Page 2 of All That Glitters

CHAPTER TWO

Darcy could not, in fact, justify an immediate return to town—subjecting his cattle, coachman, valet, and footman to a lengthy return journey on a frigid, nearly moonless night—but he managed to get them nearly two hours away before stopping. The Golden Fleece was a bustling coaching inn, respectable in appearance, obviously conducting a brisk trade. The innkeeper hastened to ready rooms—but once Darcy was safely ensconced in one, he found himself with too much time to think.

His thoughts were not comforting.

Elizabeth Collins !

It is awful. The toady vicar has overreached himself. He should not be able to claim a bride whom I am unable to touch!

Darcy wanted her, oh yes. He was a man of the world, and hardly a green one. He had wanted before—but not like this. It was necessary, for a man in his position, to bridle his lusts in most cases. He knew how, and had always considered himself a proven master of the art.

The worst part about wanting Elizabeth was the mastery she had over him.

Whenever she had walked into the room, he was unable to do aught but give her his attention, all of it, to wonder what next she would say, to see her hold her own and then surpass everyone in wit and cleverness. Whether it was the insipid Miss Caroline Bingley or the foolish Sir William Lucas, she managed every conversation with keen intelligence and appealing charisma. No matter how dull the entertainment, once he was certain she would attend, nothing else signified. He had graced more parlours in the final two weeks of his visit to Netherfield than he had in the year previous.

He had known he should not ask her to dance at Bingley’s ball; it had been foolish. It might have given her ideas—he never danced with anyone with whom doing so might create expectation of anything more. Had it been London, the whispers of his interest in Elizabeth might even now be causing gossip in the papers or caricatures in the broadsheets. That he had defied sense and reason, that he had gone and done the thing regardless, was likely a good part of the reason Miss Bingley had pressed him so hard, to take her brother and depart Netherfield; Bingley’s infatuation with Elizabeth’s elder sister was the least of it. Miss Bingley knew her birth was not high enough to suit him, but she felt her fortune made her Elizabeth’s equal, or even superior. To see his obvious interest in someone she thought of as a lesser rival had exacerbated her usual jealousy. She had done all she could to encourage both men to bolt.

Proper matrimonial conduct had been drilled into his mind and upbringing since boyhood, and had only intensified from the time of his sister’s birth—Georgiana must be amply provided for, and he must replace her settlement with his wife’s. Especially with the current state of his finances, it was more important than ever that the family’s fortunes be sheltered. Three years in a row of unseasonably frigid temperatures had affected the yields of his tenants. Returns were low; he had been required to forgive some debts he had not wished to forgive.

Pemberley had not, as yet, suffered. The spar mines were still very profitable. But his fortunes ultimately depended upon the prosperity of his tenants, and their fortunes depended upon fickle weather. Marriage to Elizabeth would cost him a minimum of thirty thousand in an absent settlement to replace Georgiana’s, and untold losses in connexions and consequence. The legacy of fortune—Pemberley itself—he had always been taught, must come first. Never mind his uncle’s lectures; the earl had been throwing introductions at him for a few years now, trying to pair him with one young lady or another of his cronies, in the hopes of shoring up his own consequence. The last, he recalled, had been the granddaughter of a marquess— her settlement had been fifty thousand.

Of course, she had been a chinless, spineless ninny, and thirty minutes in her company had convinced him that they ought to double her portion if they wanted any takers. Nevertheless, he could not imagine telling the Earl of Matlock that his bride was an impoverished country lass who added precisely nothing to his own consequence, never mind the earl’s.

He did not sleep well that night.

It was not because of Elizabeth, he told himself. Her life was no business of his, and while he regretted her lack of choices, those were not his problem. His sleeplessness was the inn’s fault—although they pretended their accommodations were superior, the mattresses were not quite plump enough, the linens not soft enough, the walls not thick enough.

Before dawn, he gave up, and woke his man. Within the hour they were on the road. Well before noon, he was in his comfortable home on Curzon Street, in his comfortable study, eating a more-than-comfortable meal prepared by expert hands.

It tasted like dust in his mouth. What is the matter with me?

A tap on his door happily interrupted his bleak thoughts. His butler, Childers, reported unexpected news—Bingley was waiting for him in the library. Bingley’s affable, cheerful manner was just what he needed to restore his spirits. Surely he was no longer moping about, mourning the absence of Miss Bennet? Languishing was not in Bingley’s nature, not even at the worst of times. Eagerly, Darcy abandoned his half-hearted attempt at breakfasting and went to welcome his friend.