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Darcy disliked the notion that anyone else should have recognised Elizabeth’s worth—or, heaven forfend, that they might act upon it. A twinge of jealousy made him petulant. “What do they know of her compassion? By her own admission, she has spent very little time in town.”

“Apparently, she performed some kindness to the Baroness of Alverstoke…helped reunite her ladyship’s daughter with a lost doll in the street or some such.

And I did hear another tale in which she rescued an earl’s granddaughter from a tyrannous dressmaker using only her wit and a swatch of lace.

” He shook his head and laughed. “I do not know. It has obviously all been exaggerated or made up.”

“It has probably not been. It all sounds very like her.”

Cunningham tilted his head and regarded Darcy shrewdly. “You do admire her, then?”

“I never said I did not.”

He had, however, tried exceedingly hard not to admit that he did.

It was vastly inconvenient that he should feel an attachment to so unsuitable a woman, and he had been determined to overcome the infatuation.

Yet, the more time he spent with her, the harder it became.

Their last encounter had left a particularly enduring impression.

He could still—and often did—call to mind the feel of her body against his when they collided in the street; he could still picture the enigmatic little smile she had worn whilst accusing him of being notorious, the flash of challenge in her eyes as she reminded him of his ungentlemanly behaviour at Netherfield, and the way her lips had parted by the merest fraction as she blew on her tea.

Even the swaying manner in which she had wound her way between the tables to reach her mother and pull her into a chair had etched itself into his memory.

There was no pretending he did not admire Elizabeth every bit as much as he had when he fled Hertfordshire to escape her spell. It did not change a thing.

“Only that she would not make a suitable wife,” he concluded.

“Are you deaf?” Cunningham retorted. “Have you not just heard me tell you that she is as good as the diamond of the Season?”

“No. I have heard you tell me that she is the present object of a multitude of inaccurate reports and wishful matchmaking. Do you imagine that would be enough to persuade your father? Or Lady Catherine?”

Cunningham lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Probably not. Although, if you strike while the iron is hot, and Miss Bennet is this well regarded, they might forgive you.”

Darcy opened his mouth to protest—then he closed it again and frowned.

Reason dictated that the ton simply did not accept people of Elizabeth’s station, yet his cousin repeatedly insisting otherwise had opened a small crack in his carefully constructed defences, through which hope had shoved its head and begun calling to him like a lunatic.

He paid it no heed. Gossip was fleeting; society’s rules were unbending and immutable.

Moreover, no amount of favouritism would outlive the exposure of Mrs Bennet’s adultery, were it ever to be uncovered—which it very well might be if Cunningham was right about people’s interest in unearthing details.

He shook his head firmly. “The material point is, whatever society thinks of her today, they will tire of her. As soon as a new intrigue arises to fascinate them all, they will remember what Elizabeth’s condition in life once was, and who her relations are, and despise her for it.

And if I had married her, I should then be left with a wife the whole world disdained.

I should be scorned by everyone I know.”

Cunningham laughed heartily. “Better than being scorned by your wife, as so many of our lot are once the sheen of an excellent marriage has worn off. At least yours would be kind and handsome—and likely to remain so, if what I have heard about her mother is anything to go by. But I take your point. It is probably for the best that you do not pursue her. Lady Catherine would probably combust.”

Darcy turned up his nose. “She will combust regardless when she realises I am truly not marrying Anne.”

Cunningham set his glass aside and pushed himself to his feet.

“Now there is a marriage a man would quickly come to regret!” He strode to the cue rack and selected one, enumerating, as he did so, the countless reasons why neither Darcy, he, nor Fitzwilliam should ever shackle themselves to their cousin.

A game of billiards was begun and the subject of Elizabeth dropped.

That did not stop Darcy thinking about her.

He abhorred that Elizabeth and he were being gossiped into an understanding in the minds of the ton , but having utterly failed to master his feelings for her, and with his cousin’s talk of society’s admiration ringing in his mind, he allowed himself, just for a moment, to wonder what it would be like to be talked into it in truth.

It was the first time he had really considered it, and despite the litany of rational objections, he had to admit, the notion felt gloriously good.