Fine Eyes and Pert Opinions

by Maria Grace

  She ran her graceful fingers along the mullions. “My larger concern is my reputation.”

  “Your reputation? I do not follow.”

  “Whilst I trust Alexander and Colonel Fitzwilliam to keep the sordid details to themselves.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “I do not know Mr. Bingley’s propensity to spread tales. As for Miss de Bourgh and Miss Bingley, I am quite certain they will be both quick and happy to spread scandal about one who is—well, forgive me for dwelling upon the point—above them. Women are always pleased to drag down someone who is higher than themselves.”

  “What would make things right?”

  “It is not for me to say. Is not the man the active principal and a woman to have only the power of refusal?”

  Darcy pinched the bridge of his nose. “You seem to enjoy making this difficult for me.”

  “As much as you enjoyed my person that evening?”

  His gut knotted so tightly he could hardly draw breath. The one situation he swore he would never be placed in! But was it so bad, really? He had been considering making her an offer. Why should he feel so differently now? It should not matter; by all rights, it should not. And even if it did, there was honor to be upheld, and he must do his duty by that. His father would have expected as much.

  He cleared his throat. “Miss Garland, would you consider an offer of marriage?”

  “I suppose that is the only thing for it. Is it not?” She returned to the chair near him, but did not look at him.

  “Is my offer so very abhorrent?”

  “No, not at all. You are a very eligible, desirable match.” She frowned a little and peeked up at him. “You must allow this to be a most business-like proposal.”

  “I am what I am, and am unlikely to change. If you need the drama and romance offered by someone like your brother or even Richard—”

  She brushed the idea away with a flick of her delicate fingers. “I have no need for wastrels and second sons. I do not need to lower myself to an unworthy alliance.”

  Which of them did she consider a wastrel? “I could instead offer to buy Miss Bingley’s and Anne’s silence.”

  “They would both demand you marry them to ensure their silence, and since we cannot make a bigamist of you, I suppose I shall have to marry you myself.” She smiled, finally.

  He would have to hire a painter to capture that expression.

  “I thank you for the honor of your hand.” This was not what he expected from the moment of his betrothal. “I will send word to my solicitor to draw up the settlement papers as soon as I am able.”

  She took his hand and laid it against her cheek. “I have every confidence in your ability to accomplish the necessary tasks.”

  “I shall not disappoint you.”

  “I have no doubt.” She slid his hand down her face and neck to rest upon her swelling décolletage.

  His heart raced, and his mouth grew dry. What glorious softness.

  “I am content to wait as necessary for the settlement to be worked out.” Her chest heaved beneath his hand. “In the meantime, though, I have a small concern regarding Miss Elizabeth.”

  He tried to pull his hand back, but she held it fast. “What of her?”

  “My dear Mr. Darcy.” She laughed, the sound of liquid light. “Have you not noticed? The poor girl worships you. She is quite in love with you. I fear she may react badly when our happy news is announced.”

  “That is preposterous. She has no feelings but friendship toward me and my family.”

  “I will defer to your greater knowledge then. But should she begin acting oddly or disagreeably, be gentle with her, for her hopes have been cruelly dashed.”

  “I am certain it is utterly unnecessary.”

  “As you say. Perhaps we should turn our thoughts to more pleasant ideas.” She pressed his hand down along her well-filled bodice. “I have some very pleasant ones which we may consider when you are more recovered.”

  He swallowed hard.

  She lifted his hand to her lips, kissed each finger, and released it, a wistful look in her eyes. “Shall we make the happy announcement tonight, after dinner?”

  “As you wish—”

  “Blanche. I should like you to call me by my Christian name now.”

  “Blanche.” The name played on his lips, sensuous and tempting.

  “I like the way you say that. I anticipate the pleasant time we may share when you have better recovered.” Her eyes raked him with a glint he had never seen in a woman’s eyes before.

  Blood roared in his ears, and his cheeks heated to flame. Surely, she did not—

  She licked her lips and lifted her brow.

  She did.

  “You will forgive me. I should go. I am all a flutter and need to recover from this very happy turn of events.” She flashed her brows once more and left.

  He stared after her, blood racing, groin aching. Had she just offered him a carnal invitation? His body thrilled—oh dear God, how it thrilled—at the prospect.

  But the ease with which she offered it—those were not the reactions of a chaste woman. Or were they? Perhaps she expected that such an offer would please him. How was he to know?

  Miss Elizabeth would certainly be able to explain—but no, this was hardly the kind of matter upon which he could consult her.

  A chill crept along his cheeks. What had Blanche said? Miss Elizabeth in love with him? No, that could hardly be. She was far too sensible for such nonsense.

  Still, it might be considered unseemly to continue to seek her advice now that he was betrothed. But whom would he consult now? He pressed his hand to his cold, aching belly. He had relied on her for so long. What would Pemberley be like without her?

  ∞∞∞

  Elizabeth sat in the morning parlor near the window, wrestling with a bit of fancy work that was determined to vex her. With all vestiges of breakfast cleared away, only the polished mahogany furniture and large bowl of lilies kept her company. Usually her stitches behaved like good little school children, sitting in their pretty rows. Not today. How unsurprising.

  Might as well set it aside for the day. The sun had just passed its zenith, and shadows crept in, turning the pale blue-green walls the color of the sky before a storm. The light would be better tomorrow.

  Miss Darcy rushed in, skirting around the table to reach Elizabeth. She clapped and bounced on her toes. “I have had a splendid idea, Miss Elizbeth. Tonight, dinner should be brought to the parlor so Fitzwilliam might dine with us. It will be such fun.”

  It was certainly a novel notion, but not necessarily a good one. “Have you mentioned it to your brother? He does not always like new things, and surprises make him uneasy.”

  “Miss Garland very much likes the idea and assures me he will be delighted.”

  “And her brief acquaintance with him makes her an expert on his likes and dislikes?”

  “You are jealous to think anyone else might know him at all.” Miss Darcy had never spoken to her that way before.

  “I am sorry you could think it of me.” Elizabeth tossed her sewing aside and strode from the room.

  Soft girlish steps pelted after her. “Wait, please, wait.”

  Perhaps she should.

  Miss Darcy caught up halfway down the corridor, near the grand stairs. “I should not have said that. Please forgive me.”

  “How could you think such a thing?” Elizabeth climbed the stairs.

  “What else am I to think?” Georgiana stomped behind her.

  “A great many things, actually.”

  Rapid footfalls rang along the staircase. “Stop it. Do not run off whilst I am talking to you.”

  Elizabeth reached the top of the stairs and tried to turn down the corridor toward her chambers.

  Miss Darcy blocked her way. “You are angry with me.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You never get angry with me, no matter how stupid I have been.”

  “You are not stupid. You know very well that
is my steadfast belief. Do not play that game with me. What you said to me has nothing to do with being smart or stupid. It has to do with kindness which is a very different thing altogether.”

  “You think I was unkind?”

  “Do you think otherwise?”

  “I had not really considered it.” Georgiana scuffed her pink slipper along the carpet. “I am sorry.”

  “It is very much unlike you. Who has influenced you to behave this way—or to believe such things about me?”

  “No one.”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

  “You can hardly be surprised that neither Anne nor Miss Bingley like you very much. You are smarter, nicer, and prettier than either of them.”

  “And they are far richer and better connected than I will ever be which counts for far more in the eyes of society. I understand my place in society; it is as it is, and there is nothing more to be said.”

  Miss Darcy’s voice softened. “Are you ever jealous of any of them? Like your sister or Miss Garland?”

  “They are both lovely ladies. I do sometimes feel wanting in their presence.”

  Miss Darcy laughed a little sadly. “I feel that way often.”

  “I know you do. But you have so many advantages, you need not compare yourself to anyone.”

  “Sir Alexander told me the same thing.”

  “He did?” And he was probably the one convincing Georgiana that Elizabeth was jealous of every other lady in their party. Lovely man.

  “Yes. We talk often, and he encourages me in the same things you do. He speaks highly of you.”

  “I am surprised he speaks of me at all.” What did he hope to gain by talking of her to Miss Darcy?

  “You do not like him?”

  “It sounds as though you do.”

  “Pray, do not tell anyone.” Miss Darcy bit her lower lip and lowered her face.

  “He pays you a great deal of attention?”

  “Mostly when we are rehearsing his play. But I so enjoy the time with him.”

  “He is very well able to please when he desires it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Only that you should guard your heart. You have not even made your come out in society yet. You have a sparkling Season waiting for you in Town next year. You should not set your heart on anyone now, when there is so much yet to be explored.”

  “You do not like him. Are you—”

  “Stop there, I will not hear any more of your accusations.” Elizabeth raised an open hand. “Sir Alexander is much older than you and conversant in the ways of the world—ways which you are completely unacquainted with. Your brother and Colonel Fitzwilliam would not approve either. A playwright is not entirely respectable regardless of his fortune.”

  “I see him talking to you a great deal.”

  “You mean am I interested in him and trying to dissuade you from him so as to avoid the competition?” She drew in two deep breaths—hands trembling at her sides. If only she could tell the truth, but that would make matters worse. “I will set your mind at ease. I have absolutely no interest in him whatsoever. Even if he were to pursue me, my father would not permit it. He would not want any of his daughters so close to the theater.”

  “But you could elope.”

  Elizabeth tucked one hand behind her back and tightened it into a fist. “Only in the pages of a Gothic novel or perhaps one of Sir Alexander’s plays. You do realize that without a settlement, one could be left penniless, alone, and with no recourse. Ask Miss de Bourgh or Miss Bingley or even Miss Garland. I assure you none of them would consider marriage without a clear settlement and a generous one at that. No, elopement is not in my future nor in any sensible woman’s future. Sir Alexander is completely outside my notice. Any advice I have for you regarding him is motivated only by friendship. Just as everything I have ever told you has been.”

  “I am sorry to have been so silly. I should not doubt you.”

  “No, you should not.” Would that she could walk away and end the conversation now. It would be entirely satisfying, if a little harsh. “I understand it is difficult to be on the verge of coming out and to begin considering the possibilities of young men and marriage. While the opportunities can be wonderful, there are those who will hurt you and take advantage of you. It is wise to guard yourself.”

  “I suppose you are right, but it makes it all seem so dull and dreary.”

  “Good sense is often quite dull and unappealing.” And trying. It could be very, very trying.

  “But what about dinner tonight? Must we give up those plans?”

  “I never said you had to give them up, just ask your brother if they are agreeable to him. Honor his sensibilities, and I expect he is likely to agree to your request.”

  “But what if he does not?”

  “Then honor his wishes. I know it might be disappointing, but it will be for the best.”

  “You are not very much fun. Come with me and help me ask him?”

  “No, you must learn to speak to him on your own.” Elizabeth curtsied and brushed past her and to her room.

  No wonder Mr. Darcy was often at his wits end with her.

  Mrs. Reynolds herself came to Elizabeth’s room to announce that dinner would soon be served in the parlor. She did not hide her displeasure well.

  Elizabeth tucked a final pin in her hair and smoothed her gown—a crisp pink muslin trimmed with embroidered roses and yellow ribbons, all gifts from Uncle and Aunt Gardiner. It was one of her nicest and very fitting for her station in society, but nothing in comparison to the other fine ladies of the party. She lifted her chin and left for the blue parlor.

  Merry voices and soft music in the background made it easy to slip in unnoticed, the last of the house party to arrive. Jane sat at the spinet with Mr. Bingley, playing a simple duet. He beamed with a smile that matched hers. They were a lovely couple. No doubt, something would be announced soon. They would surely be very happy together.

  Miss Darcy, in a white lawn gown, sat on the long settee near the windows between Colonel Fitzwilliam and Sir Alexander, with a look that suggested she was rehearsing her part again. With her lines memorized, she pursued perfecting the dramatic elements with an almost frightening zeal. How single-minded she could be when interested in something.

  Miss Garland sat close to Mr. Darcy who still kept to the fainting couch, looking rather ill-at-ease. Still though, they looked well together. Very well together. Society would approve of the handsome couple they made. That would be good for them both. She swallowed hard.

  “Excuse me.” A footman bearing a laden tray scooted past her. Faint aromas of soup and roast pork wafted up from the tray.

  Had she been standing in the doorway gawking all this time? Where had her manners gone? She hurried to an open chair beside a small table in an unoccupied corner. The painted screen beside her—illustrated by Mrs. Darcy years ago—concealed her from the observation of the rest of the party while allowing her a clear view of the room.

  Two footmen and a maid circulated through the parlor, offering the diners delicacies from their trays. After everyone was served, the dishes were arranged on a sideboard, and the servants left.

  Mr. Bingley lifted his crystal wine glass. “To Miss Darcy and her inspired idea to sup together tonight.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam raised his glass. “And her stodgy brother who permitted such irregularity on his watch.”

  The ladies tittered politely while Sir Alexander roared. Elizabeth winced. Mr. Darcy did not like to be teased. Perhaps she should—no, she should not. It was not her place to interfere. Miss Garland was beside him. She would look after his wounded feelings.

  Elizabeth took the barest sip of her wine. If it was to be an evening of toasts, she could not risk drinking too much.

  Conversation filled the room, conversations which did not include her. She forced herself to eat, but everything tasted dull and flat. How odd that a single chair sat in isolation, ensuring someone could not particip
ate in the company. Mrs. Reynolds would not have arranged the room this way.

  “My dear Miss Elizabeth.” Miss Garland, resplendent in an ivory gown and blue jewels of some sort, stood before her.

  When had she approached?

  “It is not right that you should be all alone. Alexander, help me move Miss Elizabeth’s table to the rest of ours.”

  Sir Alexander rose. “Always happy to be of service to you.”

  Miss Garland took her glass, and Sir Alexander the table and brought them close to Miss Garland and Mr. Darcy’s places.

  How lovely. She wanted to sit near neither of them, but protest would be unseemly at best. Where was a powerful headache when one needed it?

  “Thank you for the willow bark you sent earlier. It was much appreciated.” Mr. Darcy said with a note in his voice that declared something was bothering him.

  “I am pleased you found it helpful. I have written a receipt for Mrs. Reynolds including the ginger and sugar so she may prepare it for you whenever you have need.”

  “That is very good of you.” Miss Garland patted Mr. Darcy’s hand. Why was she touching him in such a familiar way? “How thoughtful of you to make sure he would have it even in your absence.”

  “Absence? The parsonage is but a mile away. Miss Elizabeth is hardly ever absent from Pemberley.” The words seemed to tumble from his lips unexpectedly, leaving him with a sheepish look when he finished.

  Miss Garland’s eyes flashed with something very much like anger.

  “When one is in need of willow bark, a walk of a mile can be very inconvenient,” Elizabeth whispered.

  Miss Garland nudged Mr. Darcy with her elbow. He cleared his throat and lifted his glass. “I should like to propose a toast.” The room fell silent. “To my betrothed, Miss Garland. May she enjoy a wonderful London Season as the new Mrs. Darcy.”

  Elizabeth raised her glass and drank, not feeling, not tasting, barely hearing the happy voices that ranged around her. “May you both be very happy.” On shaky knees, she rose, managed a curtsey and quit the room.

  She trudged up the stairs as an unfamiliar heaviness settled over her. It was good for them to have matters settled between them. It was good.

  Tears began flowing as soon as she shut the door. They must be tears of joy. He had what he wanted, what he should have, and that must be a very good thing.