Page 23 of Pride, Prejudice & Wicked Pleasure

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“Darcy!” Abby greeted him upon entering the parlor. Her radiance and joy warmed him in an instant and set him at ease, making him believe that she welcomed his appearance though he had sent no forewarning of his early arrival. He had written her that he was to visit his aunt for Easter and intended to call upon her after he had arrived at Rosings.

“Pray forgive the unexpected intrusion,” he said after he had kissed her hand.

She pressed his hand with affection, her smile never failing to make him feel adored. She looked to be in good health, her cheeks rosier than he last remembered. He fancied she flushed in delight at his presence for she had often told him that he was a favourite of hers.

“Nonsense!” she chided before taking a seat facing the hearth. “You know that you are welcome any time here at Trenwith House.”

His riding breeches still damp from the rain, Darcy remained standing in front of the fire.

“But how reckless of you to ride through this weather,” she admonished. “Mr. Singh informed me that you came on horseback.”

“I met with rain only when I neared Hunsford.”

“Do you mean to ride on to Rosings? Lee tells me the roads are quite wretched.”

“That is my intention,” he replied, though his aunt did not expect him till the following day and he much preferred the company of Abby to Lady de Bourgh.

She appraised him from head to toe and seemed a little pensive. “You ought to dry yourself here before venturing back into the deluge.”

“Your reasoning eludes me. How am I benefitted by being dry before I become wet again?”

“Perhaps that was my awkward attempt to get you to stay for supper.”

If she had demanded he stay for supper—and he had expected her to be forthcoming with such a request for he had never known Abby to be demure—he would have done it. Abby always brimmed with élan, but this evening he sensed an edge to her verve.

“If that is your invitation, I accept,” he said.

“Wonderful! Mr. Singh can prepare a room for you in the West Wing.”

He raised his brows. On all past occasions, he had always had the same room in the East Wing.

She waved a dismissive hand. “Nicholas is here.”

It was an adequate but not entirely convincing pretext, but as he had never been partial to the company of Nicholas Trenwith, he made no objections.

Mrs. Singh entered with a tray of tea and coffee. Abby prepared his coffee as she knew he preferred it, with a modicum of milk and no sugar.

“I thought Colonel Fitzwilliam was to come as well,” she remarked, handing him his coffee.

“He had another matter to attend. We were to travel to Rosings together to-morrow, but I will meet him at the nearest posting inn instead.”

She eyed him keenly, and the cup of coffee he held afforded him no place to hide. “And what urgency compelled you to ride out on your own such that you could not wait a day for your cousin?”

He sipped his coffee. A part of him wanted to divulge the entire truth to her, but he had come here to forget about Miss Elizabeth Bennet, not perpetuate her memory by speaking of her.

“Pray, do not insult me by flattering me that you could hardly wait to be in my company,” she warned.

“I felt myself restless,” he admitted, “and will not tire you with the details at this time.”

She knew him well enough not to goad him when he was not in the mood and obliged him by making more mundane conversation. “How is Georgiana?”

“In good health and spirits. I am having a new pianoforte delivered to Pemberley. I am told the quality of sound is extraordinary and the keys particularly sensitive to the touch.”

“I’m sure she will be quite delighted. And how is your friend, Charles Bingley? When does he return to Netherfield?”

Darcy stiffened. “I do not think he will return.”