Page 42 of The Lost Prophecy

Miss Elizabeth’s eyes returned to his face. He had continued speaking to Collins, but every word had been intended for her.

“Lady Catherine has expressed a wish. Her wishes do not constitute my obligations.”

Collins had begun to splutter. Lady Catherine could not be wrong. Lady Catherine had superior understanding. Lady Catherine had certainly spoken of the marriage as inevitable and would be astonished to learn that one of the proposed participants considered his involvement optional.

The exertion had made Collins dizzy.

Mr Bennet had recommended that he lie down before his patroness’s certainty proved fatal.

Fletcher stepped back from Hurst and inspected all three of them. “You are sufficiently protected. I shall place the jar in Mr Darcy’s saddlebag. If the rain begins, do not remain outside debating whether it is heavy enough to matter.”

Hurst sniffed his own wrist. “I smell embalmed.”

“You already complained of the smell, sir.”

“I can object to it as many times as I want.”

Darcy fastened his coat. “Collins’s declaration was absurd. My concern is whether Miss Elizabeth understood that.”

The bowl shifted at the sound of her name.

Bingley rose from his chair. “She did.”

Darcy’s hands stopped on the final button. “How can you be certain?”

“I watched her.” Bingley collected his hat from the bed. “When Collins mentioned Miss de Bourgh, she looked as though you had struck her. After you denied the engagement, the colour returned to her face. She believed you.”

The relief Darcy experienced was disproportionate to a misunderstanding involving a woman he had known for only a few weeks.

The punch bowl jumped down and rolled several inches nearer Bingley.

Fletcher stopped it under one polished shoe. “Your approval has been noted,” he told it.

Bingley laughed and touched his cheeks to examine the salve on his face. The punch bowl was under Fletcher’s shoe, tilted to him with every appearance of having reached a favourable opinion of his character.

Its judgement was clearly deteriorating.

Darcy drew on his second glove. “What concerns me now is what happened after Collins left the drawing room.”

Bingley’s amusement faded. He held his hat but did not put it on. “Darcy, Miss Bennet was tired, Mrs Bennet was attempting to discover whether Collins’s dizziness threatened his prospects, and every other person in the room was pretending that he had not announced your engagement before learning that it did not exist.”

“And I was attempting to determine whether Miss Elizabeth considered me secretly engaged, dishonourable, or merely absurd,” Darcy said grimly.

Hurst rose from his chair and allowed Fletcher to straighten his collar. “I should think all three were available.”

Darcy directed a stare at him that could freeze the Thames in July.

Hurst huffed. “I did not say she selected them!”

“The silence did not last, though,” Bingley continued. “Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty brought news from Meryton. That is Darcy’s concern, Hurst.”

The bowl rocked under Fletcher’s shoe.

Bingley walked to the hearth, turning his hat slowly between his hands. “They had visited their aunt and met several officers. One of them was Wickham.”

Hurst’s expression lost its indolence. “The scoundrel wasted little time.”

“According to Miss Lydia, he had charmed her aunt, the officers, two shopkeepers, and a woman selling apples.” Bingley glanced at Darcy. “Miss Kitty believed the apple woman required more time.”