“I suppose we were,” Darcy said softly. How nice it was to talk into the night with an old friend. To make amends. To feel his very marrow melt under the balm of alcohol and forgiveness.
“And Georgiana? Why, if any lass in the country could have chosen the man she wanted, it’s Georgiana Darcy. She had the world at her feet. If she didn’t want to marry Gloucester, she could have told you no.” Bingley laughed, as if even he didn’t believe his words.
As if no one in the world told a Darcy—told him—no.
Except Elizabeth Bennet.
Blast it—Allerton.
Oh, but she’d told him no, all right. And in such clear, precise, raging words, after he’d opened up his heart and asked her to marry him. Despite her family. Despite the fear of scandal. Despite everything.
She’d said no.
A red haze had filled his vision. His heart had been shattered. But he’d had his pride. He’d vowed he would never need see her again…and he’d lasted all of seven years.
“All of that aside, you can’t have finally come to a summer house party just to gossip about your sister now? What brings you back to the fold, my friend?”
Darcy took a burning sip of brandy, letting the lip of the glass rest against his for a moment. He trusted Bingley more than almost any man in the world.
But there were limits to what he’d tell even him.
“To see old friends, of course,” Darcy said, toasting him. But in his mind’s eye, in his heart, he raised his glass to the challenging, the beautiful, the angry Elizabeth Allerton.
Tomorrow, he would speak with her and discover if she could, indeed, be induced to marry again.
11
Elizabeth
“Thank goodness it did not rain!” Jane turned and smiled in relief at her sisters. “It is the perfect day for a picnic, don’t you think?”
It was, indeed, a glorious summer day. Elizabeth, Jane, Mary and a small army of maids and footmen had spent the past three hours transforming the bank of Netherfield’s wide, lazy river into a picturesque picnic vision. Teams of horses and wagons had made multiple trips from the house, bringing blankets, a large and airy white tent, and a plethora of outdoor furniture.
And that was before all of the food had arrived.
“It is a lovely day and you chose the perfect vista,” Mary said agreeably, gesturing to the river, which burbled prettily and glittered under the sunlight.
She is agreeable all the time now, Elizabeth thought, knowing she was being uncharitable…and perhaps a bit jealous. But how easy it was to think the world lovely, when you were in love and had never been hurt! And how easy to be petty and cruel, Elizabeth scolded herself, when your own heart is bruised, because the man you are attracted to is—
Elizabeth froze, her hand on the back of a chair. Did she really wish to know Mr. Darcy better? She had to face the truth: from the moment she had seen him again, he had entered her thoughts like mist, expanding and invading her mind.
But I don’t know him. I don’t care for him. It doesn’t matter, she thought in a panic.
Then why didn’t you sleep last night? argued a contrary voice inside her mind.
It was true. Elizabeth had intended to wake early and work out her restlessness by either going for a long walk or a hard ride with one of Jane’s horses, but she had been unable to find rest the night before. Lying there in the dark, every time she had closed her eyes she had seen Mr. Darcy entering Caroline’s room, and drawing her close with his hand on her hip.
Kissing her. Ripping the pins from her long, red hair.
Pushing her against the wall.
Onto the bed.
Oh, why should she care!
Elizabeth finally had succumbed to exhaustion at daybreak, only to have Jane wake her soon after and beg for help, as late last night Mrs. Potter had requested a “real country picnic” the following day.
“What do you think, Lizzy? Is the tent too close to the river? Wait, perhaps we should move the blankets and chairs and food table under the tree?”
At Jane’s words, the four footmen who had just arranged the entire picnic spread froze and tried not to look panicked.
Elizabeth forced the image of Caroline and her narrowed green eyes from her mind.
“It’s perfect, Jane,” Lizzy said. “Please do not distress yourself.”
“You think so?” Jane said, too distracted to notice her sister’s odd mood. “I thought it would be ideal to dine near the riverbank. Then we could cross the bridge over the water and walk to that far hill after eating, but now I think we might need to move everything under the large oak, for shade—”
“It’s too late to change anything!” Mary cried, clapping. “They are here!”
They all turned and watched as two wagons laden with guests and maids came rolling down the gentle green slope from the house. Even from this distance, Mary’s husband Albert stood up and began waving, his stance wide and the gentlemen seated near him cheering the young bridegroom on. Mary laughed and waved back, and even Elizabeth felt her cross mood lighten when she saw how very happy her sister was.
“Mrs. Potter will like it,” Jane whispered to herself, looking out over the gentle, slow-moving river by which they’d set up camp.
“She would be a fool to find fault with anything you’ve done, Jane. And Mary will enjoy the afternoon, as well!” Elizabeth said, winking at her younger sister. For all of Jane’s talk that the house party was in Mary’s honor, it had rapidly evolved to focusing on Mrs. Potter and keeping her calm and happy
It was not an easy task.
“Mrs. Bingley!” Mrs. Potter’s distinctive voice rose as the wagon full of the ladies came to a stop. “Mrs. Bingley, you said it was a short drive! This is short—this is not—oh my!” Mrs. Potter stopped speaking as a footman helped her disembark from the wagon. Her foot apparently became caught in some sort of hole and she began to yell for help. More footmen and one of the cook’s granddaughters, who had been carrying a basket of food, began running toward her.
Jane began to run as well.
“Should we assist them?” Mary said quietly.
Elizabeth studied her sister, the three footmen, and the group of guests who were now surrounding Mrs. Potter. “I’m not certain,” she said. “Do you think twelve adults can manage to pull her ankle from a rabbit hole?”
A second wagon arrived behind the first, and Elizabeth saw most of the party’s gentlemen inside: Mr. Potter, Mr. Gladwell, and her younger sisters’ husbands. Mary’s Albert Jannis, Kitty’s Martin and Lydia’s Edward all leapt from the wagon and rushed to Mrs. Potter’s side.
“I thought the gentlemen were shooting today?” Elizabeth said.
Mary adjusted her bonnet. “That was the plan, but this morning Mrs. Potter was feeling ill and insisted Mr. Potter stay by her side. I believe she blamed the rain for a terrible aching in her head. Charles wanted to make sure Mr. Potter had his chance with the grouse, so they have postponed shooting until tomorrow.”
Elizabeth nodded absently, but what she really did was examine both wagons for two people in particular. She felt an odd mixture of relief and anger when she realized that neither Mr. Darcy nor Caroline had joined the outing.
Relief, for she would not have to face either one of them.
Anger because—because what Caroline had said must be true.
have both stayed behind, to be together…
More images of the two of them, alone in the library at Netherfield, tumbled through her mind. She felt ill, but could not stop wondering if the two lovers would meet there, and how a man of Mr. Darcy’s supposed character could engage in an affair with Caroline.
Of all people!
I could almost forgive him an affair, if only he had not chosen Caroline, Elizabeth joked to herself. It made her feel only slightly better.
Leave it be, Lizzy.
But natural curiosity had always been one of her faults. And that’s all it is, she told herself. Natural curiosity.
>
“I do not see Mr. Darcy or Caroline,” she said to Mary.
Mary frowned. “I fear my eyesight is becoming as poor as Jane’s. I can’t make anyone out. But really, are you bothered by Caroline’s absence?”
Elizabeth had to laugh. Caroline had never been kind to any of the Bennet girls, with the exception of Jane—and that was only when she was feeling merciful. “No, not at all.”
“Ah, but there is Mr. Darcy, is he not? The tall figure, walking down the hill with Charles?”
Elizabeth stilled. There was, indeed, a tall man walking well behind the wagons. “Yes. I do believe that is Mr. Darcy. He and Charles must have decided to travel by foot.”
“Or travel away from Mrs. Potter,” Mary whispered.
Elizabeth could not tell if she was relieved or aggravated anew—now, surely, she would have to speak to Mr. Darcy. Was this what she wanted, or her worst nightmare? How could she desire a man whom she did not like? He was proud, haughty, and engaging in who knows what sort of activities with Caroline.
But when their eyes met from across the field—as they did now—he did not seem to be thinking of Caroline Doughton at all.
Elizabeth’s thoughts were interrupted as Mrs. Potter let out a sudden shriek. One of the footmen, apparently, had released her foot from the rabbit hole—but the force of his pulling had been so great that Mrs. Potter now promptly fell backwards, crying out as she landed on her backside. Her cries were so loud that a flock of birds, nestled in the great oak, tree, took flight in fear.
It would have been easy to laugh at the all of this, if Jane hadn’t looked completely horror-struck. “You’re right, Mary. Let’s go help poor Jane,” Elizabeth said.
But before they could take a step toward the commotion and screaming, however, Mr. Gladwell appeared, bowing low before them.
“Mrs. Allerton! Mrs. Jannis! What a bountiful spread!” he cried, waving his hand toward the table laden with food.
“Er, yes,” Elizabeth said, trying to look around him to see if Jane needed help. “The chicken is quite good, please excuse us—”
“May I have the pleasure of sharing a blanket with you?” Mr. Gladwell continued cheerfully, as if Mrs. Potter’s shrieks hadn’t just gotten louder as the spooked birds flew overhead and—Elizabeth clasped her hands over her mouth in horror—one emptied its bowels, directly onto Mrs. Potter’s bonnet.
Elizabeth and Mary watched as Kitty’s and Lydia’s husbands helped a furious Mrs. Potter to the tent. Charles and Mr. Potter joined them and there now appeared to a plethora of people attempting to calm the Mrs. Potter’s rattled nerves.
“I suppose there is nothing we can do to help,” Mary said.
“It would be so lovely if I could join your party,” said Mr. Gladwell, apparently unbothered by the screaming behind them. He leaned forward and spoke quietly. “In truth, I know no one here except your mother, and while she is delightful—”
Mr. Gladwell was interrupted when Mrs. Bennet’s nerves, in a show of spectacular timing, appeared to decide that Mrs. Potter’s nerves could not have all the fun. Mrs. Bennet began to fan herself furiously and complain of the heat, and she neatly almost-fainted just as a footman rushed to bring her a chair. Mr. Darcy had, by this time, arrived, and he stood at the edge of the fray, his cool blue gaze surveying the entire scene with displeasure.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “Let us all sit together. Over there.” She pointed at the blanket furthest from the commotion—and from Mr. Darcy.
12
Darcy
It took two men and four women twenty minutes to calm Mrs. Potter. And as soon as the storm had begun, it was over—she now had wine and chilled meats, and was happily set up on a mountain of cushions, like a queen overlooking her domain. Mrs. Bennet, for her part, would not be outdone; she had demanded one pillow more than Mrs. Potter. Both women were now enjoying a thorough listing of all their bodily complaints.
“Fine day for a picnic!” Bingley said, coming to stand near Darcy and thrusting a plate of food into his hands. “Though I rather think you’d enjoy it more if you actually sat down.”
“Believe me,” Darcy said, staring at Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Potter. “I would not.”
“Mm.” Bingley crossed his arms and gazed out across picnic area. “You’re right. The tent’s a bit crowded at present. What about over there?” He jutted his chin toward the furthest blanket, where Elizabeth, Mary, and Mr. Gladwell sat.
Darcy could not stop his frown from deepening and Bingley surprised him by bursting into laughter.
“What?” Darcy said.
Bingley clapped him on the back and smiled warmly. “I may not be as clever as you, but I’m wise enough to recognize that you’d rather be sitting on the blanket which you’re staring so hard at—preferably without the young Mr. Gladwell.”
Darcy froze. Had he been so obvious in his affections?
“You know Jane’s mother met that Mr. Gladwell in Town? Mrs. Bennet forced Jane to invite the man specifically so that Elizabeth could meet him. Apparently their loving mother has discovered he has an inheritance coming to him ‘soon’—whatever that means. And he’s looking for a wife.”
Darcy tried not to frown even more, and failed.
“Yes, indeed,” Bingley said, smiling even wider. “You can’t scare him off just by glaring at him, though actually—” Bingley pulled back and pretended to study Darcy’s face. “No, no, you may have the right of it. Just stand there, Darcy. Can you look a bit more cross, though? Yes, that’s it. Perfect!”
“You’ve made your point,” Darcy growled, turning and marching toward Elizabeth and her suitor.
“You’re welcome!” Bingley called after him.
The sound of his friend’s laughter followed Darcy as he left the tent’s shade. The sun beat down on his shoulders as his shirt began to absorb the August heat and Darcy realized he had no earthly idea what he would say to Elizabeth or the group when he reached them. Too soon he had arrived, and he stood there at the edge of the blue blanket, feeling stupid beyond measure.
Why did he care what these people thought of him? It was a picnic, blast it. He could sit down and eat his—he looked down at the plate Bingley had thrust in his hand. It was filled entirely with Syllabub and Queen Current Cakes.
Darcy bit back as a groan as Mary turned to smile at him, her pleasant expression faltering only mildly when she saw his plate piled high with desserts. Mr. Gladwell could not hide a quick frown of displeasure at Darcy’s arrival. And although the man immediately stood and bowed and made a great show of welcome, Darcy knew that Mr. Gladwell viewed him as an adversary, or at least, an impediment.
These thoughts, Darcy had to admit, were mutual.
“You enjoy sweets, do you, Mr. Darcy?” Mr. Gladwell said jovially.
Elizabeth, for her part, glanced his way briefly then returned to studying the fields beyond him. She wore a white dress with blue ribbon ’round her trim waist, and a matching white bonnet. She looked cool and elegant and impossibly beautiful, and Darcy felt himself break out in an unfortunate sweat.
“I—here.” Darcy didn’t intend to be so forceful as he nearly pushed the plate into Mary’s hands. “Bingley thought perhaps you might need desserts.”
“How kind!” Mary said, righting the food and placing the plate in the center of the blanket. “I do so love Syllabub, and it will melt in no time in this heat.”
For a moment they all studied the dessert, as the heavy cream and wine melted quickly. Along with his rational thoughts, apparently.
“Yes.” Darcy cleared his throat, aware that Elizabeth could barely look at him. Why? But he knew why. She had seen Caroline exit the parlor door soon after him. What must she think? The worst, obviously. He had to inform her that what looked like a compromising situation was, in fact, entirely innocent.
Well, not entirely.
But none of that was his fault, and he wished to inform Elizabeth of that fact, as quickly as possible.
But Darcy kn
ew himself well enough to know he could not compete in bandying words about with a peacock like Mr. Gladwell. He also knew he would not be comfortable sharing intimate details of his life with Elizabeth with an audience watching them.
“Did you wish to sit, Mr. Darcy?” Mary said.
“No.” Deuce, why did I say that? He couldn’t just ask Elizabeth to walk with him—could he? Perhaps he could. Make it known that he had an interest in her…especially to Mr. Gladwell.
Instead of saying one coherent thing, Darcy found himself stiff and silent and panicked. He glanced down at Elizabeth. Her head was bent and her bonnet hid her expression. Glancing over at Mr. Gladwell, Darcy noted a large, golden pocket watch, fairly falling out of the fob pocket in his pants.
And so he asked the most inane question in the world.
“Do you have time, Mr. Gladwell?”
Mr. Gladwell smiled brightly and with some difficulty, as his mouth was full at the moment. “I am afraid I do not, Mr. Darcy. I do know it is earlier in the day than I am accustomed to!” He swallowed and smiled brightly at the group. “Why, I make it a habit never to rise before noon. What possible good could come of being awake before reasonable people have their breakfasts?”
“You eat breakfast at noon?” Darcy grumbled.
“Only if I am forced to.” Mr. Gladwell winked at Elizabeth and Darcy felt his fists curl. The cad! What could she see in him?
He had no idea, for he could not see her reactions. Look at me, he thought.
And then, miraculously, she did.
Chocolate-brown eyes, freckles scattered like a constellation across her pink cheeks. Those wide, intelligent, beautiful and awful eyes that he could not forget.
“You…wanted the time, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth finally said. He realized they had been staring at each other while Mary and Mr. Gladwell stared at them.
“Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Allerton.” Mr. Darcy frowned, stared at a gleaming, golden pocket watch peeking out of the fob of Mr. Gladwell’s trousers. “You have a watch, Sir. You cannot tell me the time?”
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