Darcy resisted the urge to sigh. “She is always polite.”
“Yes,” Bingley agreed, too quickly. “Precisely so.”
That confirmed it.
Darcy looked away, fixing his gaze on the passing countryside as his thoughts sharpened. He had warned his friend—gently, perhaps too gently—but warned him nonetheless. Miss Jane Bennet was agreeable, beautiful, and kind, but her manner revealed no particular preference. She did not seek Bingley’s company; she merely received it with grace.
Exactly as I said,Darcy thought, and felt an unwelcome flicker of satisfaction.
The pleasure was small, fleeting—and followed immediately by guilt.
He did not wish to see his friend disappointed. Bingley’s affections, though quick to ignite, were sincere while they lasted. There was nothing calculating in his interest, nothing false. If he suffered now, it would be because he had hoped too freely.
Darcy shifted in his seat. “It is early still,” he said, repeating words he had used before. “You need not draw conclusions so soon.”
Bingley nodded, though without conviction. “Of course. I know that. Still…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “It is nothing. I shall think no more of it.”
Darcy doubted that.
Silence fell again, but Darcy’s thoughts had already returned to Miss Elizabeth.
Miss Elizabeth.
He saw her as she had sat beside him in the parlor—composed, attentive, her hands stilled once he engaged her in conversation. She had not fidgeted nor affected interest. She had listened, considered, responded. When she disagreed, she did so without sharpness, without apology.
Too ready with her opinions,he thought.Too certain of their correctness.
And yet he could not dismiss them as naïve. She had spoken of humility not as an abstract virtue, but as something learned—acquired through experience. That, more than anything, unsettled him.
She has lived very little,he insisted to himself.She cannot have seen enough to justify such assurance.
But the argument rang hollow even as he formed it.
There was an intelligence in her that did not announce itself loudly but revealed itself in moments—an economy of expression, a precision of thought. She did not speak to impress, nor to provoke. She spoke because she had something to say.
And worse—She fascinated him. The realization settled upon him with distressing clarity.
It was not merely her eyes, though those were striking enough. It was the way she met his gaze without challenge or submission. And there was the liveliness of her mind, the quiet humor that edged her words, the independence that marked her as unlike any woman he had known.
This is dangerous,he thought grimly.
He could not offer for her. The match was impossible—her connections too modest, her position too uncertain, her place in society entirely unsuitable for the mistress of Pemberley. He knew this as surely as he knew his own name.
And yet knowledge did nothing to temper inclination.
Desire did not always bow to reason. Darcy had seen enough of the world to understand that truth.
He leaned back against the seat, exhaling slowly.
I must guard myself,he resolved.This is nothing but passing interest. Novelty. She will fade, as others have done.
But even as he made the vow, he knew it was a fragile one.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet—Miss Elizabeth—had already lodged herself too firmly in his thoughts. She had challenged him without seeking to, contradicted him without offense, intrigued him without effort.
That she was unattainable did not lessen the pull.
If anything, it sharpened it.
