanced over Elizabeth’s dress, the very one she had worn all day, and appeared unimpressed. “She is respectable enough, I suppose,” was her diffident reply.
“It is fitting that you have some sort of attendant,” Lady Catherine decided. “That is the very reason I insisted that Mr Collins present his betrothed this evening, for she will be coming to Hunsford after her marriage. You may retire to dress, Anne, and Miss Bennet may assist you.”
And that was the moment that Darcy, with his carefully schooled detachment and his barely restrained sense of decorum, ceased to care what anyone else thought.
Chapter thirty
If she had been humiliated before, she wished to die a thousand deaths now. What right hadheto be the one to witness her mortification at the hands of Collins? There had been some sense of foreboding when that sweating, beady-eyed fool had dragged her into the veritable mansion on Grosvenor Street.
Then, when he had fairly pushed her before him into the drawing room, and the fine, distinctive figure which had been her refuge this day had been the first to greet her eyes, it had demanded all her willpower not to turn the other way and flee like a small child. What cruel destiny had madehisaunt one and the same as Mr Collins’ own Lady Catherine de Bourgh?
Darcy. That was his name. FitzwilliamDarcy, a name which must have cost ten thousand pounds just to hire someone to inscribe all its characters. A fine specimen, indeed! What a fool she was! One needed only glance at the thick Indian rug—which was all she found the courage to stare at—to know that he was as far beyond her as the Prince Regent himself.
He was gazing at her now, drawing her attention to one safe corner of the room as that horrible woman was issuing her invectives and decrees. His chest was heaving with a torment which, intimately as she understood him, could have been no less than her own. There was fury sparking in his face, ire curling his fists, but there was something more; something meant only for her. Regret. Sorrow.
So, this was how it was to be. Neither of them had any choice in the matter; he would marry the heiress, she the parson, and theywould be thus perversely connected for life. Her own gaze faltered, but not before reflecting back to him the same frustration and remorse. She had been right to refuse his offer—she knew it, and her family’s security would forever be her assurance of that—but for just a moment, she wished there had been some way she could have accepted.
He had turned back to his relation now as if he could no longer bear to look at her. “Aunt Catherine,” he thundered, shaking even the other young woman and nearly causing Collins to faint, “you will desist at once! Is it not sufficient that you abuse my hospitality to such a degree that you have insinuated yourself into my private affairs, and now you think you have enough power over me to force a marriage where there was no misconduct on my part? Must you also degrade this young lady by issuing orders to a guest?”
“Guest?” scoffed his aunt. “If she is a guest, it is becauseIhave had her brought here. She must and should be flattered by the honour of my condescension.”
She could see him coiling with rage in her defence but could no longer remain silent herself. “I beg your pardon,” Elizabeth interrupted just as Darcy was preparing a counter-attack, “but I am here against my wishes and find this an honour I can easily forego. I do not know if it is your usual custom, Lady Catherine, to browbeat your company into waiting upon you, but if it is, I believe I perfectly understand the reason. It must be difficult to procure guests for your amusement if such is their first experience with your hospitality. If it is quite the same to you, your ladyship, I should like to return to my uncle Gardiner’s home at the earliest opportunity.” She finished this little speech with a hesitant glance his way, then again fastened an impertinent gaze on his aunt.
He smiled as if he wanted to cheer and applaud, but he was the only one. Collins nearly dropped dead of horror—a pity he did not, for that would have been one problem solved. An older gentleman, whom Collins had informed her would be Mr Darcy’s uncle, the Earl of Matlock, was shaking his head in gravedisapproval of her saucy tongue. The bride’s mouth had dropped open in indignation, but Lady Catherine… oh, that lady’s reaction was opposite in equal measure to Mr Darcy’s own. She purpled in an instant, her eyes wild with insensible fury.
“I have never… you, Miss Bennet, are a wicked, disgraceful woman! Collins, is this typical behaviour for the young lady you would make your wife?”
The parson’s waxen face had lost all colour. “In-indeed not, My Lady! Perhaps she is fatigued. Yes, I do believe that must be it, for she is not quite herself!”
“In fact, I am not at all weary,” Elizabeth replied serenely. “I have had a most refreshing day, until approximately an hour ago. If I have little patience with your arts, My Lady, it is because I had the pleasure of enjoying companionship of a far more restful and genuine sort and am in no humour at present to tolerate anything less agreeable.” She rewarded Darcy then with one more glance, a lowering of lashes, and then was quiet.
That glance proved to be a mistake. Darcy’s eyes had warmly touched hers, and when he looked away again to his aunt, her icy gaze was fixed upon her nephew.
“I see it all now,” she murmured, her tones low and menacing. “Miss Bennet, did you name your guardian as a Mr Gardiner? Of Cheapside?”
“Indeed,” she answered without reserve.
“Thenyouare the very strumpet my nephew took for his amusement. I have it in a note, and not so much of it was illegible that I cannot make out such a similarity in the name. You are a disgraceful harlot, Miss Bennet, and I shall see that your marriage to my parson will never come to pass!”
Collins was glancing helplessly between the patroness he adored and herself—the woman he had claimed as his reward for his merits. “But… your ladyship!”
