Page 4 of A November to Remember

It was wooden, handsomely carved, and, most importantly, capable of taking him away from both his cousins. He let his gaze settle on Colonel Fitzwilliam. Richard was brave, honourable, and intelligent by every account, and his years in the army had left him with a tendency to eat everything edible within his reach. Viscount Keathley, on the other hand, cared less for food than he did for gossip, good wine, the occasional widow or married lady, and remaining safely beyond his mother’s scrutiny.

Darcy’s gaze drifted to the door again. His cousins’ voices receded, and his mind was seized once more by a pair of dark, furious eyes he could not forget. They had accused him, mocked him, and met his hauteur without the slightest inclination to retreat. He ought to have been offended. And he was. Yet beneath the offence lay the far more alarming truth that he wanted to see those eyes again, even if only to have them blaze at him once more.

What was wrong with him? Never in his life had he been so distracted. Nay, captivated.

“He did what?” Robert was saying, his face alive with delighted astonishment. “Brother, tell me he did not.”

“Bingley was laughing so hard when he told me that he was wiping tears from his eyes,” Richard said, popping another walnut into his mouth. “He even impersonated her aunt’s shock when she heard her niece classified as tolerable.”

Robert cackled and slapped one hand against his thigh. Darcy turned his eyes heavenwards, but they returned of their own volition to the door. The lovely wooden door, so full of promise.

“Are you sufficiently entertained?” he demanded, glaring at his cousins and provoking another burst of laughter.

He strove for nonchalance, hoping to persuade them that there was no predicament requiring their attention. “I was perfectly civil, I will have you know. I stood by a wall, breathing quietly. I did not insult anyone directly to their face.”

“Ah, yes. The Darcy Method of Seduction!” Robert exclaimed, reaching for his wineglass. “Stand in a corner, emanate the approachability and appeal of a longcase clock stopped at midnight, then hold fast for the ladies to swoon. That worked well with the local beauty, did it?”

“I observed that she was tolerable,” Darcy said stiffly. “Tolerable is, I believe, an acceptable compliment. It means she is not actively offensive to the senses. It is practically a marriage proposal in some counties. Why, in Derbyshire, I dare say we would have wed by special licence before the assembly had concluded!”

The word wed ought never to have entered the conversation. It lodged in his mind and treacherously supplied an image of Elizabeth Bennet standing beside him before a pulpit, still furious, and her mouth poised to mock him. Darcy tightened his fingers on the edge of the table and banished the image, which returned immediately.

“Well, I never,” Richard said, reaching for his wineglass. “You must teach me your ways, Darcy. I might employ them to catch an heiress and save myself the trouble of being shot at by the French.”

Darcy rubbed his temples and prayed for the floor to open and swallow him whole, or at the very least, for the door to move magically closer. Failing either miracle, he could throw Richard’s wine into his annoying face.

“She heard every word, Richard; that is the problem. Miss Elizabeth Bennet was sitting right there.”

Richard’s wineglass halted inches from his mouth. On the other side of the table, a grin spread across Robert’s face, the sort of grin that usually preceded a highly expensive and highly embarrassing wager. Not embarrassing for Robert, obviously.

“So, you insulted a woman while she was within earshot. A country miss with a sharp tongue and an entire village to gossip to?” Robert took a leisurely sip of his claret. “Oh, this is magnificent. Please tell me her mother is a shrieking harpy and her father has a pistol.”

“Worse.” Darcy buried his face in his hands. “She has four unmarried sisters and a mother who does not see human beings, only bank coffers. I should also mention that half the family appeared to desire my head on a platter.”

“Wonderful.” Richard signalled to the waiter for pudding. “We leave for Hertfordshire at dawn. I would not miss your public execution for the world.”

“Excellent! I shall have Boodles pack my sturdiest coats,” Robert added. “One must dress carefully when witnessing one’s cousin’s decapitation.”

“Tell me, Cousin.” Darcy lifted an eyebrow at Robert. “Is my social demise the only reason you would travel into the wilds of Hertfordshire in late October?”

Robert’s smile faltered. “Ahem... you would have me admit it, would you not? Very well. I find myself in a predicament. It seems Lady Pembroke’s husband returned abruptly while I was... while we were... never mind the particulars. I need to make myself scarce before my mo... before wider society gets a whiff of the occurrence.”

“Why are you not simply visiting your own estate in Cornwall?” Darcy asked, genuinely curious.

Lord Keathley huffed, dislodging a strand of his deliberately windswept hair. “It is cold and draughty, Darcy. The damp seeps into one’s bones. Besides, I do not enjoy loneliness.”

Darcy watched his cousin writhe in his seat, uncomfortable for once in his life, and rejoiced. He loved Robert as he would a brother, but the man desperately needed a set-down.

“Robert. Richard.” Darcy lowered his voice. “I accepted Bingley’s invitation because Georgiana requires some time away from my presence.”

The admission scraped against him. He had reassured his sister repeatedly that she had not shamed him, yet she continued to watch him as though she expected to find condemnation in his face. Their fearsome, accurate aunt had been the one to make him acknowledge that every glimpse of him might remind Georgiana of Ramsgate, of Wickham, and of how nearly everything had been lost.

“She needs to find her footing again,” he continued. “Your mother believes her recovery is impeded by having to face me every day, and I fear she may be right. We returned to London briefly because Bingley had matters of business requiring his attention, and I had no desire to remain at Netherfield alone with his sisters.”

“A fate worse than the French,” Richard observed solemnly.

“Considerably worse. I intend to return, but only for a time.”

The fact that Miss Elizabeth Bennet lived three miles from Netherfield had no bearing on his decision. None whatsoever.