Page 48 of Count the Cost (The Secrets of Elizabeth Bennet #2)
D arcy’s leaden feet dragged him up the stairs of Netherfield. He was exhausted with the emotions of the day and he needed to be alone.
His chambers were quiet, peaceful. He needed this after the events of the day. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had given him not a moment’s respite since he had returned from Longbourn, and he had craved the time when he could retire to his own thoughts.
“Thank you, Mr. Maunder,” Darcy sighed. The man had to be in here on his cot to protect him from Miss Bingley’s attentions. But the man snored abominably and Darcy could hardly sit beside the fire and dream while his valet attempted to sleep.
He accepted Maunder’s assistance changing, then shrugged into his banyan, poured himself a measure of brandy and sat by the fire.
His valet bowed, and then vanished behind the screen that gave at least a semblance of privacy. But his presence served its purpose. Miss Bingley would never attempt a compromise now that she knew — and could hear — that Mr. Maunder was guarding his master’s interests.
Now he could think. Maunder’s presence would be unobtrusive until he fell asleep; he had been Darcy’s valet since he was fifteen years old.
Elizabeth. The moment he had time to think, Darcy’s mind went to Miss Elizabeth. He had driven from London this morning, determined to speak to Mr. Bennet about Lady Catherine and the sort of man she would choose to give the Hunsford living to.
But he had arrived in the early afternoon to a scene of … utter chaos. At least it had seemed that way at first.
His lips curved as he recalled realising this was one of the theatricals; the way Mr. Bennet taught his daughters about Shakespeare.
He remembered Miss Elizabeth talking about it while on his arm in the gardens of Longbourn, subtly leading the conversation away from Miss Bingley’s comfort as the other woman held his other arm in a limpet grip.
Elizabeth had been magnificent as Beatrice; totally uncaring of whether anyone would approve or not of her acting prowess, merely how much she was enjoying herself and the rest of her family with her.
She had not played to him when she had seen he was there, but neither had she become bashful and anxious.
He was so impressed with her easy confidence with others, the warmth with which she treated others, and her sheer attractiveness; he shivered as he recalled how the other gentlemen at the house party had flocked around her without her doing anything to court their attention.
He could not quite understand how she made him feel; engaged? challenged? No. The word he was looking for was — alive .
A moment later, reality intruded. She was the daughter of a minor landholder.
Her family were vulgar and unmannered — except, of course, for Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth herself.
How could they possibly be introduced into society?
Miss Elizabeth loved them, he could see that.
She would not wish to leave them behind when she entered society, and he could not ask it of her — or she would refuse him.
No, no! He could not think of offering for her. He came from the first circles — he remembered quite clearly telling her that his uncle was determined that he marry for political expediency.
So she knew they came from very different levels of society. But she believed that she was not in need of a husband. She had said so many times. He still did not understand it. All women wished for a home and a family of their own, did they not?
She was a gentleman’s daughter, he reminded himself again. She might have an uncle in trade, but she was not in that trade herself.
His thoughts left him intrigued and frustrated. He could acknowledge to himself that he wanted to know her better, but he knew the objections that would arise from his family. But would that matter to him?
Only if he had chosen someone like Miss Bingley, or one of the other scheming harpies from Town. They were all fawning smiles and insincerity. All endless gossip and talk of fashion, balls and the Season.
A life with such a woman — unimaginably awful; endless complaints and demands upon his time and attention. No joy, unlike Miss Elizabeth. No warmth between them and their siblings, unlike Miss Elizabeth.
He made a solemn vow to himself — to remember what he did not want in a wife.
He drained his glass, then went over to the bed. Slipping off his banyan, he put it over the back of the chair, and doused the remaining candle before climbing into bed.
Miss Elizabeth may be devoid of good family, connections, and fortune — well, perhaps not; Lady Palmer had put it about that she had a modest fortune somehow.
But she was overflowing with everything that made her enchanting to him; beautiful and joyous, with a smile he would labour to the ends of the earth to experience.
She was kind, and had used her curiosity about the world around her to become well-educated.
She was a fierce defender of her sisters, and her ability to find enjoyment wherever she found herself was infectious.
He rolled over, sleep beginning to claim him; watching a vision of Miss Elizabeth descending the great stairs at Pemberley, her luminous gaze on him, her ballgown of the deepest crimson.