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When Fitzwilliam Darcy returned to London from Kent, he threw himself into work—estate matters, business investments, charity requests, household accounts; nothing was too minor to merit his attention.

He avoided his sister and took most of his meals in his study.

Unfortunately, his efforts only served to worry her, irritate his staff and eventually to exhaust himself.

After nearly a fortnight of such activities, he finally succumbed to his melancholy and spent an evening locked in the library, drinking an unaccustomed quantity of fine brandy and staring morosely into the fire.

The only benefit was that, for the first time in months, he slept without dreaming of Elizabeth.

Or at least, he couldn’t remember the dreams.

When Darcy woke the next morning (much later than his norm), he felt as if he had been put through a laundry mangle.

More than anything, he wished he could take a long, bruising gallop through the countryside to blow the cobwebs out of his mind, but this was London and he had no desire to prance down Rotten Row with the fashionable crowd.

Instead, he took himself to his fencing club, hoping that the physical exertion would yield a similar result.

Unfortunately, his sleepless nights combined with a distracted mind led to poor concentration and he was soundly thrashed by the master.

Leaving the building, Will waved off his carriage and walked home. He must conquer this obsession! Elizabeth Bennet had turned him down in no uncertain terms. She positively despised him and not even his wealth and connections could overcome her poor estimation of his character.

Darcy slapped his stick against his leg forcefully.

If she could not see his value, then clearly she was the one who was lacking.

He was an honorable gentleman, an excellent master, and a good brother (he quickly squashed a flash of guilt over how little time he had spent with Georgiana since his return from Rosings).

By the time Darcy returned home to Derwent House, he had concluded that the best way to convince himself of Elizabeth’s inferiority was to throw himself into the Season.

After checking his calendar and the pile of invitations that had accumulated over the past month, he found an invitation for a ball being held that very evening by Lord and Lady Carlisle in honor of their daughter’s coming out.

It was still early enough in the Season that all the new debutants would be fresh and relatively untarnished, he thought cynically.

Darcy’s determination wavered when he read a note from Bingley indicating that the younger man was extending his annual visit to his Yorkshire relations. Could he face the madding crowd without the buffer of his more outgoing friend to ease the way?

As Fitzwilliam sat at his desk, he was unnerved at how easy it was to slip into his old habit of daydreaming that Elizabeth was there with him.

Before he could stop himself, he had imagined her curled up in the armchair by the window, reading letters of her own, and occasionally turning to relay some tidbit she thought might interest or amuse him.

What would Elizabeth say if he confessed he was uncomfortable attending a ball alone?

The answer came to him immediately, coupled with a vision of the lady herself seated at his aunt’s pianoforte with one eyebrow raised.

“ Why Mr. Darcy, you must take the trouble to practice!” Without daring to think much on the course of his reasoning, he notified the butler of his plans and retreated to his rooms to bathe and dress.

Within minutes of entering the grand ball, Darcy had retreated to a corner and begun to seriously question why he had voluntarily inserted himself into a situation so at odds with his temperament.

As his countenance stiffened into his best imitation of a forbidding statue, he could not help but overhear the conversation among several noble matrons regarding the attentions of a gentleman to one of their daughters.

“Such a charming young man, and so rich!”

“And his estate is such an easy distance to your own!”

“I always knew that my dear Mary could not be so beautiful for nothing!”

“And has he asked for her hand yet?”

“Oh, I am certain it shall be any day now. I have already instructed the butler to ‘accidently’ leave them alone in the drawing room, the next time he calls.”

The ladies dissolved into satisfied titters before the Countess continued, “And of course, once Mary is married, she shall be able to introduce her sisters to other such young men. Really, their brother has been no help at all. Good heavens— the friends he brings home from university! I don’t understand a word they say—it’s all Greek and Latin and philosophy, and that’s when they’re not spending hours staring at a chessboard without speaking a word.

Do you know he was upset with me when I asked what sort of income one young man could expect? ”

“Upset?”

“Most certainly! He gave me some interminable lecture on the value of a man not being measured by his income or inheritance. As though I should not protect my girls from the attentions of an inappropriate suitor!” The lady paused to take a breath (a fortunate occurrence as it allowed the bobbing feathers attached to her turban a chance to settle back into their natural position).

“The boy turned out to be the son of some country squire, no connections to speak of; his father’s estate brings in barely four thousand a year and he was paying attentions to my daughter, can you imagine?”

The other ladies bobbed their own turbans in like-minded commiseration before moving away like a flock of oddly colored birds.

Darcy continued to stand very still with his punch cup, doing his best not to attract any attention.

His mind was not still, however, and he searched his memory for why the conversation had sounded so very familiar.

He did not recognize the words as reminiscent of those which he had once so condemned from Mrs. Bennet until he overheard a second conversation, this one between the Countess’ two daughters.

“Oh, dear Mama. Why must she speak of such things so…”

“Loudly? Callously? Unthinkingly?” laughed the younger sister.

“I am sure that she means well.”

“She may mean well but that does not give her leave to disregard every rule of propriety.” The two sisters sighed together with a sense of long-suffering. “Though it has taught us a valuable lesson; good breeding has absolutely nothing to do with one’s birth.”

“Eva, you must not say such things,” remonstrated the elder sister even as she could barely restrain her own giggles. “And you know that I would never…”

The other voice became more serious. “I know you will never marry a man you cannot respect, Mary.”

“But Eva… I would wish… I would so much prefer to marry where there is some chance at affection.”

“And so you shall, my dear. Simply take care that you fall in love with a gentleman of large fortune and a title … and preferably an estate far away from Dorset, if you can manage it.”

“Oh Eva….” The two young ladies moved away, hiding their giggles behind fans.

The famous Darcy mask was firmly in place but Fitzwilliam was laughing on the inside. In his mind’s eye, he could perfectly imagine Elizabeth and her elder sister having a similar conversation after their mother embarrassed them with a flight of wild volubility.

Suddenly Darcy blinked and couldn’t stop himself from scratching his head. Had he truly just compared Mrs. Bennet of Longbourn to the Countess of Dorchester? Focus, man! he commanded himself.

Looking for answers, Darcy ran his eyes over the room.

Just entering were a fashionable couple, the man jovial and vaguely familiar and the wife happily greeting friends with hugs and kisses before naturally gravitating back to her husband’s arm.

The affection between the pair was obvious and with a pang, Will recognized the intense desire within himself to be part of such a relationship.

He turned away quickly and was faced with the polar opposite.

Mask firmly in place, he bowed. “Ashbourne, Lady Alameda,” he greeted his eldest cousin, the Earl of Matlock’s heir (and one of the most immoral, profligate men of his acquaintance) and that man’s wife (a self-centered, manipulative, society maven who made Caroline Bingley look like a saint).

The Viscount barely grunted at the younger cousin whom he considered to be an uptight, straight-laced prig before departing for the card tables.

Unsurprised, Darcy barely controlled a shiver when he felt a pair of claws take possession of his arm.

“Darcy, dearest. Aren’t you going to ask me to dance?

” Lady Alameda had never quite forgiven the tall, handsome, and above all, exceedingly wealthy gentleman for not falling to her feet when she was first introduced to Society.

Recognizing that he had no recourse, Darcy resigned himself. At least Alameda was already married and would not be trying to entrap him in that way. He led her to the next room where a dance was just forming and asked after her son, hoping to introduce a neutral topic for conversation.

“Oh, my darling Reggie is wonderful, a perfect angel. You must come visit us in Essex. Ashbourne is so often away, we could have a lovely visit.” Just in case he had missed her invitation, she brushed her hand across the fall of his trousers as she circled him in the dance.

Gritting his teeth in disgust, Darcy only barely kept himself from stalking away and leaving her standing alone on the dance floor.

However, he well knew that Lady Alameda would find a way to punish him, probably by telling the gossips that he had suggested a rendez vous and had walked away when she refused.

Focus, man! he reminded himself again. “How old is he? It seems as though your wedding was only months ago.”