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Chapter Seventeen

T he sun was already up by the time Darcy had made it to bed.

Not that it mattered. He would not manage to sleep.

The rooms of Netherfield were unnaturally still, the aftermath of celebration clinging to the walls like soot.

Somewhere below stairs, servants were putting the drawing rooms back to rights.

Chairs repositioned. Carpets straightened.

A shattered punch bowl swept away and quietly replaced before Miss Bingley could come down and notice.

No one else in the house stirred. But Darcy lay fully dressed atop his coverlet, boots still on, coat draped over a nearby chair, and eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might offer a solution to the latest Bennet-shaped puzzle that refused to leave his mind.

He had agreed to a scheme. A plan. A partnership—with the most maddening woman in the county.

And she had orchestrated it with a smile on her lips and a fire in her eyes, as if proposing their mutual courtship expeditions was no more meaningful than asking him to pass the preserves at tea.

Worse—he had accepted.

Not because the idea was good. Not because it would work.

Not even because he trusted her to follow through.

But because for one moment—one bright, absurd moment, probably born of exhaustion—he had believed her.

Believed in her. That she meant what she said, and that her urgency, whatever its origin, had something to do with him.

He was, evidently, a fool.

Darcy scrubbed a hand over his face and rose.

The dressing bell had not yet rung, but he could no longer stand the stale air of his room.

He moved through the quiet corridors of Netherfield with the same unease of a man searching for something he could put his finger on.

Down the staircase, past the library, the drawing room, the dining room door ajar, a single candelabra guttering into wax.

He ignored it. He opened the morning room window and breathed in air that bit.

He had not meant to stay this long in Hertfordshire.

A week. Ten days. Long enough to satisfy the dowager’s orders—Go out, she had said.

Make yourself seen. Choose someone before the choice is made for you.

Long enough to prove to himself that he was still in command of his future.

Long enough to forget that the woman most capable of helping him was also the one most likely to ruin him.

Elizabeth Bennet had always been a liability.

She was also, inconveniently, the only person in Hertfordshire who knew just how little time he had left. And the only one he feared might guess the real reason he had not yet chosen.

She had seen too much. Heard too much. It would not take much more for her to stitch it together—Wickham, the letters, the restlessness he tried to hide behind propriety.

She had said the words so lightly—"You need a wife." The simplicity of it had struck deeper than any accusation. Not pity. Not irony. Just truth, laid bare in that way she had of turning a dagger into a compliment.

And then, with that perfect flippant shrug: "Or so everyone says."

Everyone.

Not “You told me five years ago, under a tree at Chiswell Park, your coat half undone and your pride even more so…”

Apparently, everyone in Hertfordshire could see that he had grown desperate. And that was a wretched state of affairs, indeed.

Breakfast was a quiet farce. Bingley entered looking like he had been caught in a windstorm—hair askew, coat wrong-buttoned, eyes dreamy with a smile not even Miss Bingley’s disdain could cut through.

Darcy sipped his coffee and wondered what had become of Bingley’s valet.

Caroline Bingley fluttered in next, pale and tight-lipped, and began rearranging the fruit in the bowl with the deliberate intensity of a woman who had gathered somewhere that Fitzwilliam Darcy did not fancy the late lying-in habits of many fashionable ladies.

Thus, determined to make her impression, she looked to have already consumed six cups of tea before her arrival.

Mrs. Hurst stumbled in some minutes later, yawning behind her hand, and asked what day it was. Nobody answered.

Darcy waited for the moment to strike.

It came, as most opportunities did, when Miss Bingley began to complain.

“I do think, Charles, that we have lingered long enough in the provinces. It has been charming, I am sure. But the social opportunities are dwindling, and the weather is turning dreadful. Louisa and I would be far more useful in Town.”

Bingley glanced at Darcy. Darcy met his eyes and gave a slight nod.

“I am returning to London,” he said. “This afternoon.”

That lit the match.

“You are?” Miss Bingley’s tone lifted an octave. “Well! Then we must as well. I cannot imagine letting you go off to be bored to death by yourself.”

Bingley set down his knife. “I had hoped to call on Miss Bennet again.”

“Charles,” his sister said tightly, “you cannot be serious.”

“I gave my word.”

Mrs. Hurst blinked awake. “To which Miss Bennet?”

“I hardly think I need clarify that,” Bingley said.

Miss Bingley rolled her eyes. “Heavens. Charles, you are behaving like a lovesick—”

Darcy cleared his throat. Miss Bingley’s methods were only likely to make her brother dig his heels in, and if Bingley went through with it, married Jane Bennet… why, Darcy’s life would never be free of Bennets. Another stratagem was necessary.

“London will be full of guests by now for the Parliament season. It is worth consideration.”

Miss Bingley rounded on him. “Why, Mr. Darcy, what a charming idea! Do you think we should all go?”

“ I mean to go. I should think the rest of you could do worse than to accompany me.”

She laughed. “Oh, Mr. Darcy, you do have such a delicate way of understating things!”

He sighed and sipped his tea before replying. “I have no intention of dictating your plans, Miss Bingley, but indeed, it seems as though most of the… attractions of Hertfordshire have been explored for the present. You may as well come to London.”

Bingley blinked. “Darcy, are you trying to put me off Miss Bennet?”

He shook his head and finished his tea. “Only to expand your horizons a bit. You still hold the lease on Netherfield, surely. There can be nothing preventing you from returning at your leisure. But if you do choose to indulge yourself in the festive season, you may find ample delights there.”

“Oh, yes, Charles, do!” cried Mrs. Hurst. “Why, think of all the parties! Mrs. Brockhust always hosts a fine Christmas Eve party, and the Walstons—”

“Yes, yes, I quite comprehend you,” Bingley cut in. “But I did speak of—”

“Nothing that cannot be done another time, I am sure,” Miss Bingley laughed. “I shall inform my maid that we mean to leave directly. What a capital idea, Mr. Darcy!”

Bingley leaned back. “Not until after I call on Miss Bennet. Once more.”

Darcy frowned. If Bingley called on Miss Bennet, half the town would be talking about their departure within hours.

And it would be similarly noted that Elizabeth Bennet had “independently” sworn to go to London as well.

There was already quite enough talk of people speculating that Darcy had some private “arrangement” with the lady.

No, more of such talk would certainly not do.

And then what? Elizabeth in Town, chaperoned by her aunt, invited to the same functions, the same drawing rooms. All while Wickham haunted the fringes of his mind and Georgiana clung to fragile quiet.

If Elizabeth knew more—if she guessed even half the truth—how long before her salacious mother found out?

Before a misplaced word, a poorly timed glance, placed Georgiana’s name back into society’s mouth?

“I think you would do better to make a clean break of it,” Darcy said.

Poor Bingley’s mouth dropped open. “But, Darcy, I—”

“Otherwise you run the risk of everyone speculating that you mean to be away for months,” Darcy interrupted. “But a man can go to town briefly on business without bidding farewell to all his neighbors.”

Bingley swallowed. Glanced around the table at his sisters. Then nodded miserably. “Very well. But I shall return to Hertfordshire as soon as may be.”

D arcy gave the order for his trunk just after breakfast—or what passed for it, in a house still shaking off the remnants of an all-night ball.

The valet asked no questions. After nearly a month in Hertfordshire, the man had no doubt packed and unpacked Darcy’s belongings in his mind a dozen times, watching the days slide by with increasing incredulity.

Darcy stood in the middle of the room as the man began folding his shirts and brushing off the last trace of country dust from his boots.

The coat he had never worn. The waistcoat Caroline Bingley had admired too obviously.

And the shirt—plain, perfectly pressed, and unremarkable—save for the fact that Elizabeth Bennet had once insulted it so succinctly over tea that he had nearly lost hold of his cup.

He stared at it as his man tucked it into the trunk. Then he turned away.

Let Hertfordshire keep its rain and its rumors. Let Caroline whisper her victories, and Wickham spread his poison, and Elizabeth—blast her—go to London with all the reckless determination of someone who had decided her fate would not be decided for her.

She thought she could help him. She had said it so breezily, as if matchmaking were no more complex than arranging tulips in a vase. As if she would not be a distraction of the worst kind.

He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders.

Perhaps he was fretting over nothing. Her presence might be useful.

She would absorb attention, steer him away from the more tenacious debutantes, and provide the sort of sharp, unflattering commentary that kept him from slipping into comfort.

Yes—he would be doing her a greater favor than she could possibly return, for his connections surely must outshine hers.