“Indeed, it is.” Her eyes brightened with pleasure at his noticing. “Aunt Lucinda took me to Madame Étienne’s establishment on Bond Street. I commissioned two for the upcoming holiday festivities, with plans to return in January to complete my spring wardrobe.”
“Pass my compliments to Madame Étienne. What she created for you is stunning.”
Darcy shifted his focus to the other occupants of the drawing room. The conversation drifted between fashionable assemblies, court gossip, and inevitably, the Napoleonic conflict abroad.
“Gentlemen,” Lady Matlock interjected with a delicate clearing of her throat. “Perhaps discussions of warfare might wait until the ladies withdraw after dinner.”
Darcy observed how the countess’s fingers tightened around her fan. Her youngest son, a colonel serving under Wellington, was presently stationed in Portugal.
“Apologies, my dear,” Lord Matlock conceded with a wistful glance at his wife. He turned to Darcy. “Tell us instead of Hertfordshire. Bingley took an estate there, did he not?”
“Indeed, though he soon came to regret his choice.”
“Poor condition? Negligence?”
“The property was sound enough with adequate modern amenities, and well-proportioned rooms. The local society, however...” Darcy’s lip curled, as if he had tasted something bitter.
“Come now, Darcy. Not everyone can have the town bronze. You, of all people, should know that and be more forgiving.”
“I found them generally acceptable, with one notable exception. One of the leading families in the area, whose estate is not only mismanaged, but is also burdened with an entail that will see the estate go to a distant cousin upon the father’s death, has a daughter who caught Bingley’s eye. His sisters and I deemed it necessary to extricate him before the mother’s mercenary schemes, announced with nearly every breath she took, succeeded, and his honour was engaged.”
“Let us hope his affection was not too involved with the lady,” Lady Matlock murmured.
“Bingley always recovers quickly from matters of the heart. I harbour little concern for him,” Darcy replied with a dismissive wave. “His affections wax and wane with the cycles of the moon.”
“Indeed.” His cousin, Viscount Edmund Ashton said, and peered at him over the rim of his glass tumbler, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Though I daresay his unmarried sister must be rather vexed to lose her monopoly on your attention.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed, creating a deep crease between his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“Come now,” the viscount said with a knowing smile playing across his aristocratic features. “Surely, you are aware that she has dreams of donning a mob cap in your presence, and of presiding over your breakfast table every morning.” Upon witnessing Darcy’s mortified expression, he erupted in laughter. “Good God, man! You were truly oblivious to her designs, that she saw herself as the next mistress of Pemberley?”
“Entirely so.” Darcy turned towards his sister, noting her quiet amusement betrayed only by a slight upward curve of her lips. “Georgiana, have you anything to add?”
“I do,” she replied. “Miss Bingley has, for quite some time, sought to cultivate my favour with fawning behaviour and saccharine compliments. Her method lacks subtlety. I have encountered too many ladies who have attempted the same stratagem to gather intelligence about you.”
“I perceived nothing in Miss Bingley’s behaviour to arouse suspicion.” His voice carried a note of bewilderment.
“I confess, I cannot abide Mr. Bingley’s youngest sister,” Lady Matlock said, her lips compressing into a thin line at the thought of the lady. “She parades about as though she was the daughter of a peer, insulting most of our acquaintance with her affected manners. You will never see her tread the floors of Almack’s. Lady Jersey loathes Miss Bingley.”
“Why was I not informed how Bingley’s sister was viewed by our friends and colleagues?”
“Because Bingley is your friend, and he himself is well-liked, although he is more of a follower than a leader. Your sojourn in Hertfordshire is a prime example. If he loved this young woman, he ought to have stood firm like an oak against the storm and followed his heart regardless of her dubious connections.”
“Hisaffections may have been genuine,” Darcy replied. “But I observed that while this young lady welcomed his company with a sweet smile, she showed him no special regard. Meanwhile, at his ball, I heard the mother tell her cadre of chin waggers that her daughter would be mistress of Netherfield by the new year, and once married, the newly minted Mrs. Bingley would then throw her remaining sisters into the paths of other wealthy gentlemen. All this, and Bingley had not even called upon the young lady.”
“Hmm… mayhap it was fortunate you removed your friend from such an unscrupulous family,” his aunt murmured, her jewelled fingers tapping thoughtfully against the arm of her chair.
“Explain something.” Ashton, his attention caught by the mention of mercenary designs, roused himself to rejoin the conversation. “If this mother is truly so grasping, why did she not set her sights on you? You are the greater prize — far wealthier and more consequential than Bingley with an annual income that would make any matchmaking mamma swoon with delight.”
Darcy paused, his gaze drifting to the dancing flames in the marble fireplace as he reflected on every moment spent in Meryton’s assembly rooms and country lanes. He realised that never once had any parent pressed their daughter upon him as a match. In fact, no one had initiated a conversation with him, apart from Sir William Lucas, who would chat up a log if hethought it might appreciate his stories about St. James’s Palace. Perhaps his view of Meryton had been altogether askew, like a painting hung at an improper angle.
With Christmas celebrations concludedand Georgiana contentedly settled with her companion in their elegant Mayfair town house, Darcy found himself anticipating his dinner engagement at the Hurst residence on Curzon Street with unusual eagerness. His friendship with Reginald Hurst stretched back to their first awkward days at Eton, where they had bonded over shared Latin exercises, and had weathered their years at Cambridge through countless debates and rowing expeditions. Through Hurst’s marriage to Louisa Bingley, Darcy had been introduced to her relations, forming an instant camaraderie with the amiable Charles Bingley while merely enduring the company of his youngest sister, Caroline.
Perhaps it was the excellence of the meal, a sumptuous affair featuring roast pheasant and oyster sauce, or possibly the superior quality of Hurst’s brandy, warming Darcy’s chest with each sip, that emboldened him to broach a subject that he would hesitate to discuss with anyone else.
“What are your thoughts on Hertfordshire?” Darcy asked, contemplating the amber liquid swirling in his crystal glass, its facets catching the light from the fireplace.
“Pleasant countryside. Fine shooting,” Hurst replied, his heavy-lidded eyes studying Darcy carefully over the rim of his own glass. “Why this sudden interest?”