Bingley has never understood how anyone can think of Darcy as cold.

Shy, yes, and perhaps a bit over-conscious of his station; but cold, no. When Bingley thinks of Darcy, he thinks of him in the warm glow of the fire, hair for once disheveled and falling into liquid brown eyes soft with laughter and heat of their own, pacing from mantel to dressing table as he pulls platinum cufflinks from the wrists of his open shirt; of light and flowing shadow across the smooth muscle of his chest.

But that is in private, where no one else can see.