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They ran the last of the walk together, laughing, Jane’s hand tight in hers, and came round the corner of the house at the side door without slowing.

Mr Bingley stood beneath the eave, hat in hand, already smiling, already beginning some happy remark about the rain and the good fortune of finding them both at home.

Beside him, half a step back, stood Mr Darcy.

He bowed, and Elizabeth sank into a curtsey. Her promise to Jane was not a minute old and she already regretted it.

Chapter Two

Darcy

Darcy saw her the moment she came round the corner of the house.

The rain had caught the two sisters on the walk. They came in breathless and laughing, their cheeks bright with cold. For one unguarded instant Elizabeth Bennet looked exactly as she had a year ago, across a crowded assembly room, before he had learned to want her.

Long before she had learned to despise him. Then she saw him. A small line appeared between her brows, there and gone so quickly that he doubted anyone else marked it. He would have wagered Pemberley on what it meant.

He crossed to her and bowed. “Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth. It is good to see you both again.”

Jane greeted him and then it was her turn.

“Mr Darcy.” Her curtsey was perfect. A dancing master might have set it before his pupils as a model, and it held precisely as much warmth.

“We came to speak to your father. Darcy suggested a hunting party for the gentlemen, and a cold luncheon for the ladies at Lucas Lodge. Is he home?” Bingley asked Jane with a bright smile.

The young lady nodded.

“He surely is.” They were led into Mr Bennet’s study where they spent three quarters of an hour before leaving.

Upon their departure, the rain had ceased. Though Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s ire toward him had not lessened. He could tell by the way she glared at him as he bade her farewell.

“She thinks very ill of you.” Bingley said, as they walked out towards the stables with one of his hounds weaving hopefully between their legs. “I would not have you hear it from anyone else.”

“I had arrived at that intelligence unassisted.”

“I suppose she is cross with you still. After all, Jane knows all that occurred, and what Jane knows Elizabeth knows within the hour. They keep nothing from one another.” He stooped for a stick and sent it flying. “She said not one uncivil word to me over it. She was all gentleness. I confess I would rather she had scolded me for an hour together.”

“No doubt.”

“Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

“I have said it, and more than once.” Darcy watched the dog tear across the wet grass. “I believed your Miss Bennet indifferent. I believed the connection imprudent.” He caught himself. “I did what I judged best for you. I will not pretend to a change of heart I have not undergone. But you have had my last word of advice, Bingley. I will never speak against the match again, and I will stand up beside you on Saturday gladly, if you will still have me there.”

“That is handsomely said.” Bingley took the stick from the dog’s jaws and kept hold of it this time, turning to face him. “And now I have a mind to give you some advice, for I find I have quite as much taste for it as ever you had.”

“I would rather you did not.”

“You told me once that you went into Kent meaning to make her an offer.”

One evening in Grosvenor Street, three glasses of claret past sense, Darcy had told him the truth, because he had not the strength that night to keep it behind his teeth. He had regretted the confession before the candles were out, and gone on regretting it every day since.

“You told me you went to Rosings Park for that very purpose, and thought better of it after you received her censure.” Bingley’s voice gentled. “Darcy, I am no clever man. But I have eyes in my head. Whatever it was you felt for Elizabeth Bennet, you feel it still.”

“And what if I do? It makes no difference. You saw how she is with me.”

“Perhaps you might try apologising to her. Seeing if she will forgive you. If nothing else, it might make it more comfortable for you to be in her presence henceforth.”

Darcy said nothing, which he knew to be its own kind of answer, and found he could do no other.