The conversation clearly concluded, he picked up his gloves and hat, and tucked the documents he needed under his arm. “The legal instruments for the Consol transfers shall be ready by Thursday. I shall see you at the hour of eleven, Miss Elizabeth.”
He bowed—a single, formal nod—and left the room. He would not let Elizabeth Bennet see him as some tragic, dithering Mortimer Delvile. He was a Darcy, and she was no longer the portionless girl he’d once thought beneath his consequence. She was an heiress with fifteen thousand a year and a world of suitors. He had offered his heart once, and she had refused it. His pride—honorable, protective, and stubborn—would not let him impose again.
He told himself he would step back, let her find happiness elsewhere if she wished. Yet even as he thought it, a cold misery enveloped him. He knew himself too well. If the Season ended and she chose another, he would almost certainly lose all sense, blunder past his defenses, and risk her rejection again rather than let her go. It hadn’t come to that yet, not when he was her assigned guardian, and hence, he would bide his time.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WICKHAM IN THE GARDEN
The callingroutine was the same, week after week. Callers came, and more often than not, Elizabeth and Jane were obliged to return them, especially notable ladies and their sons. Elizabeth stood over the silver salver, flicking through calling cards that her trustee had not bothered to sort. He was in the garden, tossing a ball for Nettle, and had made a show of not setting foot inside 33 Grosvenor Street.
Ever since that tiny dispute about Mortimer Delvile, Darcy had stopped sorting the callers, claiming pressing business with the Consol transfers and other matters. He had made his point loud and clear—that he was no Mortimer Delvile, that he was not to be put into the category of suitor like the men calling on her, because he had proposed in the most insulting manner designed to curry her absolute refusal, and he was under no obligation or even inclination to address her again.
His letter had spelled it out. Ignoring the salver was just underlining in thick, black ink.
So she picked through the accumulation of eligible bachelors with a wry amusement. Sir Geoffrey Hale, a baronet with a taste for fine horses; Mrs. Rolleston and her Nathaniel of the soup course; and Mrs. Craster and her son, one of the weepingArthurs, whose watercolors mixed with his tears. Elizabeth unfolded the sonnet he had composed, comparing her eyes to “twin celestial orbs of midnight fire,” which demonstrated ambition if not talent. Sir George Wharton had left a note regarding his box at Ascot, where he was racing his mare, and of course, Sir Weston Prideaux had left his card with a sketch of his family crest on the reverse, apparently believing Elizabeth required visual confirmation of his pedigree.
Although the men were absurd, each tripping over their own shoe latchets to compete for her fortune, Elizabeth intended to enjoy every last laugh. After all, a lady only got a single First Season, and with her new money, she could purchase entertainments and gain invitations she had never dreamed of. Her family had avoided London because of the expense, and now she could attend exhibitions, museum openings, horse races, theatre, and all sorts of parties and balls—and have the silks and fashions to wear for herself and her sisters.
She picked through the invitations from Lady Jersey, Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, and a cheeky note from Lord Coke, written in a hand that suggested either great haste or a third glass of morning gin:Enjoyed the promenade enormously. Tell Darcy his performance in the elm was the finest thing I’ve witnessed all Season.
“Bring the silver salver to the table,” Lady Sophia observed from her breakfast. “Or at least the most promising cards.”
“My trustee or your deputy has not sorted this.” Elizabeth placed the more interesting cards in front of Lady Sophia, who raised her reading glasses. “I believe he is otherwise occupied this morning.”
“Fitzwilliam had pressing estate business with his land agent,” Lady Sophia said, her tone deceptively smooth as she examined Sir Geoffrey Hale’s card. “He required a brisk morning walk to clear his head beforehand, and took Nettle along toexhaust her high spirits. I expect the paperwork for your Consols has occupied his dawn hours.”
“How remarkably sacrificial of him,” Elizabeth remarked, her voice dripping with a fine, country irony. “To endure the fresh air of the gardens while his ward is left to drown in unvetted peerage. I had no idea the administration of my funds required such rigorous, distant contemplation.”
“You are displeased with him.”
“I am not anything with him. His morning activities are his own concern.”
Lady Sophia set down Sir Geoffrey’s card and regarded Elizabeth over the rim of her spectacles. “I confess I do not entirely understand what has passed between you and my godson, Elizabeth. He has been uncharacteristically cryptic on the subject, which usually means he is either protecting someone or nursing a wound. He implied, in a very oblique fashion, that he had once offered you a proposal of some kind.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave a traitorous jump, but her voice stayed light. “Mr. Darcy implied all sorts of things.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only answer I intend to provide before breakfast chocolate.” Elizabeth lifted Lord Coke’s note from the pile and extended it toward Lady Sophia. “Look at this instead, Lady Sophia. Lord Coke has written on the reverse. He appears to find our Sunday excursion vastly entertaining.”
Lady Sophia took the card, her eyes flicking over Coke’s irreverent scrawl. A faint, knowing smile touched the corner of her mouth. “Coke is an Earl’s heir, witty, unburdened by a surplus of gravity, and entirely at home in a ballroom. He would give you a life of splendid amusement, Elizabeth. He has a great deal to recommend him.”
“You are reciting his qualifications as though I asked for them.”
“Did you not?” Lady Sophia lowered her glasses and peered at Elizabeth. “Lord Coke finds everything amusing, as I suspect you do, too. The Matlock title is ancient and respectable, and Augustus himself is charming when he chooses to be. His income is perhaps six thousand a year from the family estates, with more to come upon inheritance. Many women would consider him the prize of the Season.”
“He is also related to Darcy.”
“And why is that a consideration, my dear?”
“I… only that… well, I have to take his calls because… my trustee or your deputy cannot turn him away.”
“A pity.” Lady Sophia dropped Lord Coke’s card back into the salver. “Or an opportunity. Lord Coke has expressed interest. He sent a note. He will undoubtedly call this week. Augustus is clever, a wit like you, well read, and will one day sit in the House of Lords. Lady Matlock is not an easy mother to please, although she seems quite taken by you.”
“I doubt Lady Catherine would agree,” Elizabeth said. “She was not impressed with my piano when I visited Kent this winter.”
“Ah… the infamous visit to Kent.” Lady Sophia’s eyes glinted with something that might have been mischief or might have been strategy. “I seem to recall that Darcy is Lady Catherine’s fond nephew and that his visit coincided with yours. Could that acquaintance in the depths of a Kentish February be the source of ice between you and my godson?”
