B006O3T9DG EBOK by Linda Berdoll

above such banality. However, she was curious— exceedingly curious. Had she been a cat, her tail would have twitched with anticipation.
    Other than their brief encounter across the channel, she had never known Darcy in any milieu save her house in Mayfair. They did not dine out nor attend the theatre. No one saw them together save a smattering of servants. He never stayed the night. At the time it had been a distinct vexation that she could not be seen on his arm. (Indeed, that vexed her yet.) Although he had never invited her there, she had observed his Park Lane house from the street. It was a handsome home, but not above others.
    Pemberley, however, was of great repute. A number of sources had described it as quite élégant . With one expert glance about at the painted ceiling and alabaster doorcases, she saw that it had not been over-praised. The house was testimony to what good taste, centuries of attention, and a substantial fortune could achieve. It was certainly not Versailles, but it bettered the battered Kirkland Hall twenty-fold. She could see how Darcy influenced and, in turn, was shaped by such a home. Seeing Pemberley made her believe she knew him better.
    Her good opinion did not pass as an expression on her countenance. It had long been her practise to claim compleat impassiveness as such aloofness piqued the interest of admirers and allowed her forehead to remain unvexed by loathsome creases. As time marched on, she was even more mindful of such seeming trivialities.
    Observing Pemberley’s august halls pricked another vanity.
    She was given renewed incentive to restore Kirkland Hall. Its parquet floors and rosewood wainscoting had been beaten to its knees by the Bingleys’ ungovernable offspring. Fortunately, the damage looked to be mostly to the paint and finishes. (Mr. Bingley or his minions paid good heed of the roof.) If she were to inhabit such a wreck, it would take a half-year and a hundred men to refurbish it. She would not settle for anything less than the magnificence surrounding her then.
    Juliette had taken a visit with Mrs. Bingley at Kirkland Hall just days before, ostensibly about their removal. In truth, Juliette wanted the opportunity to sketch her character without the intrusion of others. Their conversation had been most enlightening. Jane was nothing like her sister, either in looks or manner. She was soft-spoken and graceful, emanating an inner beauty equal to her countenance.
    It had been a test not to inquire after the Darcys. But then, that was not necessary. Jane warbled on over the felicity of the Darcy household with an easiness that meant she was both a most genuine lady and that she was entirely unaware of Juliette’s connection to them.
    Jane’s opinion notwithstanding, the likelihood that the Darcys’ marriage still flowered with any portion of its original passion was remote. It had been a compleat astonishment to her that Darcy had formed such an unlikely alliance in the first place. Miss Elizabeth Bennet was decidedly below his class. At the time Juliette saw it as a sort of insanity—one of such violence that she had no power to divert him. Never in her life had she had such little influence over a man. It confounded her then and for some time thereafter.
    For years after she travelled the Continent, often spending winters in an Italian Palazzo. When the Napoleonic wars intruded, she and an entourage quit the place to make their way back to England. Consequently, it had been beyond astonishing when she chanced upon Darcy one evening in a chateau near Lille. It had been at the trembling culmination of the war, therefore the last person she expected to see there was an impeccably-dressed and haughtily-composed son of the English aristocracy. In a bat of an eyelash, all her feelings and wants had been excited once again. Unfortunately, he had been in the middle of a single-minded pursuit. (It was a reprise of the behaviour that had so bewildered her the night he had