Page 25 of The Briar Bargain (The Rom Com Collection #3)

F or the first time since the worst of the storm had ended, the sky was perfectly cloudless. The river would remain treacherous for some time yet, Darcy knew, but at least for now the deluge was over.

He stood at the window of his chamber, one hand resting against the frame, watching a shaft of sunlight make hesitant progress across the grounds.

The scene should have been a welcome sight after days of grey skies and relentless rain, yet he found himself oddly reluctant to embrace the change.

He ought to have felt relief. Surely the improving weather meant that within the week, the roads would be fully passable, the Miss Bennets would return to Longbourn, and the household would settle back into its usual rhythms. A little distance from Miss Elizabeth was all he required.

The notion should have comforted him. But it did not.

Instead, a slow, strange unease had crept into his chest, a wistful sort of disappointment that surprised him with its intensity.

How different were his feelings from only a few days ago, when he would have been grateful for Miss Elizabeth’s departure.

Then, her presence had seemed a disruption to his carefully ordered existence, a challenge to his composure that he neither welcomed nor understood.

Now, the thought of her departure left him feeling hollow.

Yesterday's campaign in defence of Miss Elizabeth had been both exhilarating and terrifying. Exhilarating because of the pleasure he had taken in deflecting every barbed comment directed her way, in watching the signs of her lethargy lift with each of his interventions. It had been effortless, even intoxicating, to answer Miss Bingley’s sharpness with studied civility.

And the way Miss Elizabeth had looked at him afterward, so appreciative, had made him feel as though he might wish to be a man she found worthy of regard, not for what he possessed, but for who he was.

Terrifying because each shared glance, each moment of wordless understanding between them, had only served to deepen an attachment he felt powerless to satisfy.

It was not merely that he admired her wit, though he did.

Her quick intelligence never failed to surprise and delight him.

Nor was it simply her devotion to her sister, though that too spoke to a goodness of heart that he found increasingly estimable.

It was something more fundamental: without ever seeming to try, she made him feel as though he were not such a disagreeable fellow after all.

That he was strong, clever, occasionally witty.

In her presence, the careful walls he had built around himself seemed unnecessary, even burdensome.

He had told her, with all the conviction he could muster, that he was her friend. And he had meant it. But he was not certain, with more days in her company stretching before him, that he wished to remain only her friend.

How was he to survive this when his thoughts wandered at night to the memory of her voice, her laughter, the precise shape of her mouth when she spoke? When he lay awake remembering the weight of her in his arms as he carried her from the river ?

Now he found himself in a position he had never expected to occupy, completely at the mercy of a woman he knew his family would find inappropriate. But the more he thought of their hopes, the less he cared.

All his life, Darcy had prided himself on his control, his ability to remain master of himself and his circumstances.

Yet he had been in some danger with this woman even before she was originally meant to leave Netherfield.

Now, knowing more of her—knowing that she would risk her very life to save another—how was he supposed to return to only thinking himself in danger?

A soft knock drew him back from the window and the troubling direction of his thoughts. Expecting Harrison with his morning coffee, he straightened his cravat and said, "Enter."

Instead, it was one of Bingley's footmen, a young man whose usually cheerful countenance bore an expression of unusual solemnity. The servant bowed with precise deference.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but Mr. Bingley requests your presence in the study when convenient."

Darcy turned, frowning slightly. The request was unusual on several counts.

Bingley was rarely in his study so early in the morning, preferring to take his time over breakfast and the morning papers before attending to any business.

Moreover, his choice of the study rather than the breakfast room or library suggested something more formal than their usual conversations.

"Thank you," Darcy replied, dismissing his own concerns for the moment. "Please inform Bingley I shall attend him presently."

The footman bowed again and withdrew, leaving Darcy to wonder what could have prompted such an early and formal request. As he made his way through the halls of Netherfield, there were subtle signs that the household was returning to its normal rhythms. Servants moved with purpose but less urgency, the fires burned more brightly because there were more servants free to tend them, and there seemed to be a general sense that the emergency of the flood was finally passing.

Yet as he approached the study, he found that not all was as peaceful as it appeared. The door stood slightly ajar, and from within came the unmistakable cadence of Bingley's voice.

“You wrote to my man of business to question whether I could cancel my lease?” This was followed by a pained sigh.

"You are embarrassing yourself, and that is all well and good, but you are embarrassing me as well.

I have been more patient with your presumptions than I should have been, Caroline.

But my patience is not inexhaustible, and it is at an end. "

A murmur followed Bingley's words. The pitch of the voice was too high to be heard in the hall, and Darcy was glad of it. He did not wish to hear what Miss Bingley had to say. Then Bingley's tone dropped lower still.

This voice was firm, controlled, and precise, not the way Darcy would normally have described his habitually good-natured friend.

Miss Bingley said something else, and Darcy looked about. Perhaps he should leave and return in a quarter of an hour or so.

"You cannot offer excuses about what he would prefer. If Darcy had ever intended to offer for you, he would have done so long ago.”

Darcy froze in place.

“He is not a man to trifle with a woman's expectations, and you do him no credit by assuming otherwise."

Miss Bingley protested.

“If your behaviour does not improve, you shall make a visit to Yorkshire,” Bingley said warningly. “You can look for a husband there. Plenty of eligible men, good men, are known to Aunt Bingley, and she would enjoy introducing you. ”

He heard the crash of a chair toppling over, followed by the decisive scrape of furniture being pushed aside.

Miss Bingley was clearly preparing to retreat, and Darcy realized with horror that should she exit the room, he would be standing directly in her path.

He looked about. Maids down the hall to the left, Mrs. Nicholls to the right—there was no chance of dashing away and then pretending he had just arrived.

His eyes landed on the tall-case clock in the alcove next to the study door.

It was just a bit taller than he was. Moving with more haste than dignity, he slipped around to the far side of it, pressing himself into the narrow alcove.

The space was barely wide enough for his shoulders, but it would have to suffice.

From this position, tucked between the clock's substantial mahogany case and the wall, he would be invisible to anyone emerging from the study provided they turned towards the main staircase rather than the servants' quarters.

But he had miscalculated. Miss Bingley did not emerge immediately. Instead, the clock began to chime.

The first note erupted just above his left ear so suddenly that Darcy nearly jumped out of his skin. The sound reverberated through the wooden case like thunder in a barrel, each subsequent bong seeming to only grow louder.

By the fifth chime, Darcy's ears were ringing so violently that he could barely make out the voices from the study, and certainly not what they were saying. All he heard was “ BONG. BONG. BONG.”

When the eighth chime mercifully faded, Darcy found himself slightly deaf in his left ear and unreasonably resentful of clocks in general.

As the clock resumed its quieter timekeeping and he began to feel some relief, Miss Bingley emerged from the study.

Darcy peeked around the clock to see that her jaw was tight, her steps swift and measured, her expression composed.

Thankfully, she turned away from him and marched in the direction of the stairs.

He watched her disappear around the corner, waited several moments more to allow Bingley time to collect his thoughts, then approached the study door and knocked softly before entering.

Bingley was sitting at his desk, his eyes tilted up at the ceiling and his arms crossed behind his head. At Darcy's entrance he drew himself up properly.

"Your footman said you wished to see me," Darcy said carefully, closing the door behind him with deliberate precision. "But you were otherwise occupied when I arrived."

Bingley gave a rueful smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "Ah. Yes. My sister was up rather early. She and I had words. Long overdue words."

Darcy gave a slight nod, unsure how much to acknowledge of what he had inadvertently overheard. "I did not mean to intrude upon a private conversation."

"Did you hear enough to know that I was serious?" Bingley asked, his tone direct and uncompromising. "Because I was, Darcy. I am."