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8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

T he documents on Darcy's desk seemed endless—financial reports, estate matters, letters from tenants. He rubbed his temple, pushing the papers away. Today, at least, the ache was absent. For the past two days, the relentless throbbing in his head and the waves of nausea had subsided. He was starting to think that Dr Westing was an overreactive fool and that he had made himself sick with worry over nothing.

That meant he had plenty of other matters to distract him.

He tried to focus, but Georgiana's face kept intruding, her passionate defence of a man she claimed had acted as no more than a faithful friend. How, how could she be so… so foolish? Her refusal to hear him wasn't just stubbornness; it was a wall he couldn't breach. She truly believed what she was saying and would not be swayed from it.

He should have called Wickham out. That was what he should have done, but…

Confronting George Wickham over Georgiana's heartbreak could do nothing to help his sister. If the man had harmed her, taken physical advantage of her, no force or boundary on earth could have prevented Darcy from serving justice. But all Darcy could realistically accuse Wickham of was being too… friendly. And Georgiana was simply too naive to send the man packing when she sensed… or thought she sensed… what Darcy could only describe as an improper interest.

Was she even right? Darcy had never told Georgiana this much, but Wickham had written a letter to him after the entire debacle, claiming there had been a "misunderstanding," and all he had been doing in Ramsgate was keeping other, mal-intentioned suitors away from her. And Mrs Younge had corroborated it, so all he truly had to accuse Wickham of was hurting Georgiana's feelings.

Was that truly all? She gave her young sentiments a bit too much free rein; therefore, it was George Wickham's fault?

He stood and paced the room, frustration mounting with each step. Lady Matlock was expecting him this evening, and he could think of few obligations more odious to him at present. He should have gone to Pemberley early, away from the suffocating social obligations and prying eyes. If he had, he wouldn't be forced to spend the evening at his aunt's party, enduring her unsubtle attempts to push eligible young ladies toward him.

The idea of mingling with Lady Matlock's friends, engaging in meaningless small talk, and pretending to enjoy the company of people who scarcely knew more of him than the size of his coffers felt unbearable. The prospect of facing Lady Matlock's well-meaning but relentless matchmaking efforts made him want to escape even more.

He would speak with Richard this evening about Pemberley and what he needed to do once they arrived… and it was not hunting. He had almost told Bingley… but perhaps there truly was nothing to tell. Perhaps it was all a false terror. Still, Richard ought to know because… because there might come a time, very soon, when Darcy would depend on him for everything. For tonight, however, he was trapped in a whirl of social expectations.

But there was nothing else for it. And it was time to dress. Darcy took a deep breath, attempting to steel himself for the evening ahead. The semblance of normalcy was a relief, and he clung to it, hoping it would last. He called for Thompson, ready to put on the facade of composure and grace that society demanded.

T he grand drawing room at Matlock's London house buzzed with polite conversation and laughter. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the assembled guests, their light reflecting off the polished silver and crystal goblets. Darcy stood amidst the throng, his jaw tightening with each young lady his aunt directed his way. Still, he felt better than he had in days. The headache had receded, and for the moment, he was free from the oppressive nausea that had plagued him. Dr Westing must have been mistaken.

"Darcy! Now, there is a surprise," Richard's voice rang out as he approached, a glass of champagne in hand. Darcy inclined his head, relieved to see his cousin.

"Richard. I had begun to fear you might not come," Darcy replied, accepting the offered glass .

"My dear Darcy, have you ever known me to miss one of Mother's soirées? The very best in food and drink and companionship. Why would I not be here?" Richard's grin was infectious, and for a moment, Darcy felt a spark of genuine cheer.

But no sooner had he begun to enjoy the evening than Lady Matlock descended upon him, a young lady on her arm and her eyes alight with matchmaking intent. "Fitzwilliam, have you met Miss Catherine Fairchild? Such a delightful young lady."

"Good evening, Miss Fairchild," Darcy said, offering her a polite smile.

"Mr Darcy, how delightful to see you again!" Miss Fairchild gushed, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Are you looking forward to the upcoming season?"

"Indeed, Miss Fairchild. It promises to be quite eventful." The words felt hollow, his smile forced.

"Oh, Mr Darcy, you must tell me—have you heard about the latest soirées in London? They say Lady Wentworth's gatherings are simply the talk of the town! Shall you grace any of them with your presence this Season?"

"I have heard mention of them," Darcy replied, maintaining his polite facade. "Her soirées are indeed quite renowned."

"Absolutely! Just last week, she hosted a delightful evening where everyone was in attendance. Lord Bellamy was there, regaling everyone with tales of his travels. Have you met him?"

"Only in passing," Darcy said, his interest mildly piqued. "He does have quite the reputation for storytelling."

"Oh, and Lady Montague was simply dazzling in her wit. She had everyone in stitches with her clever repartees. Have you had the pleasure of her company?"

"On occasion," Darcy admitted. "She is indeed quite... engaging."

Miss Fairchild's face lit up. "And then there was Sir Hamilton, who always has the most intriguing insights on politics. Do you follow his opinions, Mr Darcy?"

"I have read some of his work," Darcy said, his mind already wandering so much that he hardly knew what he was saying. "His perspectives are certainly... thought-provoking."

"And Lady Whitcomb, with her sharp tongue and keen observations! She can cut through any pretence with just a glance. She must be someone you appreciate?" She fluttered her eyelashes, clearly expecting agreement.

"She is a formidable presence," Darcy agreed, his gaze scanning the room for Richard's face .

"And let us not forget Mr Hargrove, who is always so charming and well-spoken. Do you enjoy his company?" She leaned in, clearly eager for his response.

Darcy hesitated, seeking a neutral reply. "Mr Hargrove is indeed a notable conversationalist."

Miss Fairchild continued to prattle on about various social figures, her words blending into a blur of names and anecdotes. Darcy glanced occasionally at the clock on the far wall. Blast, where had Richard got to? His cousin ought to have saved him by now. How was he to extricate himself from this clingy conversation without seeming rude? So much for his head not hurting.

"Do you not agree, Mr Darcy?" Miss Fairchild's voice cut through his reverie.

"Indeed," he said automatically, hoping it was an appropriate response.

"Oh, I knew you would! You always have such impeccable taste," she gushed. "I shall be certain to look for you there, and as I recall, you prefer light blue?" She fluttered her fan, sending him a coquettish smile over the edge. "I hope you shall be able to recognize me in my costume."

Darcy squinted. What the devil had he just agreed to? Not some blasted masque. Surely not… "I am sure it will be... memorable, Miss Fairchild," Darcy said, his smile strained. Oh, bollocks . There went the pain behind his left eye again.

"Mr Darcy?" a new voice interrupted. Miss Emily Tolland curtsied, her gaze fixed on him with unnerving intensity. "What a happy coincidence to see you here this evening. I hope you remember our dance at the last ball?"

"Of course, Miss Tolland," he replied, though the memory was faint and unremarkable. "It was a pleasant evening."

"It was indeed," she said, her tone suggesting a shared intimacy that did not exist. "I look forward to dancing with you again this season."

Even as Miss Tolland and Miss Fairchild were sending one another faintly territorial glances—masked by smiles, of course—Miss Delilah Hill approached, her mother trailing closely behind. "Mr Darcy, it is always a pleasure," she simpered, batting her eyelashes.

"Miss Hill," he acknowledged. "And Mrs Hill. A pleasure to see you again."

"Likewise, Mr Darcy," Miss Hill assured him with a radiant smile and an elegant curtsy. "I do hope you received the invitation for our musicale next week. His Lordship is all anticipation, and I know how it would please him to hear your opinions on the cellist."

"I am afraid I have a previous engagement." Darcy's eyes caught something over the lady's shoulder just then, and he seized on that flash of red until its wearer turned around. By heaven, there he was . Whatever wicked whim had made Richard abandon him to the mercy of a bevvy of debutantes, his little joke was over now.

He turned his attention briefly back to the gaggle of ladies now gathered around. "I beg you to excuse me, ladies, but I must speak with Colonel Fitzwilliam. It has been a pleasure." He clasped one hand behind his back, made a short bow, and cut through them in pursuit of his cousin.

But even as he made his way across the room, Miss Anne Morton intercepted him. Darcy stifled a groan and forced a smile. Blast it, smiling made his head pound even worse.

"Mr Darcy, how fortuitous to find you alone," she said sweetly as she stepped into his path. "I hope you are meaning to dance this evening?"

"I am not certain, Miss Morton."

"Oh, surely you can spare one dance?" she said, her tone light and courteous, though she remained firmly in his way. "It would be such a disappointment if you did not. Everyone speaks of your grace on the dance floor."

"Your words are kind, Miss Morton, but I—" No, no, dancing was not on the table for him tonight. Even that little side-step he affected to manoeuvre out of her way was enough to tighten the cords of his neck and send a flash of dizziness through him.

"‘Kind' does not describe my praise of your talents, Mr Darcy, but rather your willingness to grace us all with your gifts. I did so admire the way you led the set last time."

Darcy took a small step back. "Miss Morton, I truly appreciate your generous words, but my evening is quite spoken for."

Her eyes showed a flicker of frustration, quickly masked by her practised smile. "Very well, Mr Darcy. Perhaps another time, then. I shall look forward to it."

"Good evening, Miss Morton," he said, with a final nod, turning away before she could prolong the conversation further.

Finally reaching Fitzwilliam, Darcy shot his cuffs and glared at his cousin, who merely smiled back with that insouciant grin of his. "Richard," he growled.

"Darcy," Richard laughed, extending to him a full glass of champagne. "You look like you are in need of rescue."

"Rescue indeed," Darcy muttered, glancing around at the sea of hopeful debutantes. "No help from you, I see."

Richard sipped innocently from his own glass. "What, and disappoint Mother? You know she invited each one of those ladies with you in mind. I had to let them each have their go at you, you know, or she would cut me out of her will. "

Darcy scowled but felt somewhat less querulous now. Whether it was the champagne or simply the absence of ladies chasing him, he could not say. "She must have been eager to seize her chance before we go to Pemberley."

"About that." Richard twirled the stem of his glass between thumb and forefinger. "I am sorry to have to inform you that I shall not be at liberty to accompany you after all."

Darcy's brow furrowed. Not Richard, too! "What do you mean?"

"My leave has been rescinded, and I have been ordered to Chatham with my regiment. Some nonsense about munitions and supply—oh, I really cannot recall all that was said, but I shall surely winter there. I am sorry, Darcy."

Darcy's heart sank. He had been counting on Richard's support, especially given his own precarious health. The news hit him like a blow, but he forced himself to remain composed. "So, Pemberley will have to wait. It seems I am stuck in London. There goes my excuse for missing the musicale next week."

Fitzwilliam nodded sympathetically. "It is a shame, but such are the demands of duty. How are you faring with all of this?" He gestured subtly to the room, where Lady Matlock was pointing at him as she spoke animatedly with another young lady and her mother.

Darcy's head began to pulse again. "Lady Matlock's influence is strong," he said, a hint of frustration in his voice. "She means well, but her efforts are relentless. And Georgiana... I worry about her constantly."

"Mother's intentions are good," Fitzwilliam agreed, "but perhaps a lighter touch would be more beneficial for Georgiana. She needs time to mature, not pressure to perform."

"I could not agree more," Darcy replied, his gaze distant as the pain intensified. "We must ensure she is not pressed too much socially. It could do more harm than good."

Richard nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps we can have a word with Mother together. Explain that while we appreciate her support, Georgiana's well-being must come first."

"Yes, that would be wise," Darcy agreed, though he could feel the pounding in his temples growing stronger.

Fitzwilliam glanced across the room and chuckled softly. "It seems you have quite an audience," he said, nodding towards two young ladies who were staring at Darcy and whispering to each other behind their fans.

Darcy followed his cousin's gaze and sighed. "Perhaps I should look for an opportunity to leave London after all. "

Richard's eyes narrowed with concern as he studied Darcy's face. "You do not look well, cousin. Is something the matter?"

Darcy forced a smile, though the effort made his head throb even more. "I am perfectly well, Richard. Just a bit tired, that is all."

"Are you sure? You look pale."

Darcy swallowed the rising nausea and nodded. "Yes, quite sure. Let us speak more of this later. Now, if you will excuse me, I believe I need some fresh air."

He moved away before Richard could press further, heading for the balcony. The cool evening air provided some relief, but the fear and disappointment lingered. Without Richard, the prospect of facing his uncertain future alone loomed even larger. He clenched the railing, forcing himself to breathe steadily.

T he Meryton market was bustling today, with vendors loudly advertising their goods and townsfolk haggling over prices. Children darted between stalls, laughing and playing, while mothers scolded them half-heartedly. Elizabeth nodded to Mrs Jenkins, who was examining a bolt of cloth, and waved at Mr Harrison, the butcher, who was deep in conversation with a customer about the best cuts of meat.

Try as she might, she could hardly recall the purpose of her errand to town today. Everywhere she looked, she found herself searching for the face of Longbourn's new neighbour, Mr Wickham. His charm and attentiveness captivated her. His smile was easy, and he seemed genuinely interested in everything she said. There was a warmth about him that drew people in, making her think of him more often than she liked to admit.

But then, for no reason she could fathom, the face of another man appeared in her thoughts, and she could not help a little sigh. Mr Darcy, the man who had helped her when she hurt her ankle. Now, there was another face worth meditating on. A pity he had not also come to settle in their neighbourhood, for it would be most agreeable indeed to have two such handsome new neighbours .

But Mr Darcy was probably in London or wherever he lived. So why did she keep thinking of him? It was not as if wealthy men often drove through sodden country roads to rescue muddy damsels, nor did they tend to return for them. Still, his smile, though fleeting, was… nice. Not so nice as Mr Wickham's ready charisma, but… well, it was hardly worth comparing the two men.

They were not unalike, though. Were they from the same part of England? Their accents had a similar cadence, which made her wonder. But that was silly because many men came from the north, and not all of them were single and handsome.

"Good morning, Miss Elizabeth!" called Mrs Long, her arms laden with parcels.

Elizabeth blinked back to awareness with a smile for her neighbour. "Good morning, Mrs Long. You look as though you have been very successful today. Mr Long will be dining like a king this evening."

Mrs Long stepped close. "Oh, indeed he shall! And have you heard the latest news?"

"Do tell, Mrs Long."

"They say Mr Wickham is considering a ball at Netherfield!"

"A ball, you say? How delightful! I am sure it will be the event of the season."

"Yes, yes, quite so. He has promised to attend the upcoming Assembly as well. There is even a rumour that he might bring a guest, but no one knows who it could be."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "A guest? How intriguing. Let us hope it is yet another handsome, single gentleman of large fortune in want of a wife, shall we?"

Mrs Long nodded vigorously. "Indeed! But best not to get your hopes up, Lizzy. As I told Mr Long, it is likely an older aunt and uncle, or some such relation. For you know perfectly well, as a single gentleman, it would be scandalous for him to plan a ball without a hostess."

Elizabeth laughed. "Surely, there must be some explanation. Perhaps he has a sister."

"Or, heaven forbid, a wife hidden away in London!" Mrs Long exclaimed, her eyes wide with dramatic flair.

Elizabeth chuckled. "Oh, Mrs Long, your imagination is quite vivid. I cannot believe Mr Wickham would keep such a secret from us. But it does make for an entertaining story."

"Well, I am certain your mother will wish to hear, so be certain to tell her. Now, I must be off, but do keep me informed if you hear anything new."

"I will, Mrs Long. Enjoy the rest of your shopping," Elizabeth replied, watching as the older woman bustled away .

A ball at Netherfield! She could already feel her feet tapping to the lively music, feel the swirl of her gown between her fingers, and hear the swell of excited conversation when Mr Wickham asked her for the first set. For surely, he would ask, and naturally, it would be rude of her to decline.

Her musings were suddenly interrupted by the sight of a familiar-looking carriage making its way down the street. Her feet stilled. Why, that… that looked like Mr Bingley's carriage! The thought was tantalizing. She swirled back and craned her neck to get a better look, but the throng of people obstructed her view. The carriage rolled past, its occupants hidden behind the closed curtains. Elizabeth huffed in frustration. That could not possibly be the same carriage, could it? But if it were… were both its former passengers present today?

"Lizzy! Over here!" called Kitty from across the street, waving enthusiastically. She was standing in front of the butcher shop where Elizabeth had been supposed to meet her. Elizabeth shook her head. Her mother wanted her to select some ham to send to Longbourn, but she had not even completed her errand yet. How could she have forgot?

Elizabeth waved back and made her way through the crowd to join her sister. Kitty's face lit up as she saw her. "Lizzy, you will not believe the bonnet I saw at the milliner's! It has the most beautiful ribbons, a delicate lace trim, and the loveliest shade of blue. I am certain it would look perfect with my new dress for the Assembly."

Elizabeth smiled and nodded, but her mind was elsewhere. She kept glancing back towards the street where the carriage had disappeared. Was it really him? Why was she so intrigued by the possibility?

Kitty continued, oblivious to her sister's distraction. "And the flowers! Oh, Lizzy, the flowers on the bonnet are so intricately crafted. I can just imagine wearing it and how it would complement my dress perfectly. Do you think Papa will let me buy it? After all, it was not I who spent all my pin money, but Lydia, on that stupid fabric that makes her look like a tomato."

Elizabeth gave a non-committal hum, her thoughts still preoccupied. What if it was Mr Bingley's carriage? What would he be doing in Meryton? She couldn't quite shake the curiosity that had gripped her.

"Lizzy, are you even listening?" Kitty demanded.

Elizabeth blinked and refocused on her sister. "I am sorry, Kitty. I thought I saw someone familiar, but it was too crowded to be sure."

Kitty's curiosity was piqued. "Who did you think it was? "

"I am not certain," Elizabeth replied, trying to brush it off. "Just someone I met briefly. It does not matter. Tell me more about this bonnet."

"Well, as I was saying, the ribbons are the prettiest shade of blue, and the lace trim is so delicate…"

Elizabeth glanced one last time in the direction the carriage had gone, then shook her head. "I am sure it was nothing," she muttered to herself.

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