Chapter 3

Lady Catherine did not invite the Collinses and their guests to dinner, but she did ask them to spend the evening. Between dinner and their entrance, Darcy kept his eyes on the mantel clock, anxious for Miss Elizabeth’s arrival. As soon as he saw her, he felt lighter—he could breathe easier, stand taller without a weight on his shoulders pressing him down, and his mind was stiller.

“Miss Elizabeth, you are looking well this evening. I-I mean, I hope you are well.” He had not meant to compliment her and blushed. He never complimented a lady unless she was a relation. No doubt, Miss Elizabeth already recognised his interest in her, and he would not give her reason to believe his attraction would end with an offer of marriage.

Her eyes sparkled in humour, and she smiled. “Thank you, sir, I am quite well, and I believe this gown suits me admirably. Young ladies must consider these things.”

She and Fitzwilliam began to chat, and Darcy would have joined them but for Lady Catherine.

“Nephew, come explain that nonsense Parliament is planning to Mr Collins. He ought to know about it, and although I have an excellent understanding, it would be better coming from another man.”

Darcy knew well that his aunt had no head for financial matters, but refused to admit it. Duty made him nod and take a chair near them. For the next interval, he half-listened to her, adding the occasional comment as required, and tried not to see how Mr Collins nodded stupidly as though Lady Catherine was the wisest person in the world. Mrs Collins, Anne, and Miss Lucas were close enough to also participate in the conversation, though they said nothing.

The remainder of Darcy’s attention was on Miss Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam. Despite straining his ears, he heard little of what they said to each other. From the snippets he could make out, they mostly spoke of travelling, books, and music, subjects he would be happy to survey with her.

There is much I could tell her about them or anything else she cared to discuss. In other circumstances, he might caress the smooth skin of her face, tuck a curl into position—casual touches that would feel so right.

Darcy almost cried out in joy when coffee was served. It brought about a change, chiefly that he was freed of Lady Catherine and Mr Collins. Once Miss Elizabeth had finished her beverage, Fitzwilliam reminded her that she had promised to play for him. Thus, they went to the pianoforte, and a moment later, Darcy followed them.

Before Miss Elizabeth had been playing two minutes, Lady Catherine was commenting on her lack of skill—which she attributed to not practising enough—and invited her to play the pianoforte in Mrs Jenkinson’s room. Darcy met Fitzwilliam’s gaze and saw in his eyes the same frustration he felt for the woman’s rudeness. Miss Elizabeth, on the other hand, seemed to find it amusing.

Which is just like her. I wonder if she might teach me the habit. There is much that vexes me, and if I could learn to overlook it instead, I might be a happier man.

Elizabeth glanced at him and said, “Have you come to criticise my performance, Mr Darcy? We have heard Lady Catherine’s opinion, and perhaps you seek to confirm that I am not worth listening to?”

He smiled, and Fitzwilliam laughed, then said, “He does look severe, does he not? But, truly, no one could find your playing anything other than delightful.”

Again, Miss Elizabeth’s eyes flicked to him. “I believe your cousin might feel otherwise, Colonel. Do not be concerned that I might be insulted. Mr Darcy and I are too familiar with each other for him to take my remarks seriously, and I know better than to seek to earn his approbation.”

Good Lord, how he had missed her teasing! He had no chance to speak before his cousin did, and never had Darcy hated—or envied—him more for his easy manner.

“You are severe upon him. Was he so terrible when you met last autumn?” Fitzwilliam asked.

Her fingers flew across the keys during a particularly quick and difficult part of the Bach concerto, delaying her response. Darcy might have spoken then, but he was too caught up examining her features; he had not been this close to her since he had come to Kent, and there was so much to take in—the soft fullness of her cheeks and lips, the gentle slope of her nose, the fineness of her lashes.

“Mr Darcy and I first met at an assembly. He did not dance, other than with Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley, even though many young ladies were without partners for a good part of the evening. While there are certainly greater crimes, you will agree it was shocking behaviour,” she said, her tone light.

Recalling the night in question—and a certain rude remark he had made about the lady who had soon captured far too much of his notice—Darcy’s insides heated, and he hoped his face would not turn red. “I-I am not fond of the activity, and?—”

Fitzwilliam interjected, “And you cannot truly find a good excuse, other than you were thinking of your own pleasure and not that of the ladies without partners.” He shook at finger in Darcy’s direction. “Admit it.”

Miss Elizabeth met Darcy’s eyes. He saw humour in hers, and it made him bolder than he might otherwise have been. He found himself saying, “I ought to have extended myself, forgot my own discomfort in favour of alleviating that of others.”

Slowly, the corners of her lips turned up. “What an excellent response, sir. You leave me no choice but to forget the entire affair.”

Although she turned to the sheets of music again, Darcy had seen enough. She was flirting with him, and his heart swelled with pleasure.

Later that night, Darcy was sitting by the fire in his apartment, comfortably reclined in an armchair, wearing a banyan, and sipping a glass of wine, when Fitzwilliam knocked at the door. Soon, his cousin had poured himself a drink and was sitting in the matching chair. Nothing was said for a long moment. The two men often met in one of their chambers. They were the only places at Rosings where they might reliably find privacy. Anywhere else, their aunt might intrude on their conversation, or one of her servants might see them. Lady Catherine had bullied them into believing they must report everything they witnessed or risk losing their positions. Even if Darcy was fond enough of Anne to consider marrying her, he would not, simply to avoid having Lady Catherine for a mother-in-law.

It was a strange world in which the thought of having Mrs Bennet for a mother-in-law was the more appealing option. The difference is that I would not have to see her. Miss Elizabeth might choose to visit her relations if she liked, but I would not have to go with her, he told himself. Not that I intend to marry her. It is unthinkable.

“I am glad there is decent company to be had at the parsonage,” Fitzwilliam said. “Mrs Collins is a pleasant, sensible woman, and her friend is very…”

“Very?” Darcy prompted.

Fitzwilliam shrugged. “Amusing, I suppose, and she is certainly pretty. If she boasted a large dowry, I might give her my heart.”

The mere suggestion of his cousin developing a tendre for Elizabeth Bennet made Darcy’s muscles clench. No doubt, he was also scowling but Fitzwilliam was occupied watching the fire and did not notice, which was just as well; he would want to know why.

“Since you insisted we call on the ladies the morning after our arrival, you must agree,” the colonel said.

“I was being polite.” Darcy took a drink of his wine.

Fitzwilliam chuckled. “I would have said eager.”

“I have no idea what you mean to imply, neither do I care.”

“Must I be suggesting anything other than you leaping at the opportunity to get away from our aunt and cousin? If you meant to be polite, you would have spoken more. By the way, where did you go Thursday? I have been meaning to ask. I looked for you, but no one knew where you were. Have you found a new hiding place, and why have you not shared it with me?”

“You do realise you are not amusing?”

“I have made Miss Bennet laugh often enough. I would ask if you were at the parsonage, but I do not need another of your famous scowls aimed in my direction!”

There was a brief lull in the conversation, which Fitzwilliam broke. “You seem to be in better spirits. Compared to during our journey here, that is. I had expected your mood to improve only once we are in the carriage bound for London again?—”

“We should stay longer.” Darcy was as surprised by the words as Fitzwilliam appeared to be; his cousin positively gaped at him. “I…I have been helping the steward, and we require more time.” While he did customarily review whatever matters Lady Catherine or the steward wanted his opinion on, there was nothing extraordinary to tend to. He hated the lie, but he just did not want to leave yet. He did feel better than he had lately in town, likely because he was away from the gossips and people speculating on when he would finally get married—as though he was seven-and-thirty not seven-and-twenty.

Soon to be eight-and-twenty, a very good age to be married. If only you could find the right lady, one of the devils in his head said.

He experienced a momentary day-dream of Elizabeth Bennet being his wife, his closest friend, always nearby to brighten his life, but shook it away. It was caused by the obnoxious little creature who seemed determined to make his life a misery.

“You want to stay at Rosings longer?” Fitzwilliam exclaimed. “Are you mad? You know Lady Catherine will see it as evidence that you are growing attached to Anne, as will she!”

Darcy went to the window, roughly pushing aside the heavy curtain to stare into the darkness. He thought he could just make out a light in one of the windows at the parsonage. Was it Miss Elizabeth? She might be awake still, reading. Or thinking of me. She knows how…bewitching I find her, and she must wonder if I shall forget my own self-interest and propose. “I have little desire for their company, yet I have a duty to our aunt. I need a few additional days. That is all. We shall depart as soon as possible.” As soon as I can tear myself away.