Page 4 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
“I beg your pardon?” Darcy replied.
The corners of Lady Eleanor’s mouth lifted in that particular way he had observed in a dozen ballrooms, just enough to signal pleasure at his attention, but not enough to suggest she felt any. “I was remarking upon Lady Jersey’s ball last week. The musical entertainment was far superior to that at Almack’s, would you not say?”
“Indeed,” Darcy offered, though he scarcely recalled the musicians at either event. “Most diverting.”
“One can always rely upon Lady Jersey to secure the finest performers,” Lady Eleanor continued. “Though I confess, I find the crush at such gatherings rather tiresome. So many people of questionable connection gain admittance these days.”
Darcy made a noncommittal sound, glancing across the room to where his aunt, Lady Matlock, observed their conversation with unconcealed interest. Her meaningful glances between himself and Lady Eleanor left little doubt as to her intentions for the evening.
The dinner gong sounded, providing momentary reprieve from the tedium of conversation. As the party proceeded towards the dining room, Darcy found himself guided to Lady Eleanor’s side, their places at table conveniently adjacent. Lady Matlock’s orchestration could not have been more transparent had she declared her scheme from the rooftops of Mayfair.
From soup to dessert, Darcy discharged his social obligations. Yet his attention drifted further with every course, as Lady Eleanor recounted her musical accomplishments with self-satisfaction.
“My new pianoforte has the most exquisite tone,” she trilled. “Mr Stratham says my touch improves daily—though of course, he is too generous by half.”
“Miss Hayward’s musical talents are unparalleled,” proclaimed Lord Morton, Lady Eleanor’s father. “She practises for hours each day without fail.”
“Such dedication is to be commended,” Darcy replied, though inwardly he could not help but contrast her rigid routine with his sister Georgiana’s spontaneous affection for music.Georgiana needed no urging to practise; she played out of joy, not obligation.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh, seated at the opposite end of the table, raised her voice to be heard by all. “Accomplishments in a young lady are essential, but they must be pursued with proper method. I have always maintained that natural talent, without rigorous application, is of little consequence.”
The company murmured agreement. Darcy observed the satisfaction on his relations’ faces as they watched his engagement with Lady Eleanor proceed.
When the ladies withdrew after dinner, Darcy remained with the gentlemen only long enough to satisfy propriety before making his excuses.
“Estate business requires my attention,” he told Lord Matlock, who received the statement with barely concealed disappointment. “There is correspondence I must attend to this evening.”
“Surely it can wait until morning,” his uncle protested. “Lady Eleanor expressed eagerness to hear more of Pemberley’s famous grounds.”
“Another time, perhaps,” Darcy replied. “Pray make my apologies to the ladies.”
He departed with a sense of relief, instructing his coachman not to return to his townhouse but to proceed instead towards Brooks’s Club, where he might enjoy more congenial company.
***
The heavy oak door of Brooks’s closed behind Darcy, shutting out the bustle of St James’s Street. Within, the air was heavy with the scent of cigar smoke, mingled with brandy, leather, and beeswax polish. Darcy scanned the room and allowed a rare smile to touch his lips upon spotting a familiar figure.
Charles Bingley sat alone in a corner, a glass of brandy before him, his usually cheerful expression shadowed. At Darcy’s approach, however, his face brightened.
“Darcy! What good fortune. I had thought to spend the evening in solitude.” He gestured to the empty chair opposite. “Join me.”
Darcy signalled for brandy and took the offered seat. “I did not expect to find you here. Were you not to dine with the Rochester’s?”
“That was the plan, yes.” Bingley’s smile faltered. “But it appears Miss Rochester has formed an attachment to a captain in the militia. Her grandfather made it clear my attentions are no longer welcomed.”
“I see.” Darcy accepted his brandy from the servant. “You seem to bear the disappointment with admirable calm.”
“What would you have me do?” Bingley shrugged, his good humour gradually returning. “Miss Rochester was pleasant enough, but I confess I felt no particular attachment. My sisters will be relieved—they found her connections wanting.”
Darcy took a measured sip, the warmth of the liquor easing the stiffness of the evening. “And what now? Do you intend to remain in Town for the Season?”
“No, I think not.” Bingley leaned forward, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. “I’ve rented an estate in Hertfordshire—Netherfield Park. A fine property with excellent prospects. The agent assures me the land is fertile, the house commodious, and the hunting respectable.”
“Hertfordshire,” Darcy repeated, considering its proximity to London. “When do you take possession?”
“Staff have already been sent to prepare the house. I shall follow within the fortnight.” He hesitated. “I had hoped you might accompany me. Caroline and Louisa will be there, of course, and Hurst by extension—but your knowledge of estate matters would be invaluable.”
Darcy considered. The prospect of escaping London—and his family’s matrimonial ambitions—held undeniable appeal.
