Something cold and heavy landed in Darcy’s chest. Langley—fastidious, reserved, the human embodiment of a well-folded napkin—could never keep pace with Elizabeth’s wit. He would spend his life blinking at her brilliance like an owl caught in the sun. Not that Darcy would wish a friend ill, but he doubted Langley could even throw a leather ball for Elizabeth’s terrier without first consulting a manual on the proper etiquette for tossing a ball with a terrier.
“Fitzwilliam, are you well?” Lady Sophia’s concern showed in the sudden crease of her eyebrows. “There are still many cards in the salver, but perhaps… if this task is too tedious for you, we might resume after luncheon?”
“I am perfectly capable of continuing,” Darcy said, though he shifted his position enough to make the chair creak. “The task is not tedious. It is… essential.”
“Well enough to find fault, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth quipped, her eyes dancing with that dangerous, perceptive light. “Are you perhaps regretting your inclusion of Mr. Langley?”
“I regret nothing that secures your future, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said, meeting her gaze with gravity. “My duty for your well-being… must not be overstated.”
“Indeed, a very rare trait for a trustee, sir.”
Lady Sophia cleared her throat, the sound crisp in the still room. “If we are quite finished with the ‘unobjectionable’ Mr. Langley, perhaps we might move to a name that actually requires a decision. Fitzwilliam, the next card.”
“Mr. Charles Bingley. Hargrove’s Club.” He set the card squarely on the table between them. “I shall make no formal recommendation regarding this card, Miss Elizabeth. However, I believe Bingley is calling with the hope of… repairing an acquaintance with your sister.”
“A repair? That implies something was broken, Mr. Darcy. I was under the impression it had simply been… forgotten.”
“It was not forgotten. It was interrupted.” He did not look away. “By my own interference.”
Elizabeth’s teacup rattled against the saucer as she set it down. “Yes, Mr. Darcy, I am aware of that. You admitted as much when we last… spoke at length.”
Lady Sophia slowly set her volume of Fordyce aside, her eyes gleaming at this unexpected revelation while Darcy’s collar shrank like a noose around his neck.
“I have come to regret my judgment,” he stammered. “I acted upon what I erroneously believed to be a lack of?—”
“Of fortune?” Elizabeth interrupted. “Or perhaps lack of consequence, or those connections you so valued. Or is it thelack of decorum? Family members who speak too loudly or lack refinement.”
“None of those, Miss Elizabeth.” He tugged at his cravat. “Indeed, I had no right to presume Miss Bennet’s feelings in this affair. Your sister is composed and gracious. I told Bingley that if his affections remained unchanged, he had been grossly misled.”
“How convenient,” Elizabeth murmured, her voice laced with a dangerous, quiet irony. “I wonder, Mr. Darcy—do you and Mr. Bingley find my sister’s conversation more ‘sufficient’ now that it is conducted in a drawing room of this caliber? Or did he merely require your explicit permission to find her ‘tolerable’ again?”
Darcy’s hand clenched, tightening until his knuckles went white, although he did not flinch. He looked at Elizabeth—at the vivid flush of her cheeks and the fierce, protective light in her eyes—and realized she was still fighting the man who had insulted her in a Kentish grove. He could not blame her. He had given her the weapons himself.
“Miss Elizabeth, I can assure you that Bingley’s interest had always been constant. I believe I have already communicated the faults of my perception. This well preceded your occupancy of 33 Grosvenor Street.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Lady Sophia murmured, her glance darting with predatory interest between Darcy and her newest goddaughter.
“So, you repented of your interference?” she challenged.
“Yes, I sought to repair the damage I caused upon my return to London in March—before your ledgers became pleasantly enlarged.”
“It is a marvel,” she said. “That a man so certain of his own judgment could find himself so utterly… mistaken. However, I do not place all the responsibility on you, Mr. Darcy. If Mr. Bingley were set on his affections, he would not stray as a hound whistled away by his master.” Her eyes flashed. “A gentlemanof conviction does not allow himself to be talked out of his happiness. The fault lies in Bingley’s shallow character as it does in the arrogance of your advice.”
The strike was clean, and he wanted to defend his friend, but his own unyielding code of honor would not allow him to lie.
“You would not find me in such a position, Miss Elizabeth. There is no power in England, no argument of blood, fortune, or friendship, that could talk me out of the woman I chose.”
She had the grace to flush from his pronouncement. Her teacup stilled in her hands. Her fine eyes met his with an expression he had never encountered—not the arch wit, nor the careful neutrality she wore as a shield. It was open, and his heart jolted at the sight of something that, if he were not terrified of misnaming it, looked like the birth of respect.
“Oh, heaven help us,” Lady Sophia murmured. “That is certainly true enough. Try as I might, Fitzwilliam, I have never once succeeded in talking you out of any foolishness you had set your mind upon. You are as stubborn as a Yorkshire mule, and twice as difficult to lead when you have decided upon a ditch.”
The silence that rushed back into the room was heavy, thick with the scent of hot wax and the unvarnished truth of his declaration. To stop now would be to drown in the sudden, parched hope in his own chest, and so he forced his mind back to the ledger of reality.
“Bingley should come to dinner,” Darcy recommended. “A formal dinner offers him structure. If he is left entirely to his own devices in a morning drawing room with your sister, he will likely lapse into an enthusiastic discussion of hunting hounds and the points of a compass out of sheer nerves.”
Elizabeth’s gaze drifted back to him, the guard she had just dropped returning only halfway. “You know his weaknesses well, it seems.”
“I know his habits.” Darcy set the card back upon the mahogany table, relinquishing his hold on it. “But it is not my place to divine a man’s intentions, nor a woman’s sensibilities. They must be permitted to sort the matter between them. I merely suggest the table be laid to give them the best possible ground.”
