Page 29 of The Matchmaker’s Mistake

“Yes,” his mother said at last. “Lady Honoria will be a fine wife for someone, but not for you. Perhaps for Milton.”

Darcy raised a brow. “Milton?”

“Lord Lansdowne’s politics suit your cousin’s as well as your uncle’s, and Lady Honoria’s manner is no worse than several young ladies I have matched already. And Milton, my dear, has the temperament to help a young lady like that along. You do not.”

He stared at her. “I am not the purpose of these dinners at all, am I? You are simply using me to find matches for everyone else.”

“You are quite useful that way,” his mother said, adjusting her shawl. “For a gentleman who spends an evening in conversation with a lady teaches me more about her in three hours than I could discover in a dozen calls. If you refuse to allow me to employ those talents on your behalf, I shall use them elsewhere.”

He stared at her. “Elsewhere?”

“Of course. A lady may not be suited to you, but she will likely be perfectly suited to someone else. I have many unmarried gentlemen who have requested my assistance.”

“So I am to be brought out at intervals, seated beside eligible ladies, and used as your matchmaking . . .” He did not even know what to call it. “Device?”

His mother sighed. “If you insist on describing it so dramatically.”

“What would you call it?”

She rose. “A very practical arrangement. You will not permit me to find you a wife, but you cannot object to my helping others find theirs.”

Darcy did not know whether to argue with his mother or laugh at her. He decided upon something between. “I will offer you this much. If I am to marry, I shall want a woman who will neither be afraid of me nor think that the way to my heart is a thorough lecture on the Aristotelian and Ciceronian theories of friendship.”

His mother set down her glass. “Fitzwilliam, I have been thinking. Rather than my one large gathering this year, I propose to hold a number of smaller parties through the winter.”

He blinked at the sudden change of subject and considered what his mother had said. More parties? This was not good news for him. “How small? And how many?”

“Well, I do not know. We shall simply have to begin and see what numbers suit best.”

She could not be serious. “Why?”

“I thought at first that a quiet dinner would suit you better,” she said. “Now I think that it may have created too much pressure on you and the lady.”

“Why not just abandon this ridiculous project?”

“Well that would not make any sense at all, would it? No, I shall continue my exertions on your behalf. A drawing room of twenty people offers a great deal more anonymity than a dining room of eight. Which I believe you prefer.”

Darcy would have preferred not to be put through this spectacle at all. What was wrong with proceeding the way they always had? A single annual gathering he could endure. A smaller party, every fortnight or so, where he was the host and therefore could not leave until the final guest had departed sounded terrible.

“How long?”

She smiled sweetly. “I would say that rather depends upon you, Fitzwilliam.”

He sat back. “You mean to torture me.”

“It is not torture. It is a season among friends. I should have done this for you years ago.”

“I was not ready years ago. I am not ready now.”

“This year is the time, Fitzwilliam.” Her words were gentle, but he knew that she was determined.

Darcy stood when his mother did, and when she departed, he went to the library.

This was Darcy’s room more than any other room in the house, even the study or his chambers, and the servants all knew it. The fire had been built up; the curtains had been drawn; a single decanter stood on the table next to his preferred chair near the hearth. He did not pour. He sat down and looked at the fire.

He had passed an entire evening with a young lady of perfect education and titled descent, who had regaled him with hours of her many and varied opinions. And despite all of it, the only conversation he could recall just now was one that had not occurred at his mother’s table at all.

He remembered a different woman. Her slight, ironic laugh, the dark eyes meeting his over a glass of wine, her light and pleasing figure. He even recalled a remark where she had disagreed with him about the manners of country society, where he had said something stupid in reply. Miss Elizabeth had taken his stupidity and turned it on him so neatly that he had felt both stunned and obliged to smile.