Page 47 of The Briar Bargain (The Rom Com Collection #3)

Darcy stepped closer, ostensibly to examine the flowers but truly to be nearer to her. "I believe they are some variety of orchid," he said. "Though I could not tell you the specific name. "

"No matter. Sometimes it is enough simply to appreciate beauty without needing to classify it."

He looked at her as she bent to breathe in the scent. "Yes," he said quietly. "Sometimes it is."

They continued their circuit of the conservatory, the conversation flowing more easily than he had dared hope. Miss Elizabeth's curiosity was infectious, her observations often surprising and always engaging.

"I must admit that Miss Bingley has excellent taste in plants, even if she does not often enjoy them herself," Miss Elizabeth remarked as they paused beside a small fountain surrounded by delicate ferns.

"It seems a pity to create something so lovely and then abandon it to the sole care of gardeners. "

"Perhaps she finds more pleasure in the creation than the maintenance," Darcy suggested. "Some people are more comfortable with grand gestures than daily devotion."

"And which are you, Mr. Darcy?" The question was asked lightly, but he sensed deeper meaning beneath it.

He considered his answer carefully. "I believe I prefer constancy," he said at length. "Though I am beginning to think that both may have their place."

"How very tactful of you."

"I am learning from an excellent teacher."

She glanced at him sharply, as though surprised by the compliment, then smiled with such warmth that he felt as though the sun had emerged from behind clouds.

No woman so proper as Elizabeth Bennet would look at him so warmly if she did not, at some level, esteem him. The thought stole into his mind unbidden, filling him with a cautious hope .

"I fear you overestimate my skill," she said. "I am more often accused of being too direct for polite society."

"Then polite society is foolish," he replied with more vehemence than he had intended. "Directness that does not intend to wound is a virtue too rarely practised."

"Even when it causes offence?"

"Especially then. Better honest offence than false courtesy."

She studied his face with those perceptive eyes. "You sound as though you speak from experience."

He did, though he could hardly tell her of the countless drawing rooms where he had endured simpering flattery and calculated charm, all in service of securing his fortune and status. The memory of such encounters made Miss Elizabeth's straightforward manner even more precious.

"I have had occasion to value truthfulness above politeness," he said simply.

"And yet you are always so perfectly proper," she said with a teasing smile. "Never a word out of place, never a gesture that could be deemed inappropriate. It must be exhausting to maintain such standards."

No one had ever suggested that his propriety might be a burden rather than a natural expression of his character. Yet she was not wrong. There were times when the weight of expectation, the constant need to be the perfect gentleman, felt suffocating.

Like now. For he should very much like to kiss Miss Elizabeth. But he would not.

"Perhaps," he replied, "there are occasions when propriety is more habit than inclination."

They had completed their tour of the conservatory and found themselves back at the entrance. Darcy was reluctant to end their time together, but before he could suggest an extension of their walk, Miss Elizabeth spoke .

"Thank you for this," she said, her hand still resting lightly on his arm.

"It has been exactly what I needed. Jane was right to say we were growing restless, though I doubt she would have chosen such exotic surroundings for her constitutional.

I did not even know that Netherfield had a conservatory before I stumbled across it the other day. "

"The pleasure is mine," he replied, and meant it completely. "Perhaps tomorrow, if the weather improves, we might venture into the actual gardens."

"I should like that very much. But it shall have to be early, for if the bridge is deemed sound, Jane and I will be departing."

Miss Elizabeth would be returning to her father’s house. But before she did, he would ask whether he could call on her. Her easy agreement to join him on the morrow filled him with an almost giddy sense of anticipation. He would make his request there, in the garden.

His euphoria lasted until mid-afternoon, when business called him past the drawing room. The door stood ajar, and Miss Bingley's voice drifted into the corridor with unmistakable clarity. Initially there was only irritation. Again? Could the woman not hear how her voice carried?

But then he stopped, for he heard something he did not like.

"One must be careful, dearest Jane," she was purring in that tone of false concern he had come to recognise and despise.

"It is so very easy to misread a gentleman's attentions.

A kind word, a thoughtful gesture—some young ladies place far too much meaning in such things.

Particularly when those attentions are offered out of courtesy or . . . pity."

Darcy froze mid-step, his hand clenching involuntarily at his side. The word “pity” hung in the air like a poison, its implications clear and deliberate. Miss Bingley was attempting to convince Miss Bennet that Bingley’s regard was nothing more than condescending charity .

It took considerable effort not to enter the room and deliver a retort he would later regret.

His first impulse was to march in and correct Miss Bingley’s insinuations with all the force of his considerable displeasure.

His second was to seek out Miss Elizabeth immediately and assure her that his friend’s attentions to her sister were honourable. Miss Bennet would believe her.

But he did neither. It was Bingley’s business, not his own.

When he was certain he could walk without betraying his agitation, he continued to Bingley’s study where he found his friend poring over a letter with one hand pressed to his brow and the other idly stirring a spoon in a long-forgotten cup of tea.

He looked up at Darcy’s approach and smiled, though it faltered almost immediately when he caught the expression on his friend’s face.

“Darcy?” he asked, straightening. “Is something amiss?”

“Miss Bingley,” Darcy said flatly, “has just told Miss Bennet that your attentions should be considered to be rooted in mere courtesy or outright pity.”

Bingley’s face paled. “She said what?”

Darcy’s jaw clenched. “I overheard it on my way here. I believe her precise words were, ‘some young ladies place far too much meaning in such things.’ I am quite certain your sister intends Miss Bennet to believe that your regard is feigned.”

Bingley was already on his feet. “Where are they now?”

“Still in the drawing room, I believe.”

Without another word, Bingley strode past him and out the door, his normally cheerful expression gone. In its place was an expression Darcy had seen Bingley assume only once or twice before—most recently in a fencing match at Angelo’s when someone had had the temerity to question Bingley’s honour .

Darcy followed at a discreet distance, arriving just in time to hear Bingley request Miss Bingley’s attention in a calm but authoritative tone.

“Caroline,” he said, bowing formally, “I have something I wish to say, and I believe you will prefer it be said in private.”

He turned then to Miss Bingley, who was already rising from the settee. “Really, Charles,” she said with a sigh, “there is no need to speak privately.”

“Very well,” he said. “I am perfectly willing for the Miss Bennets to hear what I have to say to you. You may be less so.”

His sister sighed with exasperation and left the room.

Bingley turned to Miss Bennet, whose colour was high. “Miss Bennet, I am informed my sister has given you reason to doubt my intentions. I would beg that you do not listen to her, for it is not true.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “If you will permit me, I should like to speak to you. But I must have a conversation with Caroline first.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bingley,” Miss Bennet said quietly. “I will await you here.”

Miss Elizabeth took her hand.

Bingley seemed caught up in Miss Bennet’s gaze, and after a long moment, Darcy shared a look with Miss Elizabeth.

“Ahem,” she said.

Bingley blinked. “I shall return shortly.” And then he turned and was gone.

Darcy wished to say something comforting. But he felt unsettled. Angry. He could not abide deceptions such as these. Certainly not when it risked injuring Miss Elizabeth’s sister, and, by extension, Miss Elizabeth herself.

He could not remain here and frighten the ladies with his temper. “If you will excuse me,” he said roughly, and made his own exit.

Once in his chamber, he drew a fist down his jaw, frowning at his own reflection in the glass.

The face that stared back at him was familiar, yet he regarded it now with a degree of suspicion.

How easily, he thought, might he have behaved as Miss Bingley had.

Not so long ago, he might have joined her in discouraging Bingley, perhaps even persuaded him that Miss Bennet’s beauty masked her indifference to him.

Because had he not had the benefit of these additional days at Netherfield, he would not have known how to read her gentle expressions, would not have understood that her goodness was not only for show.

If the Bennet sisters had departed as planned—if the flood had not come, if Miss Elizabeth had not thrown herself into helping, if he had not seen her nearly drown and found himself more shaken by it than he had been by anything since his father’s death—would he have walked directly to Bingley’s study, cautioning him about his sister’s behaviour?

He feared he would not have.

It was one thing to recognise pride in another, quite another to see it mirrored in oneself. He had known he was changing, had changed. But to see what his future might have been reflected in Miss Bingley’s disdainful countenance . . .

He turned from the mirror, unable to bear the sight, and one thought penetrated his mind.

Was he good enough for a woman like Elizabeth Bennet?

She deserved a man who could laugh with ease and love without fear, who could value honesty over status, and who would never attempt to shape her into someone she was not.

He had always prided himself on knowing his worth. Now he was no longer certain of it.

She had changed him, that much was undeniable. With every teasing glance, every frank opinion, every moment of strength and wit and compassion, she had peeled back layers of certainty and left him questioning all that he had been taught.

And tomorrow, if the bridge repairs were complete, she would be gone.

Darcy stepped to the window once more, gazing out across the grounds.

The fading sun gilded the landscape, painting the bare trees in warm gold.

He watched the light catch on the high branches and tried to fix the moment in his mind.

Everything would be different when she left.

Netherfield would no longer have Miss Bingley within its walls, the Hursts would leave for London, and perhaps he would leave not long after.

Without her, without the spark she had struck in him, he feared he might once again become the man he had been.

And that he could not abide.

He would see her in the morning. He would walk with her in the garden, as promised. And before she departed, he would ask if he had any hope of her returning his regard. No more doubts. No more distance. No more pretending that friendship was all he desired.

He would offer her the truest thing he had—himself. Flawed, perhaps, but striving to be worthy.

If she refused him, at least he would know. And if she did not—

Well. There was hope in that.