Hines blinked once. “One night in a row, sir. Her Ladyship dined with the party from Hunsford last—”
“Never mind,” Darcy snapped, then forced himself to soften. “It does not signify.”
But it did signify. It signified everything. He knew, of course, that he would have to see her again. He was not daft. He looked in the mirror and noticed, not for the first time, the tired mien of a man who was in love and had lost.
Richard found him before he could retreat into the library like a wounded animal.
“Darcy,” his cousin said cheerfully, as though the world had not shifted beneath their feet. “Walk with me.”
“I would have thought you completed your inspection of the grounds yesterday.”
“I am in need of air.” Richard grinned. “You know how I like to be thorough. Besides—” His brows lifted. “Perhaps we shall run across your Miss Bennet.”
“She is not—” Darcy began unconsciously, then stopped because the words were ridiculous now. Not his. Not yet. Not ever. “You would save yourself the trouble of discontent with our aunt if you would simply use the manners with which you have been brought up rather than those you have learned serving king and country.”
“Very well, I promise to do better tomorrow. Unless the old termagant is not at breakfast, in which case, I reserve the right to behave in whatever manner I see fit.”
They set out along the lane, the same hedges cut into squares so rigid they looked as if they had been disciplined into shape. Lady Catherine had never met a living thing she could not command into obedience.
From beneath a topiary came a honk so offensive that Darcy flinched.
A gander launched itself at his Hessian boots with the ferocity of a creature convinced Darcy had insulted its mother.
“What the blazes—” Darcy began, as beak and wing met leather.
The gander honked, snapped, honked again, hissed, and advanced with the air of a French officer.
With as much dignity as a gentleman could retain whilst being attacked by poultry, Darcy ran with high knees, alternately being bitten in the thighs and breeches. Thanking the heavens and Hines for his Hessian boots, he shooed the demon bird away with his arms and shouting “Hie!” and “Away with ye!” in his best Derbyshire goose herding accent, emulating young Peter from Pemberley.
Richard, meanwhile, was less than helpful. He stood on the path, pointing and braying quite like a barn animal himself.
When Darcy had escaped what the gander deemed its territory, he recollected himself, straightened his waistcoat, and attempted to appear as though he had intended the performance.
“Fine creature, that gander,” Richard said, wiping tears from his eyes. “It has a taste for drama.”
“It has a taste for violence,” Darcy muttered, running a hand through his hair.
And then—
Elizabeth.
She crossed the meadow ahead, her skirts pushing through wildflowers with a serenity that made Rosings appear almost tolerable. Darcy’s lungs tightened. She was everything that morning should not have been: bright, alive, untroubled.
As if nothing had happened.
As if he had not poured his heart out and been refused.
Richard stepped forward with his usual ease. “Miss Bennet. I hope you have had a pleasant morning.”
Elizabeth smiled politely. “Colonel Fitzwilliam. MrDarcy.”
Darcy tipped his hat. His hand was steady only because he willed it. “Miss Bennet.”
She looked at him with mild curiosity. Nothing more. No discomfort. Or anger. Or remembered mortification.
Darcy’s world tilted.
“Your gown—” He gesticulated whilst casting around for the kind of dandy compliment his cousin would give. “Is pretty” did not seem enough, and “suits you” was inelegant. After a moment that lingered too long, he surmised to point anywhere near her bodice was abominably gauche. He cleared his throat. “You are…out early.”
