Page 13 of A November to Remember

“Miss Bennet,” Caroline murmured, her smile failing to reach her eyes.

The lady curtsied back.

“Lord Keathley, might I present Miss Jane Bennet?” Bingley’s delight spilled into his voice. “Oh, what a delightful evening this is proving to be!”

The young woman in pale blue moved closer, offering a gentle, unassuming smile, and dropped into a graceful curtsy.

Robert Fitzwilliam, Viscount Keathley, ceased to breathe. The cramped parlour of Lucas Lodge vanished. The heat, the scent of rosin, the discordant notes of the pianoforte, all evaporated into a ringing silence. The floorboards stopped existing under his boots.

He experienced a void of thought, followed instantly by a cascade of absolute madness.

I want to marry her.

The thought arrived fully formed, with the weight of an anvil dropping from a great height. Robert stared at the spun-gold hair catching the candlelight as she rose from her curtsy.

I cannot marry her. I am a man who avoids marriage at any conceivable cost. I jump out of windows. My mother writes lists of heiresses categorised by dowry, and I flee them all.

Jane Bennet raised her head. Her eyes were blue, holding a kindness so pure it bordered on the divine.

I want to marry her.

Charles Bingley is in love with her. Bingley is a good man. Bingley is an amiable companion who apologises to furniture. I cannot steal the woman Bingley loves.

I want to marry her.

He swallowed, his throat dry.

I am an honourable gentleman. I must act with honour.

He blinked, a slow, mechanical motion.

Am I honourable? I entertain married ladies in pink boudoirs. That is the exact opposite of honour. That is scandalous.

Yes, but those ladies produced heirs already. They have husbands with gouty legs who shoot pheasants in Leicestershire. And they chase me. I do not chase them. I am practically a victim of my own charm.

I want to marry her.

The internal monologue required perhaps three seconds, during which Robert remained rigid, resembling a man struck by lightning who had not yet realised his own demise.

“Lord Keathley?” Bingley prompted, his brow furrowing.

Robert found refuge behind his breeding, but the transition required every ounce of willpower he had. He did not smile, nor did he bow with his customary rakish flair. He inclined his head a mere fraction of an inch, offering a greeting of such chilling, remote civility it belonged in a royal court rather than a Hertfordshire parlour.

“Miss Bennet,” Robert said, his voice sounding hollow, belonging to a stranger.

“Oh, is she not the most beautiful creature?” Mrs Bennet exclaimed, oblivious to the plunge in temperature. “I always say Jane is the jewel of the county. Do you not agree, Mr Bingley? A veritable jewel. And Netherfield is such a splendid estate! So vast! So many windows! I am sure you find it very comfortable, Mr Bingley. Though of course, a large house requires a gentle hand to guide the servants. A house without a mistress is just a building, I said that to Mr Bennet just yesterday. And Miss Bingley, what a magnificent fan! Is it ivory? It must be ivory. The carving is exquisite. One rarely sees such craftsmanship outside London. Do you purchase your accessories in Bond Street, Miss Bingley? My sister Philips prefers the shops in Cheapside, but I always tell her—”

Caroline Bingley gripped the aforementioned fan so tightly that the ivory sticks creaked in protest. “It is imported from Paris, madam,” she bit out.

“Paris! Imagine that!” Mrs Bennet rattled on, her lace trembling with excitement. “The French possess many faults, but they do understand ivory.”

Robert listened to the relentless stream of words without blinking. He dared not blink. If he closed his eyes, he would picture Jane Bennet standing before a pulpit. He would picture her smiling. He would picture her in Cornwall, warming the draughty halls of his estate, filling the empty rooms with light. He would picture Eleanor, Countess of Matlock, fainting at the news of his engagement to a provincial miss with no fortune.

He was losing his mind.

Miss Bennet turned her impossibly blue gaze to him. The movement was gentle, lacking any of the calculated artifice he encountered daily in Mayfair.

“How do you find our neighbourhood, Lord Keathley?” she asked, her voice a soft melody, devoid of the shrill volume characteristic of her mother. “It is perhaps quieter than London, but the country has its own unique charms, do you not think?”