Page 94 of The Matchmaker’s Mistake

There was no way to tell his cousins that he spent each day trying not to think of Mr. Aldridge, Miss Elizabeth, Gracechurch Street, or the word offer. None that did not make him look ridiculous, at least. So he said nothing.

He had thought Miss Elizabeth’s response to him on Thursday night rather encouraging. But at the end of the evening, she seemed to pull away abruptly, and this time he had no idea what he had done to provoke it.

“You are rather cheerful today,” Richard said, eyeing his brother.

“I am always cheerful.”

“No, you are always civil.” Richard paused. “Pater said you called in St. James’s yesterday.”

“I called on Lord Lansdowne. He wanted my opinion on a committee.”

“His daughter could not supply one?”

“She did supply one. It was better reasoned than her father's, and it took her half as long to arrive at it.” Milton set down his cup. “Lady Honoria talks a great deal. So do you, and no one has ever thought it remarkable.”

Richard began something and thought better of it. “I apologise,” he said instead, eyeing his brother. “You are quite right.”

Milton pushed back his chair and went to procure a fresh pot of coffee, or at least to discard the old one. Richard remained, giving his cup a quarter turn on its saucer, the way he did when he had something to say.

Darcy braced himself.

“For a man with no opinion on this Aldridge business,” Richard said, “you have gone a remarkable colour.”

“It is warm in here.”

“It is February, and we are a good way from the fire.” Richard kept his voice easy, but he had dropped it low. “I have been listening to you since December, and I was at the park with you in January, Darcy. I have eyes. You never mention her in that way, but she is the only young lady you notice.” He sat back but kept his eyes on Darcy’s face. “And she is from Hertfordshire.”

Darcy said nothing.

“I have not breathed her name to my aunt, and I will not. But you might try saying it aloud yourself before Aldridge adds it to a licence.” With that, Richard shoved his chair back. “Now that I have been useful to you, I must go and be useful to Milton. It is a great deal of work, keeping the two of you in the way of happiness, and neither of you has once thanked me for it.”

Darcy took this as a sign to call for his carriage.

As the carriage rumbled through the cobblestone streets, he revisited the events of Thursday evening the same way he went over a disputed boundary between tenants, step by step.

He still could not identify where the evening had gone wrong.

Miss Elizabeth had teased him about his mother’s notion of a small party, had sat beside him through Georgiana’s sonata, had taken the cup of tea he fixed for her and had, he thought, noted that he knew how to prepare it. He had asked his questions about her plans—badly, he knew that. But she had only laughed at him for it, and her laughter had never yet been a sign of trouble.

He had wished to return to Miss Elizabeth, but his mother had made it impossible to leave Miss Finch without being impolite. He did not think she meant to force the two of them together, but she could not help but hope.

Then Miss Elizabeth had gone to fetch her aunt’s shawl and come back a different woman.

He touched the letter he had almost slipped to her before she left for home. Valentine’s had been the following day, such things were fashionable, and he had thought it would be a chance to ask to call, that she might allow . . . well, it did not matter, for he had lost his courage in the end.

Darcy supposed a woman expecting an offer of marriage might very well realise that she had best be cooler with other men. Perhaps the shawl had had nothing to do with anything; perhaps he had only been watching Miss Elizabeth Bennet spend the last part of Thursday evening beginning to belong to somebody else.

The door opened and he realized that they were already home. Darcy tugged at his cuffs, stepped down, and walked to the house under the umbrella a footman held over him.

As he warmed himself by the fire, Darcy looked out the window and watched the rain splatter against the glass. The storm had begun in earnest now, steady enough to soak the paths and turn every crossing in Hyde Park to mud by morning. There would be no accidental meeting there, no Mrs. Gardiner with her nieces, no chance to walk near Miss Elizabeth and discover whether the coldness from last Thursday remained.

And then Georgiana approached him.

“Mrs. Gardiner, Miss Bennet, and Miss Elizabeth are to visit the British Institution tomorrow,” she said quietly. “There is a set of Derbyshire views everyone is talking about, and Mr. Phillip Reinagle’s flower paintings as well. He has only just been made a Royal Academician.”

Darcy had heard of it.

“Miss Elizabeth wrote that they would be pleased to have me join them. Mother says I may go if you will escort me.” She paused. “Will you?”