Darcy’s fingers went unerringly to his waistcoat pocket, but a rustle of newspaper gave him pause. Looking up from under his brows, he watched his cousin, waiting for assurance that he was well engrossed in his reading. A disdainful snort and a “Well, I should hope so! Idiot!” proved Richard’s attention to be engaged. Darcy slowly drew them out, the threads that had both served and tormented him. “Perhaps…if it were proved that the lady was devoted to the gentleman…” He had said that, traitorously holding out the exception to himself, knowing it impossible. She was in Hertfordshire; he was in Kent, or London, or Derbyshire — it did not matter where. They would never meet again unless he proposed it, nor should they. More than mere miles were involved. To attempt to engage her affection would be the act of a libertine, for nothing honorable could come of it. She would always be her mother’s daughter; he would always be the son of his father — Darcy of Pemberley.

His fingers closed around the threads. Drawing himself up, he turned to the coach window and quickly released the catches, letting the upper pane slide down. It came to rest with a soft thud. The rattle of the harness chains and the sound of the horses’ hooves upon the road were suddenly louder, catching Fitzwilliam’s attention away from his paper. “Ah, fresh country air!” He grinned at Darcy and then went back to his reading. Darcy looked down into his gloved palm at the dulled, tattered silks. Then, closing his eyes against them, he leaned out the window and let them fall. Caught by a spring breeze, they drifted away, coming to rest by the side of the road.


“Who is that man, do you suppose, Darcy?” Fitzwilliam’s face was full of amused incredulity. He cocked his head toward the window as the coach came up upon a short lane that led to a modest home. “By the look of him, he must be a clergyman; but a more queer bird I challenge you to find. Look at him!” Darcy roused himself to glance in the recommended direction and was brought up straight with a start of recognition. “He keeps bowing and…Here!” Fitzwilliam was out of his seat and had the window down and was now leaning out of it.

“For Heaven’s sake, Richard, do not —”

“Greetings, my good man!” Fitzwilliam bellowed out the window as they passed and then sat down with a laugh. “Can that be our aunt’s new clergyman, come to replace old Satherthwaite?”

“Mr. Collins,” Darcy informed his cousin through gritted teeth. How could he have forgotten that that tedious little man, who on the merit of his collar had claimed such undue familiarity with him at Bingley’s ball, would be here.

“Collins? You have met him, then?” Fitzwilliam asked in surprise.

Darcy nodded. “In Hertfordshire last autumn, when I accompanied Bingley on his ill-fated hunt for a suitable piece of property. Collins is related to one of the families in the neighborhood.”

“How is he, then? As good at bowing and scraping as old Satherthwaite? Lord, what a sycophant he was! But it still made me cringe to see the way Her Ladyship led him about his own business.”

“I suspect our aunt would have more of the same in any parson whose living depended upon her, but whether he meets or exceeds Satherthwaite, I cannot say. I can say this.” Darcy’s mouth twisted in wry humor. “I suspect that Mr. Collins is something of a bantam cock beneath his clerical collar.” He paused, enjoying Fitzwilliam’s incredulity. “He introduced himself to me at Bingley’s ball.”

“Introduced himself?” Fitzwilliam’s astonishment was complete. “Why, the cheeky fellow! Aunt Catherine would not like to hear of that! I suppose when we meet I should expect to be greeted with my Christian name!”

Darcy snorted inelegantly in reply but lapsed into silence as memories of that occasion claimed him. The man had first intruded on his notice during his awkward attempt to lead Elizabeth through a country dance. Initially, Collins’s ineptitude had seemed humorous, but the lady’s mounting humiliation at her partner’s want of skill and proper courtesy had nearly moved him to intervene. He had resisted the temptation and then, when Elizabeth’s ruffled emotions had calmed, surprised her and the entirety of the room with the offer of his hand for the next set. What had followed had been of equal parts pleasure and pain. Like the threads he had finally put away from him. Like the memories he had not yet succeeded in sending after them.

The coach rolled on the short distance to Rosings, the seat of the de Bourgh family and home of their widowed Aunt Catherine. Darcy could see by a sudden display of restless attention to his neckcloth and the disposition of his coat and waistcoat that his cousin had begun marshaling his reserves of good humor and gallantry in final preparation for their reception and stay. Lady Catherine had terrified Richard when they were boys, but as he had matured and discovered the byways that led to female sensibilities, he had put that knowledge to good use with their aunt. For years now he’d turned her up sweet, as sweet as a woman of their aunt’s disposition was ever likely to become; but it was an achievement, he always insisted, that required careful, yearly cultivation.

They passed the gates and began the sweep through the park. The horses under James’s easy rein quickened their pace, scenting that their labors were nearly done. As they rounded a curve that took them near the open grove Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s grandfather had cleared, Darcy’s thoughts were interrupted by a flash of color, like that of a lady’s gown or pelisse. Frowning slightly, he twisted about, trying to satisfy himself with what it might be, but the density of trees and the swiftness of the coach made it impossible.

“See something?” Fitzwilliam asked.

“Nothing…a servant on her way to the village, I suppose.” Darcy shrugged and then added with a teasing smile, “And no, I do not know whether she is beautiful.”

“Darcy, you know I do not trifle with servant girls!” Fitzwilliam looked at him, affronted. “His Lordship would have nailed my hide to the stable door if I ever had and is perfectly capable of doing so still!” Fitzwilliam shuddered as he elaborated on the lengths to which he believed his parent capable of going in show of his disapprobation of such a pastime. “And Her Ladyship! Mater would hand him the nails!” The more heated his protestations became, the wider Darcy’s grin spread until it finally caught Fitzwilliam’s attention. Realizing he had been led on, he stopped short and glared at Darcy before he joined in his cousin’s amusement.

By the time James had brought the coach beneath Rosings’s portico, they were once more the sober gentlemen their aunt expected to descend from it. And expected they most certainly were. A retinue of servants lined the stairway to the door, all at exquisite attention, ready to unload the coach and conduct the visitors into Her Ladyship’s presence.

“And so it begins.” Fitzwilliam gave one more tug to his waistcoat and checked the line of his trousers. “If she complains that we are not in breeches, I shall hold you eternally responsible!” he assured Darcy as the coach stopped and the door immediately sprang open. The manservant at the door was the same long-suffering soul who had performed this office for as many years as Darcy could remember. He nodded to the man’s “Welcome to Rosings, sir,” and started up the stairs after him as soon as Fitzwilliam had descended from the coach. They both knew the way, of course, but Lady Catherine was a fiend when it came to observance of the proper formalities; therefore, both gentlemen followed sedately behind the slow-moving servant until they reached the doors of the Rose Salon.

“Darcy…Fitzwilliam. You are arrived at last!” The irritation in their aunt’s penetrating voice was unmistakable. Doubtless, she had expected them hours earlier. Darcy gave his cousin a face that clearly communicated who was to take the blame for their lateness. Fitzwilliam sighed; then, both of them advanced into the salon to make their bows to the lady who sat in regal command of all within her purview.

“Your Ladyship.” Darcy bowed and kissed the hand his aunt extended. Fitzwilliam did likewise a moment later.

Lady Catherine sniffed as her eyes roamed up and down her two nephews. “Neither of you dressed properly! Breeches and stockings, sirs, are the correct attire for paying visits. I may lay this laxity at Fitzwilliam’s door, I have no doubt.”

Richard shot a murderous look at his cousin before beginning his campaign. “Your Ladyship, it was D —”

“Come,” Lady Catherine interrupted him, “greet your cousin.” Both men obediently turned to the pale creature on the settee at a right angle to Lady Catherine’s and bowed. Anne de Bourgh’s thin frame was completely obscured by the voluminous shawls deemed necessary to protect her health from the slightest inclemency. In most young women, this swaddling should have resulted in a complexion high with color, but Anne’s wan face was mute testimony to her continued delicacy.

Darcy stepped forward and formally extended his hand. “Cousin,” he murmured as Anne removed hers from beneath the shawls and placed it languidly in his. For all her wraps, his cousin’s fingers remained cold; and as he raised them to his lips, he wondered anew how she could support her life, caught as it was between ill health and her mother’s domineering officiousness.

“Cousin,” she offered him listlessly in return. He stepped back in Fitzwilliam’s favor and observed her as she received his cousin’s attention and repeated her single-word greeting. There was no change in her pallid countenance, nor any spark of interest at their arrival in her eyes. Instead, she seemed relieved to have done with the formality, retreating inward as she slipped her hand once more beneath the shawls.