"There is none."
"No?" His cousin lifted a skeptical brow. "And here I had already placed my wager on a Christmas engagement. Thought you might have a ring tucked away in your pocket."
Darcy's jaw set. "You were misinformed."
"Not the first time, nor the last," Richard said cheerfully. "There is still time. Plenty of clever girls in Town, if you know where to look. And if you do not, well—" he shrugged, "—luckily you have me."
Darcy's patience thinned to a fine, irritable edge. "If you have called only to parade your social calendar before me, you may spare yourself the effort."
"Hardly," Fitzwilliam said easily. "I came to rescue you. Or to mock you. Possibly both. You must allow, it would ease a great many minds if you chose a bride soon. The family trustees grow restless. And Father has been seen sharpening his matchmaking knives."
“And what of Georgiana’s mind?” Darcy snapped. “Or her future? One misstep—one whisper of scandal—and the damage is irreparable.”
"Never fear," Richard continued, grinning. "I have a list. There is to be a musical evening at the Harringtons' on Saturday, intimate and fashionable, which is to say tolerable for about an hour. And plenty of charming young ladies eager to ensnarethe proud Mr. Darcy of Pemberley. I happen to know Miss Tyndale will be present. You remember Miss Tyndale? Tall, fair, frightfully accomplished. Plays the harp, I think."
"I do not require a harpist," Darcy said coldly.
"She has a friend, if that is more to your taste." Fitzwilliam's smile widened into wicked suggestion. "Miss Talbot. Rather less of a harp, more of a—"
"Enough," Darcy said, rising with such suddenness that the colonel blinked.
“Well, I beg your pardon. I was only trying to be helpful. It is not like you to leave something this important off to the last moment like this.”
Darcy turned away, flexing his shoulders inside his coat and pacing restlessly. “It was not intentional. I meant to have the matter settled by last spring, but there were… complications.”
Richard grunted, and Darcy heard him rise from the chair to walk to the decanter. “By the by, how is Georgiana?” he asked. This was followed by the clink of crystal and a slosh of liquid.
Darcy sighed. “Well enough. She is staying at the dower house with Grandmother for the present.”
“Ah.”
Darcy turned back to his cousin. “I dare not imagine what will come of her if your father has his way. Or if…”
“No luck with those letters?”
Darcy shook his head. “The best we can hope for is that Wickham burned them or tossed them in the waste bin.”
“A fanciful bit of naivety, even for you.” Richard extended a glass, his face sobering as he studied Darcy’s expression. “And you are… certain there was no luck to be had in Hertfordshire? The… er…game, there, as I recall, is rather fine.”
Darcy turned a flat stare upon his cousin. "That depends upon a man’s taste, I suppose."
"I suppose it does," Richard said mildly, swirling the brandy in his glass. He watched Darcy over the rim with speculative interest. "Tell me, then—if not an heiress nor a country beauty, what exactly are you waiting for?"
Darcy said nothing for a long moment.
He ought to have an answer ready.
It was a simple enough question, on the surface.
A woman of sense. A woman of virtue. A woman who could bear the weight of Pemberley’s name without flinching.
Instead, what formed unbidden in his mind was a different litany altogether:
A woman who would laugh at him when he deserved it.
Who would look him squarely in the face, without fear or calculation.
Who would spark in him not just admiration, but battle, and exasperation, and that dangerous, unnameable thing that made him forget how to breathe.
