“Absolutely! You have met the Viscount.” The mention of Fitzwilliam’s pompous older brother caused Buford to give a snort of laughter. “Ah, I see the Bingleys are already here.”
Charles Bingley had just entered with an extraordinarily beautiful woman on his arm. Buford admired Jane Bingley’s grace and soft manners. Just the sort of woman to whom Bingley would attach himself. I am happy for him. But, in the back of his mind, unbidden, came the thought: Better him than me. I need more. His gaze took in the Hursts and two other women.
With the eye of a connoisseur, Buford sized up the younger one quickly. Young, yet serious. Does not know how pretty she could become, even with spectacles. Family resemblance—could she be one of Mrs. Bingley’s sisters? I heard there was a virtual tribe of them.
The other lady held his attention longer. Is that Caroline Bingley? My, she cleans up well. Red suits her very well. She always did look to best advantage in strong colors. Extra effort in her dress tonight. Is she still not reconciled to Darcy’s marriage? How foolish of her! What a waste!
“Mrs. Bingley is certainly the beauty,” he observed to Fitzwilliam.
“Aye, she is. Had she fortune, I might have given Bingley some competition.”
Not bloody likely, not the way she is gazing at her husband, considered Buford. A love match! Well, the ton should forgive them that. No one expected much from Charles Bingley.
“But still,” Fitzwilliam continued, “there is something about the sister—”
“Not that mouse next to her?” Buford cried.
“No, no, I mean Elizabeth Darcy. Wait until you meet her. She has bottom, that one.”
She had better, he thought. Aloud he said, “I am sure she is much like her sister, quiet and unassuming. I hope she is ready for what the ton has in store for her—Fitzwilliam, what is so funny?”
Richard Fitzwilliam could not answer him. In fact, he could barely stand for laughing. “Qui-quiet and unassuming?” Another spurt of laughter. “Oh, you have certainly taken the measure of that one quickly, Johnny Boy!”
“I am pleased you find me so amusing, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Buford observed dryly. “Perhaps a glass of punch will restore your senses.”
Reduced to what sounded suspiciously like giggling, Fitzwilliam waved at his friend and staggered off to the refreshments table. Absentmindedly, Buford had begun to observe Miss Bingley again when he was accosted by a person out of his past.
“Colonel Buford! Or should I now say Sir John? What shall I say, sir?” said a female voice.
Good-bye would do nicely, Victoria, he thought. “That is up to you. Good evening, Lady Uppercross.”
“So formal! And the two of us such old acquaintances!” Lady Uppercross purred. “I say, you are looking fit. War certainly agrees with you.”
Scenes of carnage from his last battle in Spain appeared unbidden in Buford’s mind, and it took all of his control not to scream at the baggage. Instead, in a tolerable voice he replied, “There are those who would disagree with you, madam. It is a pleasure to come home and see that few things have changed.” He bowed.
“How lovely! You were always the most charming liar, Sir John. But time is no lady’s friend.”
“Not so. You are as you have always been,” he said with false sincerity. If you force me to compliment you, at least I shall do it my way. Your time is done. You may rely upon it.
Lady Uppercross allowed the comment to pass. “You have been missed… by everyone in Town. Say that you are not to return so soon to Wales!”
Buford knew what her words meant. He hesitated, forming an answer that would serve to dismiss his former lover without causing a scene, when the room grew suddenly silent. Turning, he heard small gasps and whispered comments. Then his eyes took in the entrance, and he almost swore.
Fitzwilliam Darcy was walking in with three of the loveliest women he had ever seen. He thought he recognized Miss Georgiana Darcy amongst them, but it did not signify. No one could take their eyes off the glorious creature on Darcy’s arm. It was not that she was classically beautiful like her sister; she was not. There was something else—a power, an intelligence, a confidence, a complete assurance of the affection she held for and received from her husband that everyone, love her or hate her, had to admire in Mrs. Darcy.
Fitz is right. She is regal yet real. Oh, Darcy, I hate you! How can you be so fortunate?
“Oh, my!”
Buford turned. He had forgotten Lady Uppercross.
“Miss Bingley will be furious,” she laughed.
Seeing his opening, Buford bowed. “Lady Uppercross, a good evening to you.” He then crossed to the Darcy party.
He spent a few minutes making the acquaintance of Mrs. Darcy who, upon closer inspection, was quite beautiful. Miss Kitty Bennet was judged a bit unpolished but would do for a parson’s wife—some very fortunate parson. Buford was struck by the improvement to Miss Georgiana, for never had she seemed to be at such ease. He knew his reputation was not yet fully repaired, so Buford saved Darcy the concern of watching him dance with his relations by only wishing them a good evening and excusing himself.
Buford spent the next half hour strolling about, greeting a few friends here and there, but mainly observing all in the rooms. Almack’s was awash in color, but the gaiety was lost on him. He only beheld the sameness in character of most of the ladies there—either mercenary or uninhibited—sometimes both.
What a waste to come here! he thought. I only see what I do not want or cannot have. Thinking that a spot of punch might revive his spirits, he moved to the refreshments table.
Before he could reach his goal, he was presented with the sight of Miss Bingley in conversation with two other ladies.
I say, her dress is the same color as my sash. How singular! It is certainly striking against her pale skin.
It was only then that he became aware that Miss Bingley was not only pale but also distressed. Her arms were moving in a distracted manner.
What are those vultures doing to her?
Suddenly, Miss Bingley turned in his direction and almost collided with him. His pardon died on his lips as he heard her whimper as she fled towards the library. Buford stood frozen after she entered the library, then impulsively he went in search of the lady’s relations.
“Mrs. Hurst—”
“Colonel Buford! Pardon me, I meant, Sir John! Good evening, sir. Allow me to offer you congratulations on your knighthood. May I introduce you to my friend?”
“Please,” Buford said politely.
“This is Miss Bennet, Mrs. Bingley’s sister from Hertfordshire. Mary, this is Colonel Sir John Buford.”
“Charmed, miss,” he said somewhat distractedly. “Mrs. Hurst, do not be alarmed, but I must suggest that you repair to the library as soon as may be. Miss Bingley has taken ill.”
Mrs. Hurst blanched. “Oh dear! Sir John, have you seen her?”
“I only observed her going into the library. She appeared ill,” said Buford as kindly as he could.
Mrs. Hurst could not misunderstand the meaning of his words. “Oh, no! I knew it, I knew it,” she said under her breath.
Miss Bennet looked about her, her expression becoming stern. “Beauty and goodness do not always go hand-in-hand, especially in Town.”