Win, Lose, or Darcy Read online

  "I can readily believe that accounts may vary greatly with respect to me, depending upon from whom they proceed. I wish that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either of us." Wickham had filled her mind with poison. What was worse, she had believed him. He clenched his fist, feeling as he did the day he had seen the cad embracing his sister on the waterfront.

  Miss Elizabeth’s voice sifted through the sounds of Ramsgate’s crashing waves and the music surrounding them. "If I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity." Her voice had lost its edge.

  "I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours, though our conversation leads me to believe that you have already judged me and found me deficient. Let me assure you, Miss Elizabeth, that I would never betray my friends in the manner in which Mr. Wickham betrayed me and those whom I hold dearest."

  Her eyes widened. She was curious. Good.

  He returned her to Miss Lucas’ side and bowed to leave, knowing that his comment would increase her uncertainty and his absence would stir her curiosity further.

  Chapter 2

  “That was quite an exchange you had with Mr. Darcy,” said Charlotte, her tongue in her cheek.

  “Insufferable man! He said nothing about Mr. Wickham, and when I questioned his character, he answered in the most reasonable manner possible, leaving me to feel as if my opinion of him is unjust and unsympathetic.” She picked at her gloves. She could still feel the warmth of Mr. Darcy’s palms through the flimsy cotton.

  “Imagine that,” Charlotte said, her eyebrow arched so high, Elizabeth wanted to poke it.

  Oh, how foolish she was to let a man like Mr. Darcy spoil her evening. Yes, she would put all of the blame on his broad, muscular shoulders. And, yes, she had noticed…

  Clenching her fists at her sides in one final act of defiance, she forced herself to focus on the only light shining through her tempestuous mood. “There is one thing which cannot go wrong this evening. Look at how attentive Mr. Bingley is to Jane.”

  The couple stood by the chimney, a touch closer than was proper, deep in conversation. A collection of glasses littered the mantle.

  “I do believe he has fetched her half a dozen glasses of punch. She is smart not to drink all of them, lest the rum overcome her,” observed Charlotte.

  “I do not think that even Mother’s wild conjectures about their supposed engagement will dampen his regard. Thank goodness for that.” Unlike Mr. Darcy, who seemed to observe everything unflattering about her family, Mr. Bingley was kind enough to turn a deaf ear and blind eye to anyone but Jane.

  Charlotte grew serious. “He has not asked yet, Lizzy. Do not get your hopes up just now.” She looked pointedly to the side of the chimney.

  Elizabeth followed Charlotte’s gaze. Miss Bingley and her married sister, Mrs. Hurst, were talking behind their fans, their eyes fixed on the charming couple before them. Their pinched lips and scrunched foreheads declared their disapproval of the match at a glance. Either that or their punch had gone sour.

  “We only need to keep Mr. Bingley’s pernicious sisters from separating them so that he may ask. I am certain he loves her,” Elizabeth confided in Charlotte.

  “But is he certain that Jane returns his affection?” asked Charlotte.

  How could Charlotte question what was obvious to everyone in the room? “He ought to be certain. Jane’s nature is shy and—”

  “Ah, but he does not know her as you do, Lizzy. She must give him more encouragement lest he begin to doubt her attachment. No gentleman wants to feel that his fondness is stronger than that of the lady he chooses, and with your mother’s comments, he might easily be persuaded to believe that Jane merely seeks the security of his fortune.”

  Charlotte could not speak more errantly of Jane had she tried. “Do not speak so, Charlotte. I realize that you merely voice the thoughts of others, and not your own, but it perturbs me to hear it.” She paused, adding under her breath, “Jane would no sooner marry for comfort than I would.”

  “Not even for Mr. Darcy and his ten thousand pounds?” asked Charlotte with an impish grin. Once again, Elizabeth was tempted to pinch her arched eyebrow.

  “Especially Mr. Darcy. He could no sooner buy my love than he could secure my good opinion or friendship.” Though, if she were honest with herself, she did regret being so blunt with him earlier.

  Charlotte pursed her lips as if she knew a secret she would not tell. Elizabeth’s curiosity longed to know what she thought, but Elizabeth’s pride would not allow her to ask.

  “Let us change the subject to more pleasant things. I, for one, shall hope the best for Jane and do my best to endure this dreadful evening for her sake.” She looked back toward the chimney. A becoming blush adorned Jane’s cheeks, and Mr. Bingley could not stop smiling at her.

  All would be well.

  If only Miss Elizabeth would look at him the way Bingley looked at Miss Bennet. The adoration with which Bingley regarded her was undeniably expressed on his honest face. Miss Bennet, on the other hand, did not display half the affection he did. Darcy had watched her all evening— when he had not been observing Miss Elizabeth, that is.

  He joined them, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst chasing behind him and adding to his annoyance. How could Miss Elizabeth choose to believe Wickham’s complaints when he had done nothing to win her confidence?

  “How good of you to deem my ball worthy of a dance, Darcy,” teased Bingley with a smack on his arm.

  “You have danced enough for two gentlemen. I see no need to engage in an activity I generally avoid,” Darcy grumbled, refraining himself from returning a rougher blow to Bingley’s arm.

  Bingley shook his head. “You are not so pompous as you let on.”

  Darcy shrugged his shoulders. He had long ago ceased to concern himself with what society thought of him. However, he was very much concerned with Miss Elizabeth’s opinion of him.

  “How can you say such a thing, Charles? Of all men, does not Mr. Darcy have reason for pride? Surely, if it is earned, it cannot be considered a fault,” said Miss Bingley.

  Praise from her meant nothing to Darcy, and he refused to acknowledge it. He balled his hands into fists, stretching his fitted gloves over his knuckles so tightly the seams might burst. Why did it matter to him what Miss Elizabeth thought? Why had he been incapable of shrugging off her disdain? He looked across the room to where he had left her with Miss Lucas.

  Silk flowers the same color as her cream gown adorned her hair and a simple, gold pendant nestled in the shadow of her collar bones. He traced her long neck up to the spot just below her jawline where he remembered seeing a freckle. Tiny gold earrings in the shape of raindrops dangled from her delicate lobes. She looked up and their eyes locked. She reached up to fiddle with her earring. Darcy froze, a contrary warmth spreading over his body, pulling him to her.

  Her eyes flashed and her cheeks flushed. Then, she did something Darcy did not expect. She looked down at her hands, wringing her fingers together. It only lasted a second, but when she looked up, her features had softened. Was it regret? His heart squeezed and his breath shook. He could win her good opinion yet.

  “— do you not agree, Darcy?” he heard by his side.

  “Pardon me, what did you say?” he asked the stuffy voice at his side.

  Miss Bingley, whom he had forgotten had placed herself beside him, glared at the corner of the room he had dwelt on for too long. She was not without a measure of intelligence and must have seen where his attention had been. It was just as well. He would not encourage Miss Bingley.

  Tapping her foot, she said, “I only commented to Charles that his affection seems to be wasted on Miss Bennet. She is a fortune hunter if I ever saw one.”

  Appalled that Miss Bingley should allow her comment to be heard by the very lady she meant to offend, Darcy looked at the space where Miss Bennet had stood. It was empty. Following Bingley’s lon
ging gaze, he saw her on the dance floor with Mr. Collins. Darcy had not noticed that she had gone, but he was grateful for it. While he regarded her temperament as indifferent toward Bingley, he held no other scruples against her. She was, in fact, the most polite and docile lady he had met in all of Hertfordshire— qualities much appreciated in high society.

  Bingley placed his hand over his stomach as if he had suffered a blow. “It cannot be true. Miss Bennet is everything a lady ought to be. What do you think, Darcy?”

  It pained Darcy, but he had to tell the truth. “Considering how much time she spent in recovery from her recent illness at your home, I would think it only natural for her to be more expressive of her tender regard— if, indeed, she feels the emotion.”

  Bingley stared at him intently, his eyebrows bunching together. “You do not think that she returns my affection?”

  “Though I would never do Miss Bennet the injustice of calling her a fortune hunter,” he said pointedly to Miss Bingley before returning his attention to her brother, “she behaves toward you in the same, polite manner as she does every other gentleman in the room. I do not detect any particular warmth of feeling on her behalf, though I have searched for it in the hopes of finding it for your sake. I am sorry, Bingley.”

  Miss Bingley touched his sleeve and leaned toward him. He shifted his weight away from her.

  Undeterred, she said, “Not to mention Mrs. Bennet’s tasteless remarks. One would think that only an excessive consumption of punch would loosen a tongue so much as to expose herself to ridicule. However, in her case, I think it is a complete disregard for propriety and greed which compel her to say what she does. Who else would waste ten pounds on a lottery ticket?”

  So, Miss Bingley had heard about the lottery ticket. Of course, with Mrs. Bennet’s outspokenness, it would have been difficult not to hear of it. She seemed to be proud of gambling away her pin money, borrowing from her sister to purchase a full ticket instead of a modest share in one. It was a slippery slope— one which had led Wickham to near ruin many times.

  Wickham. Darcy looked back to where Miss Elizabeth had been, but she was no longer there. Mr. Collins, who had been relieved from dancing with Miss Bennet by her father, also scanned the room. He had been following Miss Elizabeth around like a puppy all evening. Much like how Miss Bingley followed him.

  Dragging his unpleasant thoughts away from Mr. Collins’ intentions toward his cousin, Miss Bingley touched his sleeve and leaned toward him again. He must leave before she came under the impression that her gesture was acceptable.

  “It would serve them right if he married one of the Bennet sisters. That is his purpose in visiting Longbourn.” She nudged her forehead in the direction of Mr. Collins.

  By all rights, he should make an offer for the eldest Miss Bennet, but Darcy would never suggest so in front of Bingley. Then again, Darcy had seen that he had danced with Miss Elizabeth twice. He had assumed that the clergyman had merely failed to notice the ending of one dance and the beginning of another in his preoccupation to make himself absurd.

  With a haughty laugh, Mrs. Hurst said, “We shall have to wish Miss Eliza happiness in her upcoming nuptials.”

  Before he heard anything else, Darcy departed with every intention of seeking out the boorish rector. A single female in lack of a fortune must marry for convenience. It was the way of the world. But Darcy could not bring himself to accept what was so commonplace as to be normal in society. He refused to settle for a marriage of convenience, and he would never consider marrying a woman who would do so.

  There did not exist a more unequal match than Mr. Collins and Miss Elizabeth. Did he intend to propose to her? Was she the sort of female who would accept?

  Every fiber of his being rebelled at the thought as he strode across the room to Mr. Collins.

  Chapter 3

  Darcy woke in a surly mood after a fitful rest. Angry at Wickham and agitated with Mr. Collins, he ignored the dark rain clouds and took out his frustration by taking a morning ride through the Netherfield Park property. It really was a well-situated estate, with ample space to ride and hunt in the autumn months and three ponds large enough to fish in or cool oneself in the summer months— or dodge specks of rain in the winter.

  Slowing his horse so that they both might catch their breath, he led the stallion to the top of a knoll with a view of Longbourn. Had Mr. Collins proposed already?

  It had taken more forbearance than Darcy believed himself capable of, but he had learned of Mr. Collins’ intentions toward the Bennet sisters.

  Darcy smacked the leather reins against his palm, stinging his flesh.

  Mr. Collins’ affections were singularly placed on Miss Elizabeth, and he had intended to propose on the morrow— a proposal which Miss Elizabeth was in no position to refuse. Mr. Collins would inherit the entailed estate at the sad event of Mr. Bennet’s death, leaving his wife and daughters destitute and without prospects. Only a marriage to Mr. Collins would secure their home.

  Darcy took off his hat, letting the cold gusts of wind cool his agitation. What was it about Miss Elizabeth that captivated him so? Why did Mr. Collins have to choose the only woman who haunted his thoughts? While the heavens offered no answer, they did chill him with a spatter of rain. He repositioned his hat and turned the stallion back to Netherfield house.

  Bingley was rustling about in his room when Darcy trudged up the stairs. His shirt from the night before hung as limply around him as the untied cravat draped around his shoulders.

  “You look like the devil, Bingley,” Darcy said.

  “You would too if you had lain awake all night,” Bingley said, his red-rimmed eyes dull and without his usual joy.

  Darcy stepped closer to him. His friend looked precisely how he felt. “Tell me what I can do to ease your worry and I will do it.”

  Bingley’s shoulders straightened, and he ran his hand through his hair. “You are the best of friends, Darcy, and it is in part your comment about Miss Bennet which kept me awake. I analyzed every moment we spent together and have come to the same, lonely conclusion you so easily did. She does not love me so much as I love her.”

  “I am sorry,” was all Darcy could say. While he could not say that he loved Miss Elizabeth, he understood the disappointment of unreciprocated esteem.

  Bingley nodded. “Me too. Jane— Miss Bennet I must now think of her— is perfect in every way, but I will not force my attentions on a lady who would be obliged to accept them against her inclination. I love her enough to wish her happy and have enough self-respect to wish the same for myself, though I doubt I shall find her equal in my lifetime.”

  How certain he was. A ping of jealousy rocked through Darcy. “What do you think to do?”

  “I cannot stay here. I mean to leave for London today. Caroline, Louisa, and Mr. Hurst will likely follow tomorrow after they have rested sufficiently. You may do what you please, but I cannot see her without revealing my true feelings. I plan to spend some time in London, but I have no desire to stay on for the Season. I will go North to Father’s mills. Work is what I need. Otherwise, I shall go mad.”

  Impressed with Bingley’s decisiveness, Darcy wished him success and continued to his room where he instructed his valet to pack his things to withdraw with Bingley. He would leave Mr. Hurst to see to the ladies’ care or risk encouraging Miss Bingley by staying behind.

  He would return to Georgiana, and he would soon be occupied enough that he would forget Miss Elizabeth.

  “Almost as soon as I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of my future life,” said Mr. Collins, so convinced in Elizabeth’s acceptance of his bumbled offer of marriage, it obviously never occurred to him that she might not wish to marry him.

  “To fortune, I am perfectly indifferent and shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well aware that it could not be complied with. On that subject, therefore, I shall be eternally silent, and you may assure yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall eve
r pass my lips when we are married," he continued.

  Elizabeth wished that he would be eternally silent to her on all subjects. Oh, if only she were rich!

  Her family expected her to marry Mr. Collins. To be fair, she had given the matter some thought. It was difficult not to since he had made his intentions apparent by showering her with unwanted compliments and insisting on keeping her company, though she evaded him at every opportunity.

  A union with Mr. Collins would offer security to the Bennet females, but the price was too high. Elizabeth could not sell herself for anything short of her heart’s desire. She wanted love. She wanted to be loved ardently. Was that too much to ask?

  “Please, Mr. Collins, you forget that I have given you no reply. I cannot marry you. I am the last woman in the world to make you happy.”

  Undeterred, Mr. Collins continued, “You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your refusal of my addresses is merely a matter of course. It does not appear to me that my hand is unworthy of your acceptance. My situation in life, my connections with the family of De Bourgh, and my relationship to your own are circumstances highly in my favor.”

  Breathing deeply, she said, “I assure you, Mr. Collins, that I am not the sort of lady to encourage a gentleman’s attentions through artful deception. I meant what I said, and thank you to believe me.”

  Mr. Collins dabbed his red face with a napkin from the breakfast table. “And you should take it into farther consideration that, in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you.”

  Elizabeth’s jaw twitched. She clasped her hands together and looked down at her white knuckles.

  Ungraciously, Mr. Collins understood her pause as encouragement to continue. “Your portion is unhappily so small that it will in all likelihood undo the effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must therefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me, I shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females.”