Chapter 10

It was not until the following evening that it became obvious; whatever his sister’s nominal position as hostess, Lady Matlock had already usurped it. His dinner partners consisted of his aunt on one side, and Lady Ridley’s sister, Miss Rose Lushington, on his other.

Lady Ridley was a handsome woman, rather strong of brow and aristocratic of nose, but elegant, well-spoken, and shapely. Miss Lushington looked a good deal like her sister, except for her inability to make charming conversation and a certain portion of her anatomy which was…generously displayed. Perhaps in London, her dress would not have been so, er, noticeable, but at a quiet country dinner party, it was excessive. Darcy flushed, and applied himself to his potatoes.

“Rose, dear, tell Darcy about your painting,” Lady Matlock instructed. “Darcy, Miss Lushington is a keenly talented artist. Her self-portrait hangs on the foyer wall of her parents’ home, where it was admired by the Regent himself! Her mother, you know, is a royal cousin.”

If she wore the same dress she wears now in that portrait, it was probably an opening salvo as much as a compliment. Her parents had been wise to remove her to the country for a time and beyond their salacious Regent’s reach—although he usually did not pursue women so youthful.

“I prefer painting to most other occupations,” Miss Lushington said seriously.

Darcy nodded and murmured his acknowledgement. He kept his eyes upon her face, but really, it was difficult—like having an elephant in his dining room. An elephant with extraordinarily large and exposed mammary glands.

Miss Bingley, seated between her brother and the vicar’s spotty son, looked stiff and faintly peevish. Lady Matlock had obviously learnt the history and classification of each guest, sorted them into the genealogical catalogue stored in her brain, and appointed Miss Lushington as his bride-to-be. Miss Bentley, he noticed, was beside Lord Ridley, while her guests, the two sisters…Benson? Bennet? were below even the vicar. Their lack of prestige obviously mattered not at all to Bingley, himself relegated to the lowest tier, who was occupied earning the attention of the golden-haired one.

Very likely he would be required to warn Bingley away from her; the man had a lineage to grow, as he ought keep in mind. The thought made him inexpressibly weary. Georgiana sat very near him, and he watched her regard longingly the less elevated and more lively society at the other end of the table.

“Miss Lushington attended a Swiss finishing-school,” Lady Matlock advised. “Her German is flawless.”

“How…um, helpful,” Darcy answered, wondering how many courses this interminable meal must last.

Miss Lushington finally spoke again. “I would be happy to paint you,” she offered gravely. “I noticed the rose garden courtyard has several Grecian marbles I much admire. They would create an authentic background for the painting I propose to send to the Royal Academy. I would have you portray Zeus killing Typhon, the hundred-headed dragon.”

“Oh…um,” he mumbled. “Honoured, I am sure, but I am not?—”

“I suppose you could wear a chiton if you insist,” she said. “I daresay I could fill in the missing parts using my imagination.”

Miss Lushington could not have said what he thought she meant. “I am afraid I cannot?—”

A loud burst of laughter sounded from the opposite end of the table, where Bingley held forth with some amusing anecdote.

Egad, he is telling the old Eton story again.

Darcy despised this one above all other tales. The story—he had saved Bingley from a beating by tossing one of his tormenters into a barrel of molasses—might have been a fine one, had he not shamelessly traded on his heroism later when brought low by Wickham. The young ladies surrounding him appeared captivated.

Darcy had spent the barest possible moments in welcome to the Bentley party—his sister had invited them and she could entertain them all, as far as he was concerned. But he had a bird’s eye view to Bingley from this position, and he could see all the signs of a new infatuation.

“Miss Lushington has filled dozens of sketchbooks,” his aunt said, forcing his attention back to her. “You ought to peruse them with her, Darcy. Her talent is apparent even to the most untrained eye.”

To avoid answering, he lifted his water goblet to his lips.

“You will be amazed, I am certain,” Lady Matlock enthused. “She has such attention to detail.”

“I have an entire sketchbook devoted to Zeus,” Miss Lushington added. “In many different settings and poses. I found the study to be very…revealing.” She—along with her bosom—turned to face him, smiling in a manner that gave him the urge to flee the room, and lightly touched his arm.

Darcy choked on his drink.

Darcy did not sleepwell that night.

Somehow, he had managed to avoid Miss Lushington after dinner, first by turning Georgiana’s pages at the pianoforte and then allowing Lord Roden to ensnare him in a protracted conversation regarding his ongoing feud with his neighbour to the south, a baronet who kept his fences in poor repair in order that his sheep might more easily invade Roden’s pastures. He easily disregarded the rest of the performances due to his lordship’s complaints, although he did notice Bingley turning pages for the yellow-haired Bennet—or was it Benson? Thankfully, everyone—meaning Lord Matlock—was fatigued and the party retired early.

The men all meant to spend the morning shooting, so rising early was de rigeur, despite his restless night. Darcy entered the breakfast parlour to see Bingley and Lord Matlock conversing over full plates, and knowing his uncle’s impatience for the sport to begin, he quickly filled his own.

“’Tis capital weather for the birds,” Lord Matlock said, with a glance out the window as if to reassure himself that the sun was still shining. “Will Roden be joining us? What about Fletcher? Seems if they mean to, they ought to be down soon, lest we miss the best shooting. Ridley had better hurry—if he means to dawdle until noon tying his cravat, we shall have words.”

“Darcy,” Bingley said, pausing with his fork halfway to his mouth as if a thought suddenly occurred to him, “will the sounds of our pieces firing disturb the colonel?”

How very like Bingley to think of it, Darcy mused. The earl had yet to mention his younger son; at least Ridley had asked about his brother the moment the opportunity arose after arriving.

But with his enquiry, the temperature of the room grew frosty. Giving Bingley a severe frown, the earl pushed back from the table. “I will see what is keeping Ridley,” he said, and marched out without another word.

Bingley looked abashed. “I am sorry. As usual, I did not think before opening my mouth.”

“On the contrary, you were very thoughtful,” Darcy replied, embarrassed by his uncle’s unmannerly exit. “We will shoot on the southern side of the park, which is furthest from the dower house. I have informed my cousin when we will be shooting and where. He does not rise early, and I do not anticipate any problems. Thank you for asking.” He paused, then added, “He is feeling more himself than he was during your last visit, when you were, er, startled by him.”

“Nothing to that, nothing to that,” Bingley replied in his usual easy manner, applying himself to his eggs.

Bingley truly was a gentleman, Darcy thought with some pride. He had not had the advantage of parentage or training from birth, but his manner was always thoughtful and kindly. He deserved every advantage life could bring to him—and his children.

“I noticed last night you seemed quite taken with the only handsome girl in the room,” Darcy said drily, meaning to begin his warning about engaging young ladies with too much attention, especially within the more intimate atmosphere of a house party. But he was taken aback by Bingley’s response.

“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld! Her sister, Miss Elizabeth, is remarkably pretty as well. You ought to pay more attention to your guests, and less to your worries.”

Well! Easy enough for Bingley to say, since he had no worries! Why should he, since he had Darcy to do the worrying for him? His father’s dying wish, that he buy an estate and secure the future, would never happen unless Darcy found the right estate and arranged the lease or purchase! His sister’s marriage to someone suitable was improbable unless Darcy found a groom for her!

“Your Miss Elizabeth may be adequate, but never handsome enough to tempt me. I find matchmaking intolerable. I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who have been slighted by the men in their own counties and come to hound me in mine. I shall not allow myself to be pursued by this…this spinster society that has been forced upon me, and I warn you not to try it.”

Bingley’s brows rose, his eyes widening as he stared at something—someone—over Darcy’s shoulder.

With a sudden prescience, Darcy knew exactly who had just entered. “Miss…er, Elizabeth is directly behind me, is she not?