Darcy’s lips quirked slightly. “Some sermons might indeed move me to tears, though perhaps not in the way that you mean,” he replied drily, drawing a chuckle from Papa nearby. “But let me offer this: if novels do stir such strong emotion, can they not also manipulate? Lead astray those who lack discernment or seek only sensation?”
“And do you fault the novel for its misuse, or its readers for their lack of judgment? Shall we criticize society for its reluctance to educate most of its citizens?” Elizabeth countered, her voice light but firm. “After all, a poorly chosen meal can make one ill, but we do not condemn all food as a danger to health.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed outright at this.
Mr. Darcy, however, held Elizabeth’s gaze. “A fair point. Yet would you not agree, Miss Elizabeth, that the mind ought to be nourished as deliberately as the body? Ought we not seek out the most wholesome fare?”
Elizabeth smiled, unflustered. “And who, sir, shall decide what is wholesome? Taste is an individual thing, is it not? A novel may be as rich as any history, perhaps richer, for it teaches us without pretence. It conveys truths that numbers and dates cannot.”
“And what truths might those be?” Mr. Darcy asked. Elizabeth could not decide what it was that made her find the question genuine, but she did.
“The truth of character, Mr. Darcy,” she told him. “The ability to stand in another’s shoes for a time, to better understand those who act differently than you would yourself. The essence of joy, sorrow, love, folly.” Elizabeth leaned forward. “Novels, at their best, hold up mirrors to human nature. Do they not reveal to us the most vivid portraits of the human heart?”
Mr. Darcy regarded her solemnly for a moment, the conversation falling into a brief but charged silence. When he spoke again, his look was unmistakably admiring. “Then perhaps I have been too quick to judge.” His lips curved faintly. “You defend the novel with such eloquence that I feel almost compelled to abandon my history books entirely.”
Elizabeth returned his smile. “I should not wish you to do so, Mr. Darcy. Only to make a little room for stories that may surprise you.”
Her father had been following the exchange with quiet amusement. “Well argued, Lizzy. It seems you have proven novels a worthy pursuit, in moderation, though I suspect Mr. Darcy will choose his next one with great care.”
“To the delight of novel readers everywhere,” Elizabeth replied teasingly.
A quiet admiration lingered in Mr. Darcy’s gaze. “Perhaps, Miss Elizabeth, you will recommend one that will live up to the argument you have made this evening.”
“Perhaps, sir,” she said softly, a slight flush touching her cheeks. “I shall take that as a challenge.”
He shook his head. “It is only a request, madam.”
The debate had drawn to a close, and Darcy could not help but feel as though he had lost. She had a clever mind and there was a sweet archness to her manner that prevented offense. That she could spar with him so deftly while smiling so beguilingly was yet another of her myriad charms.
The sitting room was a cacophony of laughter and conversation, though while he had been sparring with Miss Elizabeth he had not noticed over much. Now Darcy simply answered questions politely when asked and contributed a word or two when decorum required, but he was mostly preoccupied. This house, this family, had the power to unsettle even the most composed of men.
It did not help that Mr. Bennet had been watching him for much of the evening, his expression placid but his comments pointed. Darcy had caught that calculating gleam in the elder man’s gaze more than once.
“Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet said suddenly, breaking Darcy’s thoughts. “Has my Elizabeth so unsettled you? I had thought gentlemen of your mettle”—he gestured vaguely at Fitzwilliam, who was mid-story— “were made of sterner stuff.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam is the storyteller of our party, I assure you,” Darcy replied, offering a slight smile. “I would not attempt to compete.”
“Sensible of you,” Mr. Bennet said with a smirk. “Still, I do wonder why you have fallen into a blue study. I trust my daughter’s notion of good conversation has not inspired it.”
Darcy hesitated. A less observant man might not have noticed his distraction, but Mr. Bennet was not Sir William Lucas. The question, though innocently delivered, probed far deeper than Darcy found comfortable.
“Forgive me, sir,” Darcy said at last. “Your hospitality and Miss Elizabeth’s conversation are most appreciated.”
Mr. Bennet studied him and was ready to speak again when Miss Elizabeth prevented him.
“Perhaps Mr. Darcy is solving the world’s problems, Papa,” she teased lightly, her smile dancing in her eyes. “Or drafting his next missive to improve society. I believe we should leave him to it.” And then she wandered away to do just that. She had intervened to spare him her father’s jests. Darcy could not help but be grateful.
Mr. Bennet, however, was not one to let something go if it piqued his interest. He tilted his head slightly as he regarded Darcy. “Most men do not appreciate my Elizabeth’s quick wit.”
Darcy straightened. “I have always valued good company, sir.”
Fitzwilliam, who had finally finished his story and glanced up from Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty, glanced between Darcy and Mr. Bennet with mild alarm, clearly sensing the shift in tone.
“I can see that, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet replied, lifting his brows. “Yet such qualities, admirable though they may be, are not always enough to recommend a lady to a husband. Some gentlemen are known to consider other matters of significance before forming an attachment. A family’s history, for example, or its bloodlines.”
Darcy’s spine stiffened at the word.
“Bloodlines?” Fitzwilliam echoed as he stepped closer, his easy manner faltering.
