Lady Catherine alluded, of course, to her expectation of nuptials between his cousin and himself. He flicked a glance at Anne, confirming his opinion that she believed in its “eventuality” no more than he did, and then looked away. It was an old theme, the tune of which he had long since learned to ignore without incurring open antagonism with Her Ladyship. But this time her insinuations had conjured up in him an exceedingly visceral response. Of a certainty, he wished his cousin any increase in vitality and health. Who would not? But no increase in those qualities would make her a fit wife for him. This, too, he had long known. Why, then, this tumbling of his equanimity? You well know why, his conscience intruded, but he pushed it away and concentrated on his next words to his aunt.

“All her relations will, indeed, rejoice, Ma’am.”

Lady Catherine’s smile hesitated at his response, but she did not press him, choosing instead to direct them to seat themselves and partake of some refreshment to relieve the depredations of their journey.

“You are inexcusably late, Nephews.” She returned to her original subject when they had settled back into their chairs with their tea. “I expected you some hours ago and had prepared myself to hear of a serious accident. Since you are both in health, it must have been a problem with a horse or the coach.”

“No, Ma’am,” Darcy volunteered, deciding to spare Fitzwilliam his aunt’s inevitable lecture. “We were late setting out.”

“Late setting out! What could have prevented your leaving, I wonder. Surely that man of yours knows the clock!”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Darcy replied carefully, “Fletcher is in nowise to blame.”

Lady Catherine’s piercing regard shifted to his cousin. Knowing he was about to be called to account, Fitzwilliam launched a flanking maneuver. “An old friend of Darcy’s, the Earl of Westmarch, came by for a visit, Ma’am, and practically settled in for the night. We could not very well chuck him into the street —”