Laugh at me? Her words caused a frisson of pique to travel a crackling path down Darcy’s spine, and the humor he had found in their exchange evaporated. The amusement left his face, replaced by a taut wariness.

“Tease calmness of temper and presence of mind!” exclaimed Miss Bingley. “No, no; I feel he may defy us there.” The disbelief on Elizabeth’s face said plainly she would not be satisfied. Although his eyes never left her face, Darcy shifted uneasily in his chair, wondering what form her offensive would take.

“Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at! That is an uncommon advantage.” Her eyes pierced him. “Uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to me to have many such acquaintance.” She turned to Miss Bingley. “I dearly love a laugh.”

All inclination for their former banter deserted him in her bald attempt to reduce him once again to an object of ridicule. Darcy’s manner reverted to those forms that had served him in the past. The cool, practiced logician replaced the drawing room beau, and he swiftly marshaled his defenses and line of attack.

“Miss Bingley has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men — nay, the wisest and best of their actions — may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke.”

“Certainly,” Elizabeth agreed coolly, “there are such people, but I hope I am not one of them. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without.”

Darcy knew he was checked. Who could claim to behave always in the most wise and circumspect manner? Checked…but not mated yet!

“Perhaps that is not possible for anyone.” He gave her the point but then fixed upon her steadily. “But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule.”

“Such as vanity and pride,” she drolly suggested.

So, we are returned to the assembly in Meryton! Darcy seized upon her ulterior motivation, too tempted by the prospect of victory to heed the small voice that warned of battles won but wars lost.

“Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride — where there is a real superiority of mind — pride will be always under good regulation.”

She turned away at his words, whether in defeat or anger he could not tell. Confound it, man; you have been too harsh! He bit his lip and tried to discover from the attitude of her shoulders what she was thinking, but with no success.

“Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” Miss Bingley queried. “Pray what is the result?” She cast Darcy a commiserating grimace.

“I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defects.” Elizabeth rounded on him. “He owns it himself without disguise.”

Down, but not defeated! Darcy shook his head, not sure whether to be amused or affronted by this new attack. “No, I have made no such pretension,” he replied evenly. Deciding to try another tack, he continued in a voice subdued in its sincerity, “I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding, certainly too little for the convenience of the world. It would, perhaps, be called resentful. My good opinion once lost is lost forever.”

“That is a failing, indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “You have chosen your fault well. Implacable resentment is a fault at which I cannot laugh.” She put her hands out before him in a show of surrender. “You are safe from me.”

Darcy stared at her, his lips compressed in indecision as to the best response to such a wild accusation, and concluded he could only continue to press his point home. “There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.”

“And your defect is a propensity to hate everybody.” Elizabeth countered him smugly. The accusation was so absurd that Darcy could not help but smile at the frustration that must have given it voice. However, he vowed that he would leave the field, if not in triumph, at least in good order. Let her be served her own medicine! He rose from his chair and, smiling down into her flushed, defiant countenance, replied quietly, “And yours, madam, is willfully to misunderstand them.” He offered her a respectful bow, reached for his book, and bid the room good night.

Once back in his chambers, he shrugged off his coat and threw it onto one of the chairs. His waistcoat and neckcloth soon followed, forming a negligent heap. Fletcher’s discreet knock caused him to whirl about, but Darcy declined his assistance, setting him free for the remainder of the evening but with orders to have his riding gear at the ready by seven the next morning. Running a hand distractedly through his hair, he sat down on the bed and set about removing his boots. That finished, he lay back and stretched his frame, working his muscles from the tips of his fingers down to his toes until the tension of the evening faded. He pulled himself up then and strode over to the window, looking out into the night.

A more forward, opinionated little baggage I defy anyone to find! Such cheek and impertinence! So ready to do battle on the slightest pretense. He paused a moment, his conscience demanding an examination of his mental outburst for bias. Darcy heaved a reluctant sigh. Ready to do battle with himself, to be sure. It was only he who seemed to call forth this rash barrage of penetrating wit. Perhaps he even encouraged it in some way, for she was certainly most amiable and genuine in her tenderness with those she loved. Her face…when she looked on those others…such warm affection…

Why, then, do you continue to attend to her? his inner voice interrupted in demand. Darcy left the window and threw himself onto the bed. Suddenly, before thought could mitigate its power, the answer thrummed through his whole body. Because she is both — mind and heart — and what you have always desired. For some time it was impossible to ignore the thrill and terror of his confession, but he had been prepared from birth for his station in life and what was due his family. As he turned onto his side and grasped a pillow firmly against his cheek, the resolution was already forming that, for both of their sakes, no sign of admiration should escape him from henceforth. The rapid thudding of his heart finally quieted, but try as he might, sleep eluded him until the early watches of morning.



Despite his lack of sleep, Darcy awoke at his habitual six o’clock. He made no move to rise at the sound of the clock but lay entangled in the dreams of a restless night and watched the earliest feeble rays of the sun push through the stark tree branches. His first desire was to wander back into the dream, but he felt a strange tightness take hold of his chest on the attempt. The resolutions of the evening then thrust themselves to the fore, banishing the wistful sweetness that yet lingered, and convinced him to delay no longer in rising. Better to seek the distracting power of a punishing gallop before the mists of the morning were burnt away. Wiser still to avoid her entirely today, he instructed himself as he threw back the counterpane and rose, pulling off his nightshirt and ringing for Fletcher.

A steaming copper kettle of water carried by a kitchen lad heralded his valet’s arrival. Darcy sat down and closed his eyes as Fletcher arranged his tools and began stropping the razor’s blade in sweeping strokes. The rhythmic slap and scrape nearly put Darcy back to sleep, but he came suddenly awake when the warm blade made its first pass, causing Fletcher to nick him.

“Mr. Darcy, sir! If you would be so kind as not to move. I will need to apply sticking plaster, and we know how you dislike that.” Darcy grunted at him and winced as the plaster was applied. “There now, sir. All should be well before the ladies must be faced.”

“The only one who will see me this morning will be Nelson, and I doubt he will be shocked,” he retorted, causing Fletcher to chuckle softly. A knock on the door forestalled the valet’s ministrations. Stepping over to open it, he admitted another lad carrying a covered tray.

“I took the liberty of ordering you breakfast, Mr. Darcy. Just a little something before your ride, sir.” Darcy nodded his approval, and the tray was placed on a table and a chair brought up. Fletcher dismissed the boy with all the imperiousness of his position and swiftly finished shaving his master, leaving him warm towels with which to complete his morning ablutions.