Page 12 of Some Natural Importance (Pride, Prejudice and Romance #3)

It was impossible to imagine a man of Mr Darcy’s reputed station to have any dealings with a man in uniform beyond family and close friends in service.

If she had been more like her younger sisters and prone to wild imaginings, Elizabeth night have conjured up a story of deceit and betrayal over a lady or a card game.

Instead she fell asleep, with the memory of Mr Darcy’s disturbed expression as her last thought.

When Darcy encountered Elizabeth the following day, however, he heard naught of any questions she might have. From the look she gave him, he began to wonder whether she might accuse him of memorising her favourite times to walk so he could encroach on them as he had her favourite book-room chair.

“You walk frequently, Miss Bennet.” Darcy advanced towards her perch on a stile bordering the estates of Longbourn and Netherfield.

“One does as one should when blessed with two feet, fine boots, and gracious weather.” He watched her look down at his boots. “You, sir, have a fine four-footed mount, but choose to walk?”

“My horse is there,” he said, gesturing at the edge of the wood. “Grazing.”

“Have you outraced Mr Bingley? Has he no hope of catching up?”

He saw the glimmer of a smile and appreciated her observant nature. “I ride alone today. You knew of our competition yesterday?”

“I do not ride, but I recognise a well-exercised horse and a pair of exhilarated riders with dirt-splattered boots.” Her smile was both impertinent and shy, a puzzling but beguiling combination—especially when both were based on her close observation of himself and Bingley.

Darcy could not recall seeing such an expression on another lady.

It suited her well, but stirred something within him that he did not wish to expose or think about.

Had she smiled in such a manner at Wickham and those officers who so enamoured her idiot sisters?

“Yes,” he said without returning her smile. “It was a fine day, and we wished to give our horses their head. Today, as you see, provides a more difficult course for riding or walking.” He gestured to his boots, spattered with the mud bemoaned by poor Squills.

She laughed. For faith’s sake, she laughed.

“You are observant, El-, Miss Bennet.”

“Mr Darcy, you do understand I am not truly Miss Bennet. That honour is my elder sister’s.”

“Yes, away in London.” He met her fierce gaze and shrugged. “Your mother often regrets her absence from Longbourn.”

He looked away at the valley below them. “Would you prefer to be called Miss Elizabeth? At least until your sister is wed and you have rightly earned the title of Miss Bennet?”

He had no idea why he was baiting her, what tempted him to speak to her in this manner.

She was arch but in a sweet way, and he was behaving like a whisk.

And if he recognised it, she undoubtedly did as well.

What was wrong with him? Oh yes, he was ‘vexing’, and she stirred him in a disconcerting manner.

Before he could extend his hand, she descended from the stile. “You, sir, may call me by any name you wish. I would not anticipate our acquaintance lasting more than another fortnight.”

“No?”

“You shall return to London from your sojourn in Hertfordshire and remember little of the Bennets.” She looked up at him, as if daring him to challenge her; he could not resist

“Only the first part of your hypothesis is true, Miss Elizabeth.”

Her chin rose slightly, and she looked away as if absorbing his reply.

He had a moment to observe her profile and could admire its shape and strength; she was not a classic beauty but there was something compelling in her countenance.

Aware he was staring at her in a manner completely opposite of polite, he abruptly turned away.

“I must return to Netherfield. Are you in need of an escort to Longbourn?”

“No, I was...” She shook her head. “I thank you, no. Good day.”

He watched her walk away, wondering whether he had succeeded in thoroughly insulting her.

A short while later, his restlessness quelled by a thunderous ride, a bath, and a brandy, Darcy sat back with the post. He thumbed through the pile to see whether there was a reply from Georgiana to his last letter.

Five letters he had written her, full of what he thought to be interesting observations on the countryside and warm encouragement for her happiness.

And until today, he had had no word. He smiled upon seeing her handwriting on a thick packet.

He set aside his sister’s letter and opened the seal on his cousin’s. Richard wrote few letters, often spare but always observant. Perhaps he had news of Georgiana.

Darcy,

How grows the grass there on your country sojourn? You have been there more than a fortnight and appear to have read books, shot poorly, ridden hard, read more books, played chess, and endured the attentions of Caroline Bingley. None of this amounts to a holiday. It varies not from your usual days.

You believe yourself needed there to guide your friend but your obligations to the family are paramount. Georgiana remains quiet and by Cecilia’s side. They appear less as cousins and more as sisters, and Georgiana is the better for her company. You cannot doubt this.

In these past months, Cecilia has become less selfish to prove her worth in kindness and patience. My father and step-mama are less patient; this letter is fair warning that they anticipate your return to town and wish to settle the details of your marriage. My protests on your behalf ? —

Were weak. Darcy tossed the letter on the desk in disgust. Was everyone in his life consumed with carrying out schemes thwarting common sense?

He had saved Georgiana, whose shame had only exacerbated her shyness.

He had saved Anne—sickly and temperamental, her overbearing mother desperate for his help—for a time.

The letter was nothing but a tedious refrain: wed his self-indulgent, frivolous cousin and save her imperious father in need of his fortune.

He thought back to his last letter to Georgiana and wondered whether its tone was at all interesting to a girl of sixteen. Would his gentle jibes about the Bingleys make her smile? Did she miss him?

If Richard’s letters indicated a kind of stasis, Lord Matlock’s missives continued to show a flare for melodrama and gloom. The political situation infuriated him, his investments disappointed him, his friends irritated him, and the weather was, as ever, damp.

He groaned and ran his finger over his final letter, desperately curious to open it yet dreading the enclosed sentiments.

Reaching for the letter opener, he made a show of it, as if prolonging the opening would transform the words within into something gay and happy.

It did not. Georgiana was civil and polite, informing him of her daily activities and the new music she had mastered.

But she did add one unexpected, and unwelcome, offering: a note from her cousin Cecilia.

Dear Fitzwilliam,

You leave us here in town, feeling dull and reliant on my brothers and mother to chaperon our amusement.

I am not acquainted with the Bingleys but surely the company of family is superior to that found in a small farming village.

As my mother says, you ought to quit this lark in the country and return soon to London.

Dinner with the Mogges would have been less dreary with your company, and Georgiana and I would prefer your escort to the museums and theatre.

You, my learned and esteemed cousin, are dearly missed by all, but most particularly by your sister.

She and I have become great friends, and no matter what she writes to you, she is pained by your absence.

Come soon to town. You are ever in our thoughts.

Your cousin,

Cecili a

He felt a tightening in his chest, as though bindings were pulling taut his clothing and skin and muscles. He leaned over, breathing deeply, battling thoughts of the wants and needs and wishes of his family, and obligations and duties of his estates.