Darcy considered that. Jane Bennet did not seem like a woman inclined to haste. If she hesitated, it was worth noting.
Breakfast drew to a close all too soon. The gentlemen took their leave with proper expressions of gratitude, Mrs. Bennet already speaking of future invitations.
As Darcy mounted once more, he cast a final glance toward the house. Elizabeth stood at the window, sunlight catching in her hair. She lifted her hand in a small, private farewell.
Darcy rode away with the unshakable sense that something had begun—something delicate, promising, and entirely capable of changing everything.
The ride back to Netherfield ought to have been restorative. The morning had been bright; the air crisp without being biting, and the road between Longbourn and Netherfield was familiar enough now that Darcy could have ridden it with his eyes shut. Richard’s company had been, as ever, an easy counterpoint to the constant agitation of the Bingley household—good humor without frivolity, wit without cruelty, and a steadiness that Darcy valued far more than he often said aloud.
Though as Netherfield came into view—its pale stone façade rising beyond the sweep of lawn, the windows catching a weak sun—Darcy felt the faint prickle of foreboding he had come to associate with every return.
Richard seemed to sense it too, for he sobered a little, his gaze shifting toward the house with the mild resignation of a man walking back into a room where an argument had been left unfinished.
“Well,” he said at last, adjusting his reins, “let us see whether Charles greets us with affection or accusations.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened. “If he greets us at all.”
Richard gave him a sideways look. “You believe it will be that bad?”
Darcy did not reply. He did not need to. The last fewdays had provided ample evidence that Bingley’s usual agreeable disposition was no longer to be trusted as a constant.
They turned into the drive at a measured pace. The gravel crunched beneath their horses’ hooves. A composed stable hand emerged, descending the stairs with haste as if summoned by their presence, and took the reins with practiced respect.
Darcy slid from the saddle and handed the lad a coin. Richard did the same, then stretched his shoulders as if shaking off the lingering stiffness of the ride.
“You are smiling,” Darcy observed as they crossed the threshold.
“I am preparing myself,” Richard returned, and the glint in his eye suggested he was not entirely displeased by whatever confrontation awaited.
They had barely entered the entrance hall when a sharp voice—raised well above the level of respectable conversation—cut through the house.
“So that is it, is it? You leave without so much as a word, treating me like I am a schoolboy to be avoided!”
Bingley appeared at the far end of the corridor, advancing toward them with rapid strides. His coat was rumpled, his cravat slightly loosened, and the color in his cheeks was not the healthy flush of exercise but the blotched red of anger ill-managed. He looked, Darcy thought with a jolt of disbelief, nearly wild.
Behind him, Miss Bingley hovered near the drawing-room doorway, her expression alight with the particular satisfaction of a woman who witnessed discord and considered it confirmationof her own superior judgment. Mrs. Hurst lingered on the staircase, one hand resting lazily on the banister, her face composed in the manner of someone who had long perfected the art of observing without being drawn into consequence.
“Bingley,” Darcy said evenly, stopping in the center of the hall.
“Do not ‘Bingley’ me,” Charles snapped, and then seemed startled by the harshness of his own tone, for he drew a quick breath and tried—unsuccessfully—to smooth it away. “You went to Longbourn.”
Richard lifted his brows. “Indeed, we did.”
Bingley’s gaze swung to him. “And you,” he added, as if the very presence of Darcy’s cousin was an affront. “You have been here less than a week, Fitzwilliam, and already you think yourself at liberty to…to—”
“To breakfast where we are welcome?” Richard supplied pleasantly.
Bingley’s nostrils flared. “I was not informed.”
“I did not ask your permission,” Darcy said, and heard the steel in his own voice. He had not intended it, but perhaps intention was irrelevant now. “Nor did I believe I required it.”
Miss Bingley made a soft, derisive sound. “Of course, you did not. It is Darcy’s habit to take command wherever he goes.”
Darcy ignored her.
Bingley did not. “Caroline, be quiet.”
It was an order, and it surprised them all. Miss Bingley’s mouth fell open slightly before she collected herself, drawing herself up with offended dignity.
