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probably said something that put Aunt Catherine over the edge.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” Darcy snapped. He turned back to the window, aware he was showing too much temper. It was in poor taste to suggest that Elizabeth had caused Lady Catherine’s death, even in jest. Yes, Elizabeth had a quick wit, but she used it to be amusing and to avoid lying, not to torment elderly women, even ones as exasperating as Lady Catherine had been. Darcy had witnessed Elizabeth’s expert handling of his aunt and been impressed.
    Elizabeth, he thought, letting out a silent sigh. Would she still be in Kent? Even if she was, he wouldn’t see her. She wasn’t the sort of person his family would invite to dine with them in their time of mourning. She was no one, really. The daughter of a man who hardly maintained the title of gentleman and of a woman whose family was in trade. Elizabeth Bennet was barely even a member of the gentry.
    Added to her low status was that, for all of her wit, she wasn’t intelligent enough to recognize the greatest opportunity of her life; his proposal. He would have elevated her. She would have wanted for nothing. He would even have taken care of her mother and sisters, so long as he never had to see them.
    Darcy frowned out the window. It was all so beneath him. He should never have proposed to her. She was a country miss without fashion or accomplishments. That she hadn’t appreciated what he had to offer only showed her lack of taste.
    Hopefully she had, at least, been intelligent enough to believe his letter. He couldn’t abide the idea that she’d been taken in by Wickham and might still be under his spell. Was he the only person who could see through George Wickham’s lies? In Elizabeth’s defense, Darcy’s own father and sister had both succumbed to Wickham’s charms. How could Elizabeth, who knew Wickham much less well than Georgiana and their father, be expected to see through him?
    He wished she had, though. He wished she’d seen Wickham as false, and been astute enough to see . . . see what? See the goodness in Darcy’s soul? See the truth of his love for her? If she’d seen into his heart well enough to see those things, she’d also have seen his disdain for her family, his embarrassment for her status and, worse, his certainty she would say yes to his proposal simply to elevate herself. He shook his head slightly, aware of how undignified his thoughts were. Elizabeth was right. He seemed to think so little of her, of where she came from, and of women in general, that there was no reason she, or any woman, should fall in love with him.
    If only he could as easily remove Elizabeth Bennet from his thoughts as he’d removed himself from her presence. Yet, headed back to Kent as they were, he was aware of a deep longing to see her again. An almost painful hope that she would still be there and her opinion of him would be changed.
    He wanted to fence with her again. He wanted to hear one of her clever remarks. He wanted to see her eyes light with humor and warmth. He knew he’d misinterpreted that warmth. It wasn’t warmth for him. It may have been warmth against him or for the argument. Whatever it was, it drew him to her.
    How could he have misunderstood her so completely? The clues had been there. They weren’t even clues, but statements. She was always polite, but she criticized him. Yet she did so enchantingly, and justly. That was what stung the most. Her reproofs had merit.
    The carriage pulled up, coming to an abrupt stop and mercifully pulling Darcy from a too familiar spiral of inner turmoil. He threw the door open and jumped out, not caring at first why they’d stopped. He was happy to be jolted from the disorder in his mind, and heart.
    “Darcy, what’s the trouble?” Richard called, leaning out the door.
    Darcy shook his head, not answering, and looked to his aged driver, who was climbing down from the seat. “Alderson?”
    “I think one of the horses threw a shoe,