Chapter 12
“Idoubt she shall return the compliment and allow you to call her Elizabeth,” Darcy muttered. “What possessed you to point at her like that?”
Henry played the servant and held out Darcy’s hat. “Put it on, you chucklehead.”
Darcy grabbed the hat from his cousin’s hand and set it on his head as they stepped out of doors. The air was biting. “You call me a chucklehead when you are going on about duels in front of your mother and my betrothed?”
Henry grinned. “Do you believe I jest?” He held up three fingers. “And it was this week. But this week is also a part of the month, so I have not spoken false.”
They climbed into Henry’s carriage and Darcy settled against the squabs. “I do not believe you. I have seen you shoot. You would be in the ground by now.”
Henry laughed. “Most of the time they do not even show. Pity. I do like a good battle in the morning. It strengthens the blood.”
“Provided you do not lose too much of it.” Darcy retorted. The man refused to take anything seriously. It was provoking.
“You really are too somber, Darcy,” Henry replied, his spirits not at all dampened. He reached across the coach and flipped up the end of Darcy’s cravat. “Loosen up your small clothes, cousin. There is a point to all this, you know.”
“So you tell me,” Darcy replied sullenly, reaching up to repair the damage.
Henry shook his head, but his expression was warm. “You need to be seen going about your usual business. You and Richard were at Angelo’s a week ago, but you have not been in public since.”
“We were at the club on Monday,” Darcy argued.
“For how long? A quarter of an hour?” Henry scoffed. “Today we will let everyone know you have been busy arranging your wedding. And that your bride is a woman you met a few months ago on your sojourn to . . .” Henry paused. “Where was it again?”
Darcy rubbed his eyes with one hand. “Hertfordshire.”
“Yes. I had forgotten. Well, Bingley catapulted Miss Bingley at you . . .”
Darcy’s glare made Henry stop for a moment, but then he smiled wickedly and continued. “Richard told me about that. What a pity I have no talent with a pencil or brush, but I shall cherish the image forever,” he tapped his temple with a finger, “in here.” He turned to observe the scene out his window before continuing. “Have you sent word to Gunderson?” Darcy was silent, and Henry leaned forward. “It would help our story a great deal if you acted as though you had. Shall we stop there first?”
“We may as well,” Darcy replied, trying to ignore the warmth flushing his cheeks. “He ought to have the papers drawn up by now. Some information is missing, of course.”
“What is this?” Henry inquired gaily. He always knew how to find the weaknesses in Darcy’s armor. “I thought you only made the offer yesterday?”
“I have wished to make Elizabeth an offer somewhat longer than that. It was a bit of . . .” Darcy rubbed his eyes with one hand. The night Miss Bingley had paraded about the drawing room at Netherfield with Elizabeth, he had a very vivid dream. In the morning, he had indulged himself by sending off a note to Gunderson to draw up a marriage contract, though he had not specified the woman nor her financial particulars. He had felt incredibly foolish about it afterward and, though he had authorized payment for Gunderson’s work, had not corresponded with the man since.
Darcy wanted to leap from the carriage and walk to Gunderson’s office when he saw Henry’s brightened visage. It seemed impossible, but Henry was even more self-satisfied than when they had left Matlock House.
“Oh . . .” he drawled and arched one eyebrow. “A tangible bit of fantasy? You?” Henry’s eyes narrowed as his lips curled upward. “Envisioning the delectable Miss Bennet in less than gentlemanly ways and feeling rather guilty about it, eh? Must be noble even in your dreams? Excellent. The follies of men do so divert me.”
“Henry,” Darcy warned. “Cease your prattling. I am not above striking you for such an offense against Elizabeth, and I am not a boy of twelve any longer.”
Henry’s sharp eyes assessed Darcy, and at last, the viscount spoke sense. “I am not certain the offense was mine, but no, you are not a boy. In fact, my brother thinks you have brokered a match that will at last make a man out of you.”
An angry rebuttal was on Darcy’s tongue, but Henry held up his hands in a signal of surrender. “He did not use those words, and I mean that in the best sense, Darcy. You know I respect Richard’s opinion.”
“If you respect him so much, why do you insist on calling him Richard?” Darcy inquired, trying to regain his equanimity. “You know he hates it.”
“Only because it reminds him that he was once ‘Dickie.’ It makes him feel like a nine-year-old boy.” Henry shook his head. “Richard has hundreds of men following his every command. It is good for him not to have things all his own way. You know that as well as I.”
“I value his opinion,” Darcy objected, but relented. “Though I do not always agree.”
“I value his opinion as well,” Henry agreed. “Almost as much as I respect yours.”
The unexpected compliment flustered Darcy, and by the time he had recovered, Henry’s earnest expression had disappeared. Instead, he was hanging out of his window to give the driver their new direction.
After the men left for their club, Elizabeth listened to the countess explain her plans for the wedding feast. It would indeed be rather small by London standards, she supposed, but not much smaller than the one she would have had in Meryton. When asked, she explained that as long as the Gardiners, Papa, and Jane were present, she would be satisfied. The countess might invite whomever she chose to the meal, and Elizabeth would be pleased to accommodate her.