Page 66 of The Longbourn Bloodline

“Elizabeth,” Georgiana said quietly, “may I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Do you love him? My brother?”

The question was direct, unexpected, and entirely Georgiana. Elizabeth considered dissembling—considered the proper, modest answer that a young lady ought to give—and decided she was done with propriety.

“Yes,” she said. “I do.”

“I am so glad.” Georgiana’s face lit up. “When he discovered we were your third cousins, that he was heir of Longbourn, he dropped all of his business to introduce himself properly. I knew from the way he spoke of you that it was more than duty.”

“Yes, he was quite diligent with his duty,” Elizabeth said. “You might say he took Longbourn under his wing, and then he gave us flight. He has been everything kind and generous. I cannot take all the credit with the repairs and tenant gifts. He robbed Pemberley to pay Longbourn, and then…” Elizabeth’s throat grew thick. “He gave it away.”

“I believe legally, he only barred the entail and added female heirs,” Georgiana said. “It is his sense of fairness. My family’s entail includes females, although I am the only one in many generations.”

“You inherit after Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, but I would rather he marry and have many heirs, boys and girls, as I would love to dote on my nephews and nieces.” Georgiana nudged her hip with hers. “May I tell you a secret?”

Elizabeth was not certain, but she nodded.

“I do not believe I saw my brother truly happy until that moment when you came running to the carriage. I shall never forget the look on his face. I hope, Lizzy, that you will always keep that wide-eyed, slack-jawed look on his face.”

“I hope so too.” Elizabeth touched her pocket where Darcy’s letter rested. “Because he is ever more handsome when he is not scowling.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

NAMES INHERITED

Darcy’s mind was racing as he and Bingley turned their mounts toward the boundary stream between Longbourn and Netherfield Park. His friend was back in Hertfordshire and seriously considering the purchase of the neighboring estate—that and eventual marriage to Jane Bennet. He had never stopped loving Miss Bennet, but had been persuaded that Miss Bennet and her family regarded him no higher than a trained toad.

As for Darcy, he maintained—at least to himself—that his return was prompted by friendship and fraternal duty, the introduction of his sister, and nothing so disorderly as personal inclination. Yet Miss Elizabeth’s altered manner, her answers punctuated by blushes and, on occasion, kisses, had left him every bit as impatient as Bingley to seek an audience with Mr. Bennet.

Except, of course, Mr. Bennet was unlikely to greet him with open arms or a ready blessing. He would be all arch wit and raised brows, perfectly aware of Elizabeth’s former distaste. Nor would he be satisfied with tales of wassailing triumphs; a single evening crowned in cider and song could hardly be mistaken for a proper courtship.

“You are too quiet,” Bingley observed, bringing his grey alongside Darcy’s bay. “I have known you fifteen years, and I can distinguish between your thinking silence and your brooding silence. This is the latter.”

Darcy clutched the reins and pressed forward. “I am not brooding, only considering.”

“You are absolutely brooding.” Bingley patted his horse’s neck, walking it abreast so they could speak. “What troubles you? You ought to be in excellent spirits. Miss Elizabeth looked at you last night as though you were the only man in the room—which, I grant you, is precisely how Miss Bennet looks at me, so I recognize the symptoms.”

Darcy, for his part, was not so easily buoyed as Bingley, who rode beside him with the unconcerned cheer of a lark serenading its own good fortune. As the lane narrowed and the horses fell into single file, Darcy allowed his friend to take the lead, troubled less by Elizabeth’s kisses than by questions he could not yet persuade into order.

What, precisely, was he to do next—and would she truly wish for the life he could offer?

He had spent the dawn hours composing a list of everything he must do before he could consider himself worthy of the woman who had run to his carriage and said yes. Speak to Mr. Bennet. Court her properly—morning calls, carefully chaperoned walks, conversations held in the full view of her family. Prove to her father, to Hertfordshire, to the world at large, that his intentions were honorable and his character reformed.

The list was long, carefully composed, and entirely unequal to the tumult beneath it. Still, it was the sort of occupation a gentleman might pursue when the only alternative was to appear at Longbourn at sunrise, and declare himself beneath her window like the hero of one of those alarming novels Georgiana smuggled into the library.

The lane widened again, and Bingley fell back beside him.

“Well? Have the bare, prickly hedgerows granted you clemency?”

“I am prepared to court Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy deliberated, more to himself than to his voluble friend. “But I do not know what happens if I am successful.”

“What happens?” Bingley laughed, a sound so bright it startled a crow from a nearby branch. “You walk into the church, you say the words, and then you spend the rest of your life trying to convince her you were worth the trouble. It is the simplest thing in the world, Darcy! A wedding breakfast, a carriage ride, and then you bring her home to Pemberley.”

“And then? I am thinking of what comes after.”