Page 1 of The Matchmaker’s Mistake

CHAPTER 1

Fitzwilliam Darcy had suffered many indignities in his life, but among the worst was learning that he was on the verge of proposing marriage.

Miss Bingley said the words just as the carriage rolled into London. “Your mother will be so pleased.”

She spoke them like a woman laying down a trump, as though the hand was already won and she had only been awaiting their return to London to announce it. Darcy, who had been gazing out of the window at the grey November outskirts, pretended not to hear, because as a gentleman he could not say what he was truly thinking.

He maintained that pretence for the remainder of the journey.

When the Hursts’ carriage at last deposited him at Darcy House, he stood on the steps while his trunks were unloaded and gazed up at the windows. The lamp in the morning room burned brighter than the midday light required.

His mother was waiting.

Lady Anne Darcy was the most formidable matchmaker in London and had been for the better part of two decades. Hostesses wrote to her about their daughters. Dowagers consulted her before approving suitors. The Morning Post, in an unexpected bit of wit, had once printed the phrase “The Darcy Register” in reference to the private list she was rumoured to keep, and several ladies of his acquaintance had asked him, quite seriously, whether he knew where she kept it. A simple denial would have dispelled that myth in an afternoon, for the truth was that every name, every connection, every half-promising match in London society was filed away in his mother’s extraordinary mind. It exasperated Darcy that she would never simply say so. But she never would, for she believed that a reputation neither avowed nor denied was the most powerful sort to possess.

Her method was simple. She believed that proximity through friendship was the surest path to matrimony, and when she matched couples, it was compatibility that she sought. She had married her best friend’s brother, and she took her own success as a model for everyone else’s.

It was a lovely theory. It had produced a happy marriage for his parents. It had also just produced six torturous weeks in Hertfordshire for him.

Darcy had suspected his mother was up to some mischief before he had departed for Netherfield House; she had been nearly giddy over his planned visit. Saying anything would have required explaining why her scheme could not work, and she would have listened, smiled, and sent him off anyway. Better, he had reasoned, to let her aspirations come to nothing and return to London with all of her expectations quietly quashed.

He had not anticipated that Bingley’s unmarried sister would also be aware of his mother’s plan.

Miss Bingley, it turned out, had gleaned something from his mother’s invitations. His mother was never direct on such matters when she could be oblique, but Miss Bingley was unusually sensitive to such displays, and had spent her time at Netherfield being elegantly, exhaustingly hopeful. And now, despite his refusal to show her anything more than the civilities due to her as his hostess, she was clinging to wildly unwarranted expectations.

Darcy was not even remotely tempted to propose to Miss Bingley. Temptation had made itself known at Netherfield. But it had not involved her.

“This is insupportable,” he grumbled as he walked up the steps.

Hewitt opened the door for him, and once inside, Darcy surrendered his coat, hat, and gloves. Mrs. Paulson appeared from the back stairs, placid as always.

“Lady Anne is in the morning room, Mr. Darcy.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Paulson.”

He had hoped to refresh himself and consume at least one large brandy before initiating this conversation. He had not even written ahead to say he was leaving Netherfield a fortnight early. Miss Bingley, however, might have.

Well, there was nothing for it now but to straighten his shoulders and climb the stairs.

The morning room always smelled faintly of orange blossom and bergamot—Stephanotis by Floris, his mother’s favourite perfume. She sat at the writing table with her correspondence, which she set aside so promptly that he knew she had not been reading it. Two teacups sat on a table next to the settee, a tendril of steam curling up from the teapot’s spout.

His mother rose to take both his hands in her own, looking up into his face with the quick assessing glance he had known all his life. If she spied anything there, she chose not to reveal it.

“Fitzwilliam. You look well. A little tired, perhaps. Was the road dreadful? It is always dreadful north of Barnet in November.”

“The road was not dreadful.” Only the company inside of the carriage had been.

“Sit.” She gestured towards a chair she had arranged across from the settee, no doubt so that she could observe his face throughout the conversation. “You must have tea and tell me all about Netherfield.”

Darcy sat. He accepted the tea and made his mother wait until he had taken a few sips. Some small show of resistance was necessary for his pride, though he had little expectation of a final victory. “Bingley was very pleased with it.”

“He has such excellent instincts about houses. People too, I think.” She hesitated. “And the neighbourhood?”

“A market town, not unlike Lambton.”

She waited, but he offered no more. “The local assemblies—did you attend? I imagine country assemblies can be quite”—she searched for the word—“lively?”

“We attended one in Meryton.”