Page 30

REMEDY AND REMORSE

“ Y ou are not dead, then.”

Darcy ceased staring into the fire for long enough to acknowledge Fitzwilliam’s arrival with a brief glance. Then he returned his gaze to the flames.

His cousin came farther into the room and made a show of arranging himself in the armchair opposite his own. “When you did not come to dinner, we began to wonder whether you had been murdered in your bed.”

“The most obvious conclusion.”

“I have never known you to simply fail to turn up without explanation.”

“I apologise. It slipped my mind.”

“I shall try not to take it personally, but Cunningham was crushed.”

Darcy answered with only a satirical glare, then, shaking himself out of his torpor, took a deep breath and rubbed a hand over his face. “I shall send a note to your father. Coffee?”

“Please.” After a pause, Fitzwilliam asked, “What will the note say?”

Darcy pushed himself to his feet and rang the bell for Bellamy. He looked at the clock as he stretched his shoulders and was surprised to see that he had been idling in his study for far longer than he realised; it was almost two in the afternoon.

“It will say ‘sorry for missing dinner’—what else would it say?”

Fitzwilliam screwed up his face in a stupidly exaggerated show of deliberation. “Perhaps, ‘I apologise for missing dinner—I was too busy wooing the ton with Miss Elizabeth Bennet’. Why—was that not what you were doing?”

“No, it was not. Why—” The door opened, admitting the butler, and Darcy gave a curt instruction for him to bring coffee, then finished, “Why would you think it was?”

His cousin reached into his inside breast pocket and drew out a folded section of newspaper. He held it out to Darcy. “Because that is what the rest of the world thinks.”

Darcy took it from him and read, with increasing alarm, a protracted piece detailing what the paper was calling ‘the worst-kept, most-relished secret of the Season’, in which it seemed that every one of his encounters with Elizabeth—and several that had never taken place—was listed as proof of their understanding.

Her forthcoming attendance at Lady Rothersea’s soiree was noted to great acclaim; their waltz at Aubrey’s ball described in lurid detail; even their argument on Gracechurch Street was talked about as something to be celebrated, the paper insisting that ‘our darling couple’s attempts to remain undetected are charmingly ineffective.

No two people who argue so much like man and wife will ever convince the world that they are unattached’.

It predicted that they would be wed by the summer and boldly declared that no other alliances announced that Season could hope to garner such widespread support.

“What paper is this?”

“ The London Chronicle ,” his cousin replied, “but there are similar articles in at least two others.”

Darcy tried to summon the outrage which, prior to all this, he knew he would have felt at being embroiled in such a public furore.

It would not come. All he managed was to make himself feel more miserable.

He screwed the article into a ball and threw it in the fire, then leant with one hand on the mantel, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other.

“Cunningham seemed to think that you might be warming to the idea of an alliance,” Fitzwilliam said behind him. “Was he so very far off the mark?”

Darcy laughed bitterly. “They all are.”

“Why? Cunningham said you admitted to admiring her.”

“Your brother has said a good deal, it seems!”

Fitzwilliam was unperturbed by his brusqueness and only shrugged. “Nothing new there. Was he wrong?”

Darcy wished he was. Life would be infinitely simpler if he were not still thoroughly and helplessly bewitched by Elizabeth. He remained sullenly silent. He might be unable to break free of Elizabeth’s spell, but he was not obliged to admit it.

“Look, Darcy, I know you think her connexions are problematic, but her aunt and uncle seemed perfectly respectable to me.”

“They are.”

His cousin frowned. “That is a notable change of heart. What, pray, has persuaded you to this thinking?”

“I dined with them.” And he had been dining on the self-reproach for his behaviour towards them ever since.

“You dined with them? I thought you said there was nothing between you and their niece.”

“There is nothing. I cannot make it clearer.” Darcy resolved to throw his cousin out if he continued in this vein much longer.

He was glad of the reprieve when Bellamy returned with the coffee, and he did not rush him as he set the tray on the desk and poured them both a cup.

He was vexed but wholly unsurprised that his cousin persisted with his questions the moment the butler was gone.

“Are you worried about what Lady Catherine will say?”

Darcy heaved a sigh and sank into his chair, leaving his coffee untouched. “I was.”

“Well, I say do not be! Miss Bennet is already a favourite with everyone whose opinion our aunt could possibly assert matters. And as for Anne?—”

“I said I was worried. It is no longer a concern, for I am not and never will be marrying Miss Bennet.”

“Why not?”

He had no intention of giving the real reason, but he baulked nevertheless, for the answer, ‘she does not want me’, slammed into his mind with ghastly force.

He seemed to feel it more every time he thought about it—which was incessantly—as though he had not comprehended at first how profoundly the rejection had wounded him.

If it had not been certain that his wishes were in vain when he left Gracechurch Street two nights ago, there could be no doubt after yesterday that Elizabeth wanted nothing more to do with him.

Her abject dismay, when he told her they must continue to associate with each other if they hoped to locate Bingley and her mother, had said it all.

He kept these wretched reflections to himself, deflecting his cousin with a different admission. As succinctly as possible, he explained why not all of Elizabeth’s relations were as respectable as the Gardiners.

Fitzwilliam turned his nose up. “Her mother ?” But his repugnance quickly dissolved. “Cunningham mentioned that she was reputed to be a great beauty for her years. And we all know Bingley to have the restraint of a fox in a hen house.” He shook his head. “A sorry business and no mistake.”

“Do not tell Cunningham. It would be all across London before sunset.”

Fitzwilliam gestured his agreement. “Does Miss Bennet know?”

“I informed her yesterday.”

“That seems…indelicate. Would it not have been better to leave her in blissful ignorance?”

“She needed to know. If she is to be mingling with the likes of Lady Rothersea, she needs to protect her reputation.”

“I daresay she could have done a darn sight better at concealing the truth if she had never known it! How is this going to help her protect anyone?”

Darcy knew very well it was not going to help at all. That realisation had come almost immediately after it was entirely too late to be of any use.

“I had to do something to protect Georgiana from this,” he snapped. “And myself. You see how my name has been indelibly connected to hers. A scandal would engulf us all.”

Fitzwilliam held his gaze for a moment or two, nodding pensively.

When he eventually spoke, it was in a vexingly conversational tone.

“You know, if you are determined that you do not want her, the easiest thing to do would be to let this out of the bag. Then no one would blame you for wanting nothing to do with her.”

“Ruin her, you mean? Obviously, I am not going to do that!”

“Obviously!” Fitzwilliam replied. “Because you admire her too well.”

With a snarl, Darcy pushed himself to his feet, deciding that coffee was not strong enough and brandy was required.

Fitzwilliam followed him to the sideboard.

“Let us say, for the sake of argument, that I believe you—you do not admire her, and that is not why you are protecting her. But neither can you profess to be protecting Georgiana’s reputation.

The flirtations of a middle-aged country matron are hardly going to sink the granddaughter of an earl with a fortune of thirty thousand pounds—and, I might add”—he jabbed Darcy’s shoulder—“a brother who is presently the darling of the ton . So I ask you again, what possessed you to tell her?”

Darcy banged the decanter down on the sideboard and whipped around to face him.

“Because she accused me of detaching Bingley from her sister without regard for the sentiments of either, of ruining her sister’s happiness, of abusing her confidence to justify it, of, as far as I can tell, being devoid of every proper feeling!

Was I to allow her to continue to hold me in such low estimation—I who have done so much to keep this affair secret for her sake? ”

Fitzwilliam rocked back on his heels. He looked confused and a little shocked. “I see. You did it to teach her a lesson.”

“Of course not! I—” Darcy stilled, a horrible sense of shame settling over him.

Pained by the discovery of her indifference and determined to acquit himself of wrongdoing, ensuring that Elizabeth knew it was her family at fault was precisely why he had told her.

Of all the paltry, mean-spirited motives! He closed his eyes. “Damn.”

“How did she take it?”

He shook his head. “Badly. I never saw anyone so shocked.”

Fitzwilliam gave him a look that said, ‘I am not sure what else you expected’, and turned to the sideboard to pour his own drink.

Darcy wandered dazedly back to his chair, asking himself the same thing.

It was difficult to credit now, but he had given no consideration to how Elizabeth might receive the crushing intelligence beyond being justly chastened and eager to beg his forgiveness.

He had stood at the window, too preoccupied with his own affront and revulsion to sit with her and deliver the news gently.