“Nothing of the kind! He said you were very handsome indeed, but that only the most skilled painter could copy the look in your eyes.” Georgiana tipped her head this way and that, evaluating Elizabeth’s face. “He is right. If I am to have any hope of putting your image down properly, I shall have to pray I can see you the way he does.”
Eleven
HisLondonhousehadnever felt so vacant and dull. Darcy had declined three invitations to dinner, for anyone whose company he might have enjoyed were presently in the country. His days were dry and solitary, but he was not so greatly in need of conversation that he wished to endure long evenings of revelry with ladies and gentlemen he cared little for. What he truly lacked, what he most longed for, was someone other than a simpleton or a sycophant to talk to.
After a fortnight of no such luck elsewhere, Darcy found himself knocking at the one door where he might find someone with whom he could truly converse, someone to challenge or even anger him: Richard’s flat. Much to his surprise, his cousin even received him.
“To what do I owe the honour?” Richard greeted him with surly irony dripping from his tones.
“Merely paying my respects,” Darcy answered. “I did not call when last I was in London.”
“I never expected you to this time, either. Oh, yes, Mother told me four days ago that you were in Town. What, did no one else offer to receive you?”
“Quite the contrary. I had hoped to speak with you, but if you still cling to old grievances, I shall depart.”
Richard scoffed. “It is not I you must ask, but my wife. She has still not forgiven you for our last meeting.”
“For what? Speaking the truth? I said no more than I always say.”
“Precisely.” Richard shook his head and set his hands at his hips. “I suppose you may as well sit down and have a drink while you are here.”
“And I suppose I must thank you for being a gracious host.” He accepted both seat and drink from his cousin and paused for a moment before speaking again. “How is Anne?”
Richard shrugged. “You cannot expect a man to truly know how his wife does. Creatures of mystery, they are.”
“They needn’t be. There is such a thing as a rational woman.”
Richard grunted into his glass. “You do not say. Where are these unicorns, the enchanted forests of Derbyshire?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then set a trap and put one in a bottle for me,” Richard grumbled. “I should like to see such a mythical being with my own eyes.”
“I doubt Anne would appreciate the comparison. She would not come off well.”
Richard rubbed his forehead with the back of his fist. “Why did you really come today, Darcy? It was not to sing the praises of my bride.”
“No.” Darcy emptied his glass and set it aside. “I never despised Anne, you know. I never had a high opinion of her—I made no secret of that—but what happened was not entirely her fault.”
“I know. It was Lady Catherine’s poison and Wickham’s golden tongue, but you did blasted little to rectify the matter. You could have told Anne why you would not marry her yourself.”
Darcy snorted. “She cannot possibly be that simple. What if she had been with child, as we all suspected at first? Did she truly think I would claim it as my own?”
“You of all men ought to know how to resolve such a dilemma,” Richard mumbled. “You manage enough other people’s lives.”
“And having her marry you was the best choice in every respect—not least because Anne’s inheritance allowed you to retire from the military.”
“Darcy, I just told you my wife can be irrational, but in this case, I nearly understand her feelings. How long did you leave her with no indication of your intentions? And then after Wickham had misled and used her badly, she looked to you to save her. When you never even answered her letter…”
“I was busy preventing Wickham’s next conquest!” Darcy spat. “Pardon me if I cared better for my fifteen-year-old sister than a woman of six and twenty who knew perfectly well what could come of her liaison. She sought to manipulate me in the situation as surely as Wickham did, mark my words—she thinking she could force me into a marriage to preserve the family honour, and he believing I would pay handsomely for his silence. The fool is yourself, for continuing to defend the lady’s wounded feelings to me when her own better sense ought to have informed her reality.”
“You know Anne better than that by now. She is her mother’s daughter in every respect.”
“Which is why she persisted so long in her delusions of an engagement to me. I still say a hearty measure of good sense would not serve the lady ill.”
“Good sense, you say? Constitutionally impossible, by both breeding and upbringing. In fact, I do not think the woman exists of whom it could be said.”
“I heartily disagree. Many are the women who by either prudence or diligence avoid such trials and pitfalls as our cousin had fallen into. And if such a woman does stumble or is dealt a wretched hand, she ought also to have the wits to overcome it.”
