“Bingley exaggerates.”
“He does. He said wraith. Ghost was my modification.”
Darcy closed his eyes.
“There is to be a garden party. Tomorrow. Near Matlock. The Lady Chiswell is hosting—do not roll your eyes, I already saw it—and I have it on good authority there will be lemonade, bad poetry, and at least three ladies who have recently taken up harp. It will be intolerable. But I shall not endure it alone.”
“I am not going.”
“You are.”
Darcy opened his eyes. “Have you ever considered diplomacy?”
“Every time I decline a promotion.”
“Which is never. How much did your father pay for the last one?”
Richard scoffed. “Iearnedthat, cousin. The general found me a very useful courier.”
“If this is your way of being ‘useful,’ I wonder that he did not put you back to Lieutenant.”
The room fell briefly quiet. Darcy pressed his fingers into his temples, trying to summon the thread of peace he had briefly touched before the knock. Fitzwilliam never stayed long—he was on leave, but only barely, and the War Office would snatch him back the moment his boots were laced.
Darcy could have been more hospitable. Could have stood, could have ordered tea, could have played the dutiful host.
Instead, he sat motionless, barefoot, trying to remember why he had ever allowed himself to care about anything he stood ready to lose.
“The party,” he said at last. “Why?”
“Why the party, or why are you attending?”
“The former, as I amnotattending.”
“Of course you are.” Fitzwilliam uncrossed his legs and sat forward, hands clasped over his knee. “The Lady Chiswell was an old friend of your mother’s. Her daughter was widowed last year, and the family has decided that throwing an outdoor gathering in the name of charity is a splendid way to restore her to society. There will be food. There will be flowers. There will be gossip, and music, and quite possibly the French ambassador’s niece.”
“I see.”
“And I,” said Fitzwilliam, grinning, “will be there. At my mother’s behest, of course.”
“You are not due back in London?”
“No, butyouare due back among the living.” Fitzwilliam stood and gave him a hard look. “You have mourned long enough. The black will keep. But if you mean to sit in this mausoleum for the rest of your twenties, do not expect me to keep you company.”
Darcy exhaled. “You are a bastard.”
“Entirely true. But I am also the only one Mrs. Reynolds will permit past her guard. Oh, and the dowager countess ‘expects’ to see you, which amounts to a command.”
Darcy glanced down at his bare feet, then back up.
“You are serious.”
“Gravely. I intend to wear my good boots. You should as well.”
“Richard.”
“Yes?”
“If I must attend this farce, I will not suffer alone.”
