“The air in London is notoriously stifling, Mr Bennet,” Robert held his ground, a wry, honest smile pulling at his lips. “And I found myself... captivated by the prospect of the local scenery. It seemed imperative that I relocate immediately to appreciate it properly.”
“The scenery,” Mr Bennet repeated, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Hertfordshire is famous for it. My eldest daughter, Jane, is particularly fond of walking the local lanes. She appreciates the scenery quite a bit.”
Robert’s heart stilled. The invocation of her name was deliberate. It was a challenge, and an invitation.
“Then Miss Bennet has impeccable taste,” he answered, the banter dropping away to reveal the dedication beneath. “I should very much like to discuss the scenery with her. If her father has no objections to a man who occasionally falls off ladders.”
Mr Bennet stared at Robert for a long, silent moment. He took in the sweat, the dust, and the ruined clothes. He saw a man of immense wealth and consequence who was willing to abandon all dignity, rip apart a house, and risk physical injury, all for the chance to court his daughter.
To a cynic like Mr Bennet, it was the highest form of entertainment. To a father, it was the ultimate proof of devotion.
Mr Bennet’s smile reached his eyes. “I find that a man willing to risk life and limb to improve his surroundings is a man who commits himself fully to his endeavours. I have no objections, Lord Keathley. We dine at Longbourn at six o’clock,” he added, turning casually towards the door, tapping his walking stick on the floor. “If you can manage to excavate yourself from the rubble by then, you and your relatives are welcome to join us. Your cousins will dine with us as well, and, colonel,” he turned to Richard, “I believe my wife serves excellent mutton.”
“I shall be there, sir,” Robert promised, his pulse roaring in his ears.
“As shall I!” Richard agreed with fervour.
“Excellent.” Mr Bennet tipped his hat. “Good day, Lord Keathley. Colonel. Miss de Bourgh.”
“Good day!” Sir William chirped, scurrying after his friend.
The door closed, leaving the Fitzwilliams in the dusty silence of the parlour.
Robert continued staring at the door, the reality of the victory washing over him. The Sphinx had been conquered. The gates of Longbourn were open.
“Well,” Anne remarked, brushing a speck of dust from her sleeve. “That went well. He did not call you out.”
“He likes him,” Richard laughed, shaking his head. “The man actually likes him. Robert, you brilliant, filthy idiot, you are going to dine with her today.”
Robert looked down at his ruined clothes, then at the shattered cherub on the floor. He had four hours to bathe, dress, and prepare to lay his heart at the feet of an angel.
“Boodles!” he hollered. “I need the hot water drawn immediately, and I need the dark green coat. The one that makes my shoulders more imposing. And prepare yourself for the Trône d’Amour. No more the Mathematical. Today, we conquer with poetry.”
THE YORKSHIRE RAINdid not fall; it staged a relentless, horizontal invasion.
It was not the polite, refreshing drizzle of the Home Counties, nor was it the passing thunderstorm of a London summer. This was a vindictive deluge that turned the sky the colour of a bruised plum and transformed the ground into a treacherous bog.
Inside the breakfast parlour of Bleakwood Hall—a name Bingley had initially thought romantic and now realised was a literal warning—the atmosphere was thicker than the porridge.
Caroline pulled a third cashmere shawl tightly around her shoulders, shivering in a wingback chair.
“I believe my toes have developed frostbite.” She glared at the fireplace, where three wet logs hissed in apathetic display of defeat. “In June, Charles. It is June, and I am dressed for an expedition to Ben Nevis.”
Bingley forced a brittle smile onto his face. He buttered a piece of toast with enthusiasm, determined to maintain morale.
“It is a passing shower, Caroline.” He took a bite, ignoring the unfortunate reality that the toast had the exact texture of a wet riding boot. “The country air is bracing! It clears the lungs!”
“It fills the lungs with pneumonia.” Caroline sneered at the windowpane, watching a rivulet of muddy water slide down the glass. “I have not seen a single carriage in four days. There is no society. I wore my silk gown yesterday, and the only creature to witness it was an inexplicably aggressive cow. There is nothing here but sheep, Charles. And they are all wet.”
Mr Hurst pushed his porcelain plate away with a hollow groan.
“The cook here does not comprehend butter.” Hurst rubbed his temples, a man deep in the throes of culinary mourning. “I asked for a simple Dutch Sauce with my eggs. She looked at me as if I had spoken in tongues and handed me a jar of pickled onions. I am fading away. My waistcoats are loose.”
“You could endure a looser waistcoat, Mr Hurst.” Louisa picked at her own plate, her expression vacant. “Though I do agree about the utter desolation. We were promised a grand country estate. Instead, we are marooned on a marsh. If Mr Darcy were here, he would undoubtedly have words with the landlord.”
At the mention of Mr Darcy, Caroline let out a wounded sigh and pressed her lavender-scented handkerchief to her forehead.
“Mr Darcy!” Caroline’s voice trembled with the injustice of it all. “He is far away from this damp purgatory. You should have insisted he accompany us here, just as he did last year in Hertfordshire. He could help you.”
