Page 7 of The Longbourn Bloodline

Indeed, Sir William Lucas was as tedious as he remembered, meeting him at the door with effusions that bordered on the excessive, invoking St. James’s Court no fewer than three times before they had crossed the entrance hall.

“Mr. Darcy! Such an honor! When I had the privilege of being presented at St. James’s—but of course, you are no stranger to court, sir, a gentleman of your standing. Do come in, do come in; the company is most eager⁠—”

The company, as it transpired, consisted of every family of no consequence within a five-mile radius. They had assembled in the drawing room like spectators at a show, and every head turned toward Darcy as he entered. Ten thousand a year, he could almost hear them calculating. Pemberley in Derbyshire. And now Longbourn as well.

“Mr. Darcy, allow me to present my eldest, Charlotte—Mrs. Collins, that was—recently returned to us.” Sir William propelled him toward the young widow, still in half-mourning, her marriage having lasted scarcely longer than the wedding breakfast.

She curtsied with none of her father’s effusion. “Mr. Darcy. I understand you have taken the steward’s cottage.”

“I have.”

“Mr. Collins had ambitions for it as well,” she said, with a quality of observation so neutral it took Darcy a full three seconds to feel the sting. “Though his improvements ran more to chimneypieces than drainage.”

Darcy glanced around to see if anyone noticed her comparing him to Mr. Collins, and indeed, Miss Elizabeth was glaring at him as if he were a mouse evicted from the cottage itself.

“Cards!” Sir William announced, clapping his hands. “We are playing Commerce this evening—penny stakes, nothing alarming—and I believe we are in want of a fourth at the far table. Mr. Darcy, perhaps you would oblige?”

Sir William, undeterred by any hint of reluctance, deposited Darcy into the vacant chair opposite Elizabeth. She was not, for once, adorned in mud or trailing the local flora. Her hair was suspiciously tidy, and her gown, a deep green, lent her complexion a quality Darcy found himself unwilling to scrutinize too closely yet unable to look away.

“I should be delighted with a round of spirited play,” Darcy heard himself say as Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed at his invasion.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice perfectly pleasant and entirely without warmth. “How entirely fortuitous, although my first instinct upon seeing you head this way was to check whether you had miscalculated the change in your pocketbook upon being informed of our dizzying penny stakes.”

“I should hardly need to worry over the contents of my pocketbook, Miss Elizabeth,” he replied, his voice dropping into a register low enough to ensure only she heard the crisp, aristocratic bite behind it, “when your disposition provides quite enough miscalculation for one evening.”

“How reassuring.” She gestured at the other two at the table, Mrs. Long and Mrs. Goulding. “I trust we three ladies will not prove too taxing for your vaunted composure? Be forewarned, sir, for our calculations are legendary.”

Cards were dealt, the stock was turned, and the quiet rustle of pasteboard filled the air as the players swiftly exchanged their unfortunates and built their rounds.

While Darcy contemplated his options, or lack thereof, Elizabeth claimed the first hand, revealing a flush.

“Fortunate hand,” Darcy observed.

“Fortune, Mr. Darcy, is merely an excuse invoked by gentlemen who cannot endure a run of bad luck,” Elizabeth replied smoothly, scooping up her copper winnings. “I read faces.”

“Indeed. And what does mine tell you?”

Elizabeth’s gaze met his across the card table. Her eyes were darker than he remembered from the assembly—or perhaps he had been too busy being offensive to notice them properly.

“That you are accustomed to buying whatever outcome you desire,” she said, her voice dropping into a soft, lethal drawl, “and you are profoundly discomposed to find yourself losing to a woman at a penny-stakes table in Hertfordshire.”

“You read all of that in a glance?” Darcy didn’t blink, turning his head toward Mrs. Long and glancing at Mrs. Goulding across from her. “Ladies, Miss Elizabeth fancies herself a physiognomist of exceptional skill. She believes I am about to suffer an apoplexy upon losing a few coppers. Do you concur, madams, or should I summon a physician to examine my steady pulse?”

“Oh, Mr. Darcy, to be sure, you look quite composed to me,” Mrs. Long simpered. “I have two beautiful nieces, quite single they are, who would concur. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Goulding?”

“Yes, yes, Mrs. Long’s nieces lose beautifully at Commerce, but they are well pleased with the attentions bestowed upon their pennies.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Deal the cards, Mr. Darcy. You may find my next calculation considerably less hospitable.”

“I do believe your attention is well worth the low stakes.” He flashed her a wink, which flushed her cheeks with anger or sentiment; he could not be sure and did not care.

And then her mother fluttered over, beckoning to her eldest daughter.

“Jane, dear… Jane, sit nearer to Mr. Darcy. Lizzy, you must not crowd the entire card table.”

“I cannot vacate my chair, Mamma, without forfeiting the game. And I am currently relieving Mr. Darcy of his pennies far more efficiently than Jane could relieve him of his bachelorhood. Surely that is what you wished for?”

“Oh, do not be ridiculous. There is no distinction when a young lady ought to be making way for her elder sister, who is far more… Jane, come here!”