Miss Elizabeth would argue. She would resist. She would expect to be met as an equal.
And he had recognized it within minutes.
Third: her circumstances. There was something indistinct about her situation. She spent part of the year with her aunt, rode with footmen where others did not, and spoke of Town with an ease that belied her supposed station. The irregularity suggested either pretension or complication—neither desirable.
Fourth—and here he slowed despite himself—her effect upon him.
That is the true danger.
She unsettled him. He, who prided himself on composure and discernment, found himself distracted by the memory of her expressions, her voice, the quick intelligence in her eyes.
Her refusal to be impressed should have offended him. Instead, it intrigued him.
She does not flatter. She does not yield. She does not seek.
And that, he admitted reluctantly, was precisely why she lingered in his thoughts.
Darcy clenched his jaw.
This is folly.
Attraction led to imprudence. Imprudence led to attachment. Attachment led to concessions—first small, then irretrievable. He had seen the pattern before. A childhood companion rose unbidden in his mind: clever, charming, forever dissatisfied. Raised near him, educated beside him, encouraged to expect parity where none truly existed. When reality failed to matchexpectation, resentment had taken root. The man had left England altogether rather than endure the humiliation of disappointment.
Expectation is a dangerous thing. And Miss Elizabeth inspires it—in herself, and now, absurdly, in me.
He frowned.
I cannot offer for her.
Even if inclination urged him forward, reason barred the way. He could not raise expectations he had no intention of fulfilling.
Yet the thought of relinquishing her company produced an unfamiliar sense of loss.
I admire her.
The admission sat heavily as Netherfield came into view through the trees, serene and orderly.
He drew a steadying breath as he reined in.
You will be civil and restrained. You will observe, not engage.
He dismounted and handed off the reins, his expression composed once more.
And remember this,he told himself grimly as he stepped inside.Fascination is not permission—and admiration is no excuse for folly.
Brisby came to help him out of his riding clothes. “Sir,” the valet began. “I have…attended to the matter you mentioned.”
“Go on.” Darcy stared at his valet as the man undid his cravat knot, his own mind still half on the ride he had just taken and the unsettling clarity of Elizabeth’s gaze.
“Miss Bingley’s information is sadly lacking, as you suspected. The Bennet estate is entailed, but they are far from penniless.Though they do not flaunt their funds, there are signs the family is better off than their neighbors know.”
Darcy had suspected as much. The clothing the girls wore—and Mr. and Mrs. Bennet—were all finely made of excellent fabric. The garments were styled fit for the country, however: practical, restrained, and deliberately unshowy. Nothing proclaimed wealth, yet nothing betrayed want. That, in his experience, was rarely accidental.
“And Miss Elizabeth?”
“There seems to be a disappointing lack of information about the girl. Her parents are deceased, and she spends only part of the year in Hertfordshire. The majority of the year is spent in town with her guardians.”
“Yes, I believe she mentioned an aunt.”
