Elizabeth pretended to ponder. “It is either that or you are touring the countryside in search of the most disappointing lemon tart. I chose the more charitable interpretation.”
Darcy frowned.
“And I,” she continued, with the air of someone plunging forward before courage gave out, “am in a similar bind. Mymother has been fluttering about Mr. Collins again. And Jane—well, Jane may be sorted, but the rest of us are becoming something of a cautionary tale.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said slowly. “Mr. Collins?”
She blinked. “You have not heard of him? I am astonished. He is practically a family institution. A cousin. A clergyman. A man of great… self-regard and limited imagination. At least, that is how he seems in his letters.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. “The heir?”
“Precisely. The entailed heir to Longbourn, and, according to my mother, a gift from Providence. He was meant to visit a fortnight ago, but alas, duty called him to attend the spiritual needs of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
Darcy’s head snapped up. “What?” Of all the unholy intersections in the world, it had to be this. He felt his stomach lurch, as if two nightmares he had fought to keep separate were suddenly collapsing into each other.
Elizabeth’s smile curled. “Oh yes. Lady Catherine. His patroness. You may have heard of her?”
“I have that misfortune.”
“You have?” Her eyes narrowed. “Ah, yes. The same aunt who spells her name with a ‘C.’ Yes, I recall. Well, I suspect Mr. Collins will be sent along shortly to secure the family property with one of the four eligible Bennet daughters. My mother is taking inventory. Mary seems willing. Lydia asked if he wears a red coat. Kitty asked if he dances. I asked if I might be excused.”
“And your mother said?”
“She said I was her second prettiest daughter and that refusal would be selfish.”
Darcy opened his mouth. Closed it again. “I see.”
Elizabeth nodded, brightly. “So you may understand why I am interested in mutually beneficial exits.”
His mind was spinning now, though he did his best not to show it. Mr. Collins. Lady Catherine. Elizabeth being paraded like a prize turkey in front of a man who pronounced ‘parsonage’ as if it were an honorific.
She must be joking.
Except she was not. Not entirely. Not enough.
“If I am to understand you properly, you mean for us to go… to London? Together?”
“Together? What nonsense! But at the sametime,” Elizabeth said, “nowthatprospect has its merits. London is full of possibilities. It is Christmastide. There will be parties. Your connections, my instincts—we might make quite the matchmaking duo.”
He could only gape at her.
A footman passed by, and Elizabeth stepped marginally closer, her voice lowered. “We both need to marry someone respectable. Soon. Preferably not each other.”
His brows lifted.
“Oh, come now,” she said with mock innocence. “Surely you do not think we would suit?”
“I think,” he said slowly, “that you are speaking very quickly and very little of it makes sense.”
“Because I am exhausted. And I have had too much punch. And I cannot breathe in this room.” She paused. “But I do mean it.”
“Why?”
She gave him a look. “You ask that now? After more than five years of mutual provocation?”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Miss Bennet. What has happened?”
Her eyes flicked away. “Nothing.”
