She had then proceeded to mention roses three more times in the next fifteen minutes.
Mrs. Wheaton had done nothing to disguise her intent. “Mary may not have a fortune today,” she said brightly, “butcircumstances do change. Her great-uncle—dear man—passed only last week. No one has read the will yet, of course.”
Darcy had nodded. He had offered nothing.
Miss King had asked if he liked roses. Then whether he liked the concept of roses. Then whether he had ever grown one himself.
He had escaped as soon as manners allowed.
Now, riding back to Netherfield, he felt neither accomplished nor relieved. Only tired. And increasingly certain that he would rather spend his remaining months in quiet disgrace than marry any woman who decorated her conversation with floral hypotheticals.
He returned just asBingley was leaving for an evening with the regiment.
“Dinner with Forster,” Bingley said cheerfully. “I shall see if they’ve any word from the quartermaster yet.”
Darcy raised a brow. “Quartermaster? Whatever for?”
“Oh! Nothing but a jest about their uniforms. Caroline is in high dudgeon about it—she says the red will clash with her décor.”
Darcy looked up, blinking. “They are soldiers, not footstools.”
“I know, I know,” Bingley said. “I told her they would not change uniform to flatter her drapery.”
“She would prefer they wear blue, I suppose?”
“She said navy was more dignified. I reminded her the French wear blue. She called me unpatriotic.”
“I suspect Colonel Forster will think otherwise.” Darcy turned toward the stairs, but Bingley’s voice stopped him.
“Come with me, Darcy. You look like you could use a drink, and the colonel is always good company.”
For half an instant, Darcy considered it. But then he shook his head wearily. “Make my excuses to the colonel, please.”
“Suit yourself.”
Darcy stepped through the front hall, already charting the most efficient route to his room and a door he could close behind him. He had no desire for conversation. No appetite. No interest in being seen.
He had nearly reached the stairs when a voice drifted from the drawing room.
“Mr. Darcy—do join us,” Miss Bingley called. “We were just discussing the local color.”
He paused.
A moment later, she appeared in the doorway, holding a book she clearly had no intention of reading. “You have been so diligent with your visits of late. It seems ungracious not to share your impressions.”
Darcy turned, slowly. He could not retreat without inviting comment.
So, he entered the room.
“I do hope your visits were productive,” she said sweetly, not looking up as she resumed her seat.
Darcy inclined his head. “They were not intended to be.”
She laughed. “Indeed! Well, you are certainly being spoken of as though they are. I daresay you have caused a ripple in the pond. Mrs. Wheaton has already begun pricing bonnets.”
Darcy twisted so he could stare at the fire.
“Of course, none of them quite understandwhomthey are entertaining. Gossiping about Mr. Darcy of Pemberley as if he were truly in play in such a small town! So provincial. So… eager.”
