Page 10 of The Matchmaker’s Mistake

Darcy sighed.

“Richard, you will sit between Georgiana and Mrs. Hurst, where you can do the least harm.” Darcy’s mother, behind them, had of course heard everything.

The Hursts had been invited, Darcy knew, so that they could witness his mother pairing him with Miss Macomber. They would presumably relay to Miss Bingley, privately and thus without any loss to her dignity, that she was no longer being considered as a match for him.

Of course, neither was Miss Macomber, for no matter how sensible she might be, she was not Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Darcy closed his eyes for a moment.

“You look unwell,” Richard murmured. “Shall I overturn a candelabrum? A modest fire would certainly clear the dining room.”

Darcy opened his eyes and stared at him.

Richard held up his hands. “I am only attempting to help.”

“Milton,” Darcy’s mother said, “you will be seated by Sir Geoffrey. Fitzwilliam, I do not have to tell you where to sit. And gentlemen, you shall all behave.”

“What have I done?” his uncle asked.

His mother was unable to hide her exasperation. “You brought your younger son.”

Before Richard could protest, the Macombers were announced. The Hursts arrived a moment after.

Sir Geoffrey Macomber was a stout gentleman of fifty with a pleasant, unremarkable face. His wife was perhaps ten years his junior and still in good looks. Miss Amelia Macomber, who came in just behind them, was fair, slight, neatly turned out in a suitable gown, a complex coiffure, and a small, polished smile.

Darcy bowed over her hand. “Miss Macomber.”

She dipped into a curtsy. “Mr. Darcy.”

He offered Miss Macomber his arm, and his mother moved them all towards the dining room.

The soup was a clear consommé. Lady Macomber pronounced it excellent. Miss Macomber glanced at her mother before she agreed.

“I have always thought,” Lady Macomber said, “that the true test of a London dinner is how one prepares the soup. Anything may be made of a roast. Soup is an art.”

“Indeed,” said Sir Geoffrey, who was already halfway through his.

“Amelia,” her mother inquired, “what is your opinion?”

Miss Macomber lifted her spoon, which she had set down because her mother had been speaking. “I think it is very well done, Mamma.”

Across the table, Lord Matlock caught Darcy’s eye. The look from his uncle was brief but kind, the commiseration of a man who had sat through many such dinners himself, though he had been fortunate enough to marry before his youngest sister had begun to make matches.

Darcy applied himself to the soup and waited until the root vegetables were being served to try again. “Miss Macomber, I understand that you have been in the country until quite recently.”

“Yes.”

“And how did you find it?”

“Very well.” Miss Macomber appeared to consider her answer complete.

“In what particular?” he prodded. He had offered her the simplest opportunity to reveal something of herself. A woman who intended to spend her life with a man might reasonably wish him to know a few of her opinions, the things she liked or disliked. Miss Macomber appeared determined that no such danger should arise.

“I enjoyed some things and enjoyed other things less.”

Darcy kept his expression under good regulation. “You are very moderate.”

“I have always thought it best to be so.”

Darcy lifted his glass of wine and took a sip. This was going to be a long evening.