Page 35

She mumbled her thanks, and Darcy could think of nothing more to say.

He did not immediately look away, however, for she continued to regard him, her eyes flickering shyly across his countenance.

Her lips moved as though she would say something, and he found himself absurdly tempted to hang the entire gathering and kiss her there and then.

The spell was broken when Elizabeth’s other dinner partner asked her a question and she turned to answer him.

They did not speak again before Lady Fulcombe called for the ladies to withdraw.

“Everything well?” Fitzwilliam asked him, coming to take Elizabeth’s empty seat. Then he grunted. “Do not answer that. I can see it is not.”

“Let us just get this done.” Darcy glanced down the table to ensure Mr Gardiner was occupied, then turned to address Lord Fulcombe.

“I hear you went to Oxford, my lord.”

“I did, Mr Darcy. You?”

“Cambridge.”

“I see. Are you trying to stoke up some rivalry?”

“Not at all. I think you might have attended with someone I should like to know. More specifically, I have an interest in speaking to his mistress. I do not know his name—only hers.” He saw Fitzwilliam raise his eyebrows but was not dissuaded by it; he had no forbearance remaining for equivocation.

“And what is her name?” his lordship asked, looking mildly amused.

Keeping his voice low to avoid catching Mr Gardiner’s attention, Darcy answered, “Mrs Randall.”

“Oh! Redbridge’s actress!”

“Indeed. Do you know where he has installed her?”

“I do not. Why do you ask?”

Darcy faltered and was inordinately grateful when Fitzwilliam cut in.

“He is asking for me, my lord. I have a friend at the Theatre Royal, you see—a particularly lovely young friend—to whom Mrs Randall owes a sum of money. Only, Mrs Randall has left the theatre, and nobody knows where she has gone. My friend is quite bereft.”

“I see. And there I was thinking you wanted to poach her, Mr Darcy.”

Somebody chuckled. “Have you been living under a rock, Fulcombe? Darcy has no need of aging actresses. He is to marry.” It was Rothersea, who had abandoned his own seat and come to join them. “We are not fooled, Darcy, just because you and Miss Bennet came separately.”

“You think we planned that, do you?”

Rothersea shrugged. “I hear you went to great lengths to get yourself invited.”

Darcy sighed. “I never knew you had such an appetite for gossip.”

The earl smiled genially. “I do not, usually, but you are an exceptional case. You are one of the only men of our consequence who has managed to keep his name entirely free of speculation for the whole of his majority. But your intense privacy is exacting its toll now. Society is ready for you to declare yourself.”

“On the contrary,” said another of Lord Fulcombe’s guests.

“I think Mr Darcy is onto something. I am of a mind to try his technique with my own wife—insist that we do not know each other and go everywhere separately under the guise of coincidence. See if a few secret assignations cannot ignite a spark between us as inflammatory as the one between these two, eh?”

Darcy sipped his drink and said nothing.

Rothersea chuckled quietly. “Well, for what it is worth, Lady Rothersea—whose opinion is never wrong, it behoves me to say—is quite taken with Miss Bennet. Whatever happens, you may rest assured that she has a friend in my wife.”

There was no way for Darcy to respond without either giving substance to the rumours or spurning Rothersea’s kindness, so he changed the subject instead and was vastly relieved when nobody cavilled.

There was no relief in the revelation that Elizabeth’s present popularity was not merely a passing mania; his set truly approved of her, and his damnable pride had been entirely misplaced from the very beginning.

Darcy was nearly out of his mind with impatience by the time the men re-entered the drawing room over an hour later.

He looked immediately for Elizabeth; she was seated amongst a large group of women with not a single vacancy near her which would admit of a chair.

He wished he knew whether it was a deliberate stratagem to avoid his company.

She was, at least, not avoiding his gaze and acknowledged his entrance with a prolonged look, but while she remained where she was, he could not approach.

He made a point of seeking out her uncle, hoping he might mend that fence, if no others.

Another hour passed without Elizabeth abandoning her position.

Darcy had long since given up hope of speaking to her and retired to the corner of a sofa to listen to the various pianoforte performances, when he looked up and noticed that she was no longer in her chair.

He thought for a moment that she had left, but then he saw her, lingering by the window at the far end of the room. He needed no further opening.

“Did you find anything out?” she asked when he reached her.

“Only that his name is Mr Redbridge, not where we might find Mrs Randall.”

He caught the flash of disappointment on her countenance before she dropped her gaze, mumbling, “I am much obliged to you for discovering that much.”

He wanted desperately to lift her chin, to look into her eyes and assure her she need not worry, that he would do whatever it took to find her mother.

He knew she would not welcome his touch, but when she raised her eyes of her own volition and let him see her misery, the struggle not to pull her into an embrace was overwhelming.

“It is a beginning,” he said. “Something may come of it.”

She gave him a wan smile and nodded, then looked about awkwardly. “We had better not talk for too long. It will only encourage them.”

It was on the tip of Darcy’s tongue to tell her that he did not care, but she looked so uncomfortable in his presence that for her sake, he acquiesced, wishing her well and walking away.

He searched the room for his cousins, hoping to persuade them to leave, but changed his mind when Elizabeth was called upon to play.

He returned to his seat and did his best to pretend that he had not noticed how those nearest him watched him watching her approach the instrument.

He guessed that she would choose her usual piece, and he was right; he smiled as she played the familiar opening bars.

He supposed it was because it was familiar to her, for it must be nerve-racking to perform in front of such an audience.

Yet, watching her play, he quickly dismissed that notion.

Elizabeth was nervous of neither attention nor rank—she was far too self-assured. She played it because it pleased her.

She was approaching that part of the song that she always sang incorrectly, and Darcy watched her mouth enveloping each word, his stomach roiling in anticipation of her error.

She sang the words wrong. His chest squeezed.

She was completely unaware, entirely unconcerned with what anyone thought, and her song sounded sublime regardless.

But then, Elizabeth did everything in her own way, and she always did it with unfaltering elan, and good Lord how he loved her for it.

His smile fell away. He felt winded. Love?

No wonder he had been unable to reason himself out of it—there was nothing rational about being in love.

Perhaps that was why he had not comprehended that he was.

It was an overwhelming and bleak realisation.

Of course he loved her. She was the finest woman he had ever known.

And she hated him.

He came quietly to his feet and quitted the room, leaving his apologies for his hosts and his carriage for his cousins, and trudged the long walk home in the dark.