Arriving back at Netherfield to see that Charles' sisters had invited the eldest Miss Bennet was a very unwelcome surprise. It did not become any better, when it became clear she had caught a cold during her ride to Netherfield.

Why she would ever have gone on horseback when it was clear rain was upon them, was an easily solved mystery. Charles had immediately invited her to stay at Netherfield till she had gotten better. It was a sure way for a longer stay at Netherfield than anyone was willing to provide.

The whole history became a far worse story the morning after when Miss Bennet sent a letter home, and her younger brother came knocking on their door.

It had been a humiliating experience he did not wish to ever talk nor think about again.

Mr Bennet had disappeared upstairs to care for his sister and Fitzwilliam had tried his hardest to forget about the other's presence in the house. Something he had been surprisingly successful at before he had come back down for dinner.

It was a sad experience Fitzwilliam feared would be repeated for several more times before the Bennet infestation had disappeared.

Fortunately dinner didn't last for an eternity and Mr Bennet disappeared once more upstairs, leaving him to the devices of Charles' sisters.

"His manners! Mr Darcy, did you see the terrible state they were in? Truly astonishing, though not surprising considering his family."

Mrs Hurst avidly nodded along and then said her own contribution to the lament.

"He has nothing in short to recommend him, but being an excellent walker. I shall never forget his appearance this morning. He really looked almost wild."

The conversation went into a direction Fitzwilliam really didn't want to explore, but felt helpless to redirect.

"He did indeed Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must he be scampering about the country, because his sister had a cold? His hair, so untidy, so blowsy!"

How could he ever capture Miss Bingley's interest without himself being mauled by her verbal claws. Was it really worth talking to her, to not have to hear about Mr Bennet for one evening.

"Yes and his pants; I hope you saw them, six inches deep in mud."

Please, do not speak about his pants, nor the state they were in.

"Your picture might be very exact, Louisa, but this was all lost on me. I thought Mr Eleazar Bennet looked remarkably well when he came into the room this morning. His dirty boots and pants quite escaped my notice."

It had been burned into Fitzwilliam's mind the moment Mr Bennet had walked into the breakfast parlour.

"You observed it, Mr Darcy, I am sure, and I am inclined to think you would not wish to see your sister make such an exhibition."

"Certainly not."

"To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is, above his ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! What could he mean by it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence, a most country town indifference to decorum."

Fitzwilliam didn't even dare to think about what it might mean, that Mr Bennet had walked alone. It was a train of thought so forbidden it would never even cross his mind under normal circumstances.

"It shows an affection to his sister that is very pleasing."

Charles was luckily there to catch the conversation before it would fall on Fitzwilliam's riddled brain to continue.

Fear captured his heart when he saw the glint in Miss Bingley's eyes. She knew, oh she knew he was hiding behind the public persona he had created. She wouldn't stay silent either, but use her advantage, no matter how untrue, when she would benefit from it the most.

She needed to leave, once safe in London where no one would believe her, his secret would be safe.

Not that there was a secret to keep safe, but it was better to extinguish the flames before they found the fuel to become an inferno.

-

After dinner the party assembled in the drawing room where Charles' sisters set up a game of cards. It was not Fitzwilliam's choice of pastime, the books laying on the table looking far more interesting than even the Pam-flush in his hands.

It was a comfortable setting though and he was more than willing to spend his evening like this if it meant he was spared any more conversations with a certain Bennet under their roof.

His prayers weren't heard as Mr Bennet waltzed into the room turning his whole life upside down once more.

Mr Bennet did in fact not play cards, he loved to read and would like to spend his evening with a good book. They were words to Fitzwilliam's heart, but he was, unfortunately, the only one present, sans Charles, who thought so.

Le Morte d'Arthur was one of the copies laid on the table as Fitzwilliam had been reading the marvellous story himself, before he was pestered by Miss Bingley into joining her game of Loo. It was also the copy Mr Bennet picked up without a second thought. A small smile graced his features and Fitzwilliam quickly returned his scattered attention back at the game.

A game that had been rudely interrupted by Miss Bingley's lamenting about the book collection of Pemberley, as if she had any right to use those books for her games.

"I am astonished that my father should have left so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr Darcy."

The hint was anything but subtle and Fitzwilliam barely repressed a shudder that threatened to rip through his frame. Never show a predator any emotion but suppressed indifference.

He kept the silence for a few seconds longer than comfortable while his eyes searched the room for anything to demand his attention.

Huge dark eyes framed by even darker hair.

"It ought to be good, it has been the work of many generations."

He couldn't look away, not even for all the books of Pemberley, his gaze caught by an others. Captured and locked away in the deepest dungeons of the mind's castle.

"And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books."

Miss Bingley happily continued her monologue, oblivious to the fact that the mister she was trying to appeal to, was not focused on her. He couldn't.

"I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these."

The subtle changes on Mr Bennet;s face alerted Fitzwilliam finally that he was staring in a most impertinent way.

He should look away.

Mr Bennet's eyes that were looking straight in his yet not seeing him at all, looking at an imagination.

"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place, Charles, when you build your house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."

It was enough to finally tear away his eyes and focus back on Miss Bingley who had been trying to capture his attention, yet had seldom succeeded in that endeavour. He did not need to feel like a money bag, a sure way to a more prestigious life for a low born second son.

He would not succumb to the temptation, he would sooner propose to Miss Bingley who was using Georgina to pretend to care, than ever think like this about Mr Bennet again.

He was a man of his word and therefore he did not think about nor looked at Mr Bennet again during the entire course of the evening.

He did not think about him when Miss Bingley talked about her many accomplishments as a young woman.

He did not think about him when he defended his sisters against the unspoken accusations by Charles' sisters.

He did not think about him, when the words 'and to all this they must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of their mind by extensive reading'.

And he certainly did not think about him when Miss Bingley could not keep her tongue still when Mr Bennet had left the room to care for his sister.

He did none of those things without a single regret.