Darcy scowled and turned back toward the hearth. "I seek nothing unusual. A lady of character. Good understanding. Temperament suited to a quiet life in the country."
The words were not his. They belonged to a sun-struck afternoon five years ago. A pair of bright eyes and a quick tongue. A promise made too easily and put aside too soon.
"Pretty words," Richard said, unimpressed. "But I notice you said nothing about fortune."
Darcy shrugged one shoulder. "It is not my first requirement."
"Nor beauty?"
"Nor beauty."
"Nor... compliance?" Richard’s mouth twisted in amusement. "Not one of the simpering lilies who would expire at your feet if you so much as frowned?"
Darcy only sighed, which was answer enough.
Richard laughed. "Remarkable. In all my life, I have never known you so easy on any matter, Darcy. Are you not the same man who once spent six months examining wallpaper for the drawing room? Did I not attend you on three different occasions to the wainwrights to clarify your requirements for a town coach?”
Darcy narrowed his eyes. “I see nothing wrong with being specific.”
“Except in the matter of searching for a bride. A man as particular as you could spend ten years searching and still wish to amend the docket, but you say you only seek a handful of qualities. Yet this ‘easy’ quest has taken you better than five years. It is almost as if—" he paused, studying him with sudden sharpness, "—you already know the sort of woman you want, but you will not let yourself have her."
Darcy stiffened.
Richard’s brows shot upward. "Touch a nerve, did I?"
"You speak nonsense," Darcy said curtly. He reached for his own glass and drank without tasting it.
"Do I?" Richard leaned back in his chair, wholly unrepentant. "Come, now. I am not a fool. What happened in Hertfordshire?"
Darcy set his glass down with deliberate care. "Nothing of consequence."
"You forget that I had a letter from the dowager." Richard's smile was slow, wicked. "She was rather exact in her instructions to you, was she not? But there is a reason you fled the country on so little notice, and I doubt it was the scenery."
Darcy exhaled sharply. He could feel the trap closing, one inexorable word at a time.
"And now," Richard pressed, "you return to London, all in a lather, pulling your hair out and muttering about social engagements. Tell me, cousin—" he lowered his voice with mock gravity, "—did the lady come to Town as well?"
Darcy's jaw clenched.
A silence fell between them, long enough for Richard's grin to grow insufferable.
At last, grudgingly, Darcy spoke.
"She is visiting relations in Gracechurch Street."
Richard blinked. Then laughed outright. "Gracechurch Street! By heaven, Darcy, you do not make it easy on yourself."
"I did not choose her address," Darcy snapped.
"No, but you chose to follow her here."
Darcy rounded on him. "I did not follow anyone."
Richard held up both hands in surrender, laughing still. "Of course not. Coincidence. Providence. An unfortunate accident of timing."
"It was," Darcy said coldly, "a matter of agreement."
There it was. The one secret he had not meant to breathe aloud. Not to anyone. Not even to himself.
