Miss Bingley rounded on him. “Why, Mr. Darcy, what a charming idea! Do you think we should all go?”
“Imean to go. I should think the rest of you could do worse than to accompany me.”
She laughed. “Oh, Mr. Darcy, you do have such a delicate way of understating things!”
He sighed and sipped his tea before replying. “I have no intention of dictating your plans, Miss Bingley, but indeed, it seems as though most of the… attractions of Hertfordshire have been explored for the present. You may as well come to London.”
Bingley blinked. “Darcy, are you trying to put me off Miss Bennet?”
He shook his head and finished his tea. “Only to expand your horizons a bit. You still hold the lease on Netherfield, surely. There can be nothing preventing you from returning at your leisure. But if you do choose to indulge yourself in the festive season, you may find ample delights there.”
“Oh, yes, Charles, do!” cried Mrs. Hurst. “Why, think of all the parties! Mrs. Brockhust always hosts a fine Christmas Eve party, and the Walstons—”
“Yes, yes, I quite comprehend you,” Bingley cut in. “But I did speak of—”
“Nothing that cannot be done another time, I am sure,” Miss Bingley laughed. “I shall inform my maid that we mean to leave directly. What a capital idea, Mr. Darcy!”
Bingley leaned back. “Not until after I call on Miss Bennet. Once more.”
Darcy frowned. If Bingley called on Miss Bennet, half the town would be talking about their departure within hours. And it would be similarly noted that Elizabeth Bennet had “independently” sworn to go to London as well. There was already quite enough talk of people speculating that Darcy had some private “arrangement” with the lady. No, more of such talk would certainly not do.
And then what? Elizabeth in Town, chaperoned by her aunt, invited to the same functions, the same drawing rooms. All while Wickham haunted the fringes of his mind and Georgianaclung to fragile quiet. If Elizabeth knew more—if she guessed even half the truth—how long before her salacious mother found out? Before a misplaced word, a poorly timed glance, placed Georgiana’s name back into society’s mouth?
“I think you would do better to make a clean break of it,” Darcy said.
Poor Bingley’s mouth dropped open. “But, Darcy, I—”
“Otherwise you run the risk of everyone speculating that you mean to be away for months,” Darcy interrupted. “But a man can go to town briefly on business without bidding farewell to all his neighbors.”
Bingley swallowed. Glanced around the table at his sisters. Then nodded miserably. “Very well. But I shall return to Hertfordshire as soon as may be.”
Darcy gave the orderfor his trunk just after breakfast—or what passed for it, in a house still shaking off the remnants of an all-night ball. The valet asked no questions. After nearly a month in Hertfordshire, the man had no doubt packed and unpacked Darcy’s belongings in his mind a dozen times, watching the days slide by with increasing incredulity.
Darcy stood in the middle of the room as the man began folding his shirts and brushing off the last trace of country dust from his boots. The coat he had never worn. The waistcoat Caroline Bingley had admired too obviously. And the shirt—plain, perfectly pressed, and unremarkable—save for the fact that Elizabeth Bennet had once insulted it so succinctly over tea that he had nearly lost hold of his cup.
He stared at it as his man tucked it into the trunk. Then he turned away.
Let Hertfordshire keep its rain and its rumors. Let Caroline whisper her victories, and Wickham spread his poison, and Elizabeth—blast her—go to London with all the reckless determination of someone who had decided her fate would not be decided for her.
She thought she could help him. She had said it so breezily, as if matchmaking were no more complex than arranging tulips in a vase. As if she would not be a distraction of the worst kind.
He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. Perhaps he was fretting over nothing. Her presencemightbe useful. She would absorb attention, steer him away from the more tenacious debutantes, and provide the sort of sharp, unflattering commentary that kept him from slipping into comfort. Yes—he would be doing her a greater favor than she could possibly return, for his connections surely must outshine hers.
But if he found her someone suitable—truly suitable—then the pact would be broken. Forgotten. Elizabeth Bennet would cease to be a possibility.
He told himself that would be a relief.
The Bennet household rouseditself reluctantly after the long revels of the Netherfield ball. The late morning sun slanted through the dining room windows, catching on half-eaten toast, abandoned shawls, and a few wilted sprigs of last night's hair ornaments tossed carelessly on the table.
Mrs. Bennet sat at the foot of the table, chattering away with undiminished vigor. “Triumphant, that is what it was! A triumph for all my girls! You heard Mr. Robinson yourself—he said no gathering this season could boast such pretty girls or finer spirits. Did you see how Captain Denny attended to Lydia? And Mr. Bingley to Jane? Oh, it was all precisely as I hoped!”
She beamed at her daughters as if expecting a round of applause.
In contrast, Kitty and Lydia sat slumped like marionettes with half-cut strings. Kitty winced every time the door creaked or a dish clattered. Lydia dabbed at her temples with a wrinkled handkerchief and muttered about “the wickedness of inferior port.”
Mary, who had made it her personal mission to play every melancholy sonata known to man during the supper break, sat glowering into her porridge. The less said about her performance—and the giggles it provoked from the Goulding girls—the better.
Mr. Bennet, his cravat loose and sagging like a defeated banner, sipped his coffee and watched them all with weary amusement.
