Miss Bingley scoffed. “Everything. She is everything agreeable because she has been trained to be so. She knows precisely how to engage you, how to draw you in. How can you not see it? The connection would be detrimental to our standing.”
Miss Bennet bestowed her serene smile upon all alike, without preference or artifice. She did not glow with particular warmth when Bingley addressed her, though she clearly enjoyed his company. It was not love—at least, not yet.
It would not be a terrible match,Darcy admitted privately,if affection were to follow.The family was not vulgar, whatever their limitations. Their manners were correct, their conversation sensible, their behavior restrained. Miss Bennet was, undeniably, a gentleman’s daughter.
So is Miss Elizabeth,a quiet, unwelcome thought intruded.
Darcy dismissed it at once.Absurd.Though Miss Elizabeth Bennet possessed wit enough to provoke interest—more than interest, at times—she was hardly suitable as a bride for one in the first circles. Fascination was not destiny. He enjoyed her lively discourse, yes, and her fearless intelligence was…arresting. But after their encounter while riding, he had wondered whether she thought too well of her own discernment. Confidence, when untempered, could become presumption.
She raised sculpted brows. “Guard your heart, Charles. Miss Bennet seeks only to elevate herself.”
Darcy remained silent, but his thoughts churned. Miss Bingley’s belief in her superiority compared to Miss Bennet was laughable.
From where does she draw these conclusions?He knew Miss Bingley’s sources well enough—listening servants, paid informants, whispers coaxed into shape and repeated until they sounded like fact. Yet, the Bennets did not comport themselvesas a family driven by desperation. Their clothing spoke of restraint, not poverty; their ease suggested security, not want. Even Lady Catherine de Bourgh—so fond of proclaiming her own consequence—behaved with less true decorum.
Still, in one regard Miss Bingley was correct. Her brother could make a far grander alliance than one with a country gentleman’s daughter. His connection to Darcy opened doors few others could even approach.
Darcy’s gaze drifted, unseeing, toward the window.
Worth,he reflected,is not always announced by lineage alone.And though he would never have admitted it aloud, there lingered in his mind the unsettling certainty that Miss Elizabeth Bennet—dependent niece or not—possessed a self-command and intelligence that could not be so easily dismissed.
The thought troubled him more than he cared to acknowledge.
Later, Darcy found Charles in the billiards room. He stood by the tall window, cue in hand, staring out over the formal gardens as though the clipped hedges and orderly gravel paths might supply answers he could not yet articulate. The afternoon light slanted in at an angle, catching the green baize of the table and throwing long shadows across the floor. One corner of the table bore the evidence of neglect: balls scattered without method, a game begun and abandoned.
When Darcy shut the door behind him, Bingley turned, his expression brightening reflexively before settling again into something more subdued.
“Ah. Darcy. Would you care for a game?”
Darcy examined the table with a practiced eye. “Are you through?” he asked mildly. “Shall I ready the balls?”
Bingley hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, yes, I think I am done with thisgame.”
Darcy did not miss the faint emphasis, nor the distracted tone.Indeed,he thought,this has nothing to do with billiards at all.He said nothing, however, and moved to gather the balls, arranging them carefully in the center of the table. The familiar order soothed him more than he expected.
“Shall we begin?” he asked.
Bingley waved his hand vaguely, his attention still half on the window. Darcy positioned his cue, bent, and struck with controlled force. The sharp crack echoed in the room as the balls scattered.
“How can one tell if a lady fancies him?” Bingley asked abruptly.
Darcy straightened at once, the cue resting lightly in his hand. He did not pretend surprise. “You refer to Miss Bennet, I suppose?”
Bingley nodded, a touch of earnestness softening his usually buoyant features. “She is an angel,” he said simply. “Beautiful, kind, generous—but I cannot readily understand her feelings.”
Darcy circled the table, surveying his next shot with more deliberation than necessary. “Ladies have ways of making their sentiments known,” he said at last. How often had women of the ton deployed smiles, glances, and studied chance encounters with himself? The memory left him faintly irritated. Such forwardness offended his sense of propriety.
Bingley made a thoughtful sound. “I know Miss Bennet enjoys my company.”
“How?” Darcy asked, glancing up. He saw no distinction between Miss Bennet’s manner toward Bingley and her manner toward any other polite acquaintance.
“Well, she engages me in conversation,” Bingley replied. “Our discussions are enthusiastic and extend beyond mere civility.”
“Does she approach you?” Darcy asked pointedly.
Bingley paused, brow furrowing as he reconsidered past interactions. “No…I usually approach her. But is that not the polite way of things?”
“It is socially acceptable, yes,” Darcy allowed, lining up another shot. “But a lady who is interested does not rely solely upon convention. She contrives opportunity. She ensures she is seen—that she is accessible.”
