A Perilous Match

Chapter 1

One Month Later

Brooks’s Club, London

W hen in Town, Darcy preferred Brooks’s gentlemen’s club over White’s for many reasons. The former had more spacious rooms and therefore greater privacy, the superior dining, and the higher probability of meeting with those gentlemen in society that he actually respected. Especially when one avoided the hours that the less reputable members preferred—namely when the notorious gaming tables were fullest in the evening. He was more certain of being comfortable now, therefore, in taking luncheon with his cousin Phillip and Bingley.

It was better than remaining at Darcy House, where Elizabeth would never be, and where he was continually reminded that he would never again be only Mr Darcy of Pemberley, a fairly private individual. Too much of his former life was closed to him forever.

“It will certainly take some time in getting used to hearing you referred to as Dorset or my lord,” Bingley said when the servant departed. His tone was muted and his expression listless, if not solemn.

He had never felt more in charity with Bingley than now when his heart still ached for Elizabeth’s loss. Nor had he ever felt so guilt-ridden. He had done his friend a grave injury, if Bingley felt even a portion of the misery that plagued Darcy for the past few weeks.

A month. Four weeks. It seemed such a short time for his world to tilt so completely.

His uncle, Lord Matlock’s political allies Lord Grey and William Fremantle entered and settled in the far corner of the dining room, acknowledging himself and Bingley with a nod. He was grateful when they did not feel obliged to join their table for a drink and other courtesies. Darcy was thoroughly fatigued by the sheer volume of earnest congratulations upon his elevation, as though it was luck and not a tragedy which had made him the latest Marquess of Dorset.

Bingley did not care anything about titles or social standing. He never had. Perhaps he was the wiser for it. If Darcy had earlier appreciated Bingley’s openness and adopted something of his manner, then Elizabeth would not have rejected him because he would not have slighted her or separated her sister from his friend. Perhaps she’d be with him now and he would not be waiting at his club with an equally glum Bingley and no expectation of future happiness.

God, he was pathetic.

But at least he did not have to pretend to greater spirits than he felt, and if Bingley noticed a sadness in his friend, it could easily be taken for mourning.

He would have to make a confession to Bingley soon. He dreaded it and Bingley’s recriminations and look of betrayal.

He’d made no comment to Bingley’s remark though his friend had not seemed to notice. He refilled both their glasses of wine and looked hard at the half-empty bottle, before saying to Darcy, “I think we both need a stiffer drink than wine with our meal.”

Darcy agreed and summoned a servant to request a decanter of brandy and a set of snifters. Phillip would be joining them at any moment and he preferred brandy to wine. He rather wished that Brooks served Scotch.

“I am sorry that I am not better company,” Darcy began, “but I am glad you agreed to come.”

“Yes, well,” Bingley said with a wan smile, “I am not the best company at present either.” He looked like he would have said something more, but decided against it, looking pained.

Yes, Darcy would have to confess soon and try to discover whether Miss Bennet remained in London. If one of their problems could be solved by a confession and reunion, it behoved him to engineer it. He would not think that Elizabeth would be pleased by the resumption of Bingley’s acquaintance. He had no right to think of her at all.

God, the physical pain attached to his longing for her was surprising in its strength. He had thought that the events of the last few weeks would be a distraction and was heartily ashamed of his mindset. Three members of his family were dead, and the loss of them—even though they were not close and even though there had been a complete estrangement between the two branches of the family—should be paramount in his thinking. And it was. Darcy was doing the best to ease the transition for Lady Swynford and her daughters and to settle the affairs of his uncle’s estate which had been upended with the unexpected deaths of two immediate heirs. He did sincerely mourn his cousins’ deaths.

And yet… he could not stop thinking about Elizabeth.

He simply could not bear the thought that she was alive in the world and thinking ill of him.

Darcy took a long gulp of the brandy set before him and eyed Bingley warily. His friend was staring out the window, quietly watching the traffic below.

“How are your sisters?” Darcy asked.

Bingley appeared surprised that he had been addressed, or perhaps surprised by the subject of his friend’s question. His brow furrowed. “They are well.”

“Are they still in residence at Park Street?”

“Yes,” Bingley answered with some confusion. “They do not visit Hurst’s family in Devon until next month.” He cleared his throat and glanced at Darcy with some shame. “Louisa has wanted to arrange a dinner for you, but I told her that you were taking no social calls or obligations for at least a month.”

Darcy refrained from rolling his eyes. Of course Louisa Hurst and Caroline Bingley would be angling to be the first invitation accepted by him. “No, I… Thank you, Bingley.”

Bingley simply raised a glass in response.

“Have they mentioned any visits to any old acquaintances of late?” Darcy asked.

Bingley looked entirely confused, and then angry. “Have they importuned Miss Darcy at this time?”

“No, no,” Darcy quickly reassured him. “Nothing of the kind.” Bingley remained ignorant, then, of his sisters’ snubbing of Jane Bennet in January. He did not expect any confession on their part, but it was possible that Mrs Hurst’s penchant for gossip and loose tongue might have let something slip.

His cousin Phillip joined them then, eagerly accepting Darcy’s offer of brandy and excusing himself for his lateness.

“Grandmama turned up at Dorset House this morning,” he explained, “and I was obliged to order her rooms readied.”

“I thought she remained at Arundel with our uncle Norfolk,” Darcy frowned.

“She did, but our uncle’s wife returned home early for her trip and you know how Grandmama feels about being in the house with her.”

“Of course not,” Darcy echoed. Their grandmother did not dislike her brother’s sister as such, but she was uncomfortable with her Catholic faith and the troubles their mixed faith marriage had brought the Duke of Norfolk over the years. “Is Grandmama well?”

“Perfectly well, if somewhat tired from the journey from Sussex,” Phillip said. “She has already ordered me to tell you that she expects to see you and Georgiana this afternoon.”

Darcy replied that he would oblige the dowager after their meetings with the late Marquess’s solicitors. “Georgie will be very glad to see Grandmama. They write an alarming number of letters to one another, however, so I cannot imagine that they will have anything left to say in person.”

Phillip smiled. “You underestimate Grandmama and Georgie’s effort to please her.” He then turned to Bingley, “It is good to see you again, Bingley. You have been absent from Brooks’s all winter, though I have seen you at Covent Garden and the Little Theatre often enough.”

“Caroline likes to be seen at the theatres,” Bingley answered, “and I’ve found a new appreciation for it as a method of distraction.”

Phillip raised an eyebrow. “Distraction? That hardly sounds like the Bingley I know. Have you, in fact, found an appreciation for Cressida Stephens, then? I know I have. Unfortunately, though, I have no title—unlike our friend here,” he said, gesturing towards Darcy, who rolled his eyes, “and therefore no hope of winning the lady’s favours.”

Bingley smiled despite himself and then smirked at Darcy’s unease. “As delightful as Welsh’s new protégé appears to be, I believe that Darcy’s interest in actresses and singers has long since waned—and he is likely the only one of us to succeed with Miss Stephens.”

“It is a dreadful waste of a title, Lord Dorset, if you are not going to invest in the charms of such ladies,” teased Phillip, refilling Darcy’s glass as well as his own, and ignoring the plate of food recently delivered to their table. “You may change your mind, Fitzwilliam, once the hordes of mammas and their eligible daughters start following you around like lost puppies waiting for your scraps of attention.”

Darcy shuddered. “God help me.”

“You may even be so desperate as to reconsider your stance against taking Miss de Bourgh to wife,” Bingley added.

“I should think not,” Darcy maintained, his expression ever glummer. He looked away from the table briefly as the thought of Elizabeth intruded again, and more painfully in the mocking subject of marriage. Elizabeth refused him. How was he ever to contemplate anyone else as his wife? He ached for her, quite stupidly.

You were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.

Had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner …

What did it matter whom he married, if he did not marry Elizabeth? How had he ever thought himself so far above her when he had been mired in the tangled web of general Darcy dysfunction these last weeks?

He was not worthy of her. What a novel thought. He had been raised to believe that any woman would be honoured to join their family and bear the name of Darcy.

Darcy finished his snifter of brandy quickly and stared into the glass, listening passively to Phillip’s praises of his latest opera girl and Bingley’s tepid responses. He suddenly saw the life mapped out before him with a dreary dullness it had never before warranted. An endless parade of sameness, the same people, clubs, theatres, and balls, to which would be now added sessions of Parliament and all the accompanying social machinations.