Mr. Darcy looked up from his letter. “There are many decisions you will have to make on your own. Your steward cannot make them all for you.” His friend waved Mr. Darcy’s warning off in a way that concerned Elizabeth greatly. Fortunately, Mr. Darcy did not allow his advice to be so easily dismissed. “A landowner must know all the ins and outs of his property and his tenants. It ishisresponsibility to make the best decisions for the improvement of his estate and for the many lives depending upon him. It takes a great deal of time and energy unless he is irresponsible and shirks his obligations.”
Bingley frowned. “What is the use of owning a beautiful estate if one never has time enough to enjoy it with his friends and family?”
The colonel said, “I am certain you will find a proper balance.” He looked at his cousin. “Mostothergentlemen do.” There was a lot in the look exchanged between the two men, and Elizabeth wondered at it. Was Mr. Darcy too burdened to enjoy his estate? Several comments popped into her mind, but she gave voice to none of them. She remained silent.
“Enough of this dull talk. It is dreary enough out of doors without allowing it into our conversation.” Miss Bingley turned her smile on Georgiana. “I would much rather hear about the table you recently painted.”
Georgiana’s eyes widened. “How did you hear about that?”
“An extraordinary talent such as yours cannot be kept secret.” Miss Bingley shrugged. “I must have heard about it from a mutual friend. You know how word spreads.”
The girl was not consoled. “I would rather not be the topic of idle talk.”
“Your modesty does you credit,” said Mrs. Hurst. “You are so much like Caro with her paintings. I encouraged her to bring them here, for if she had left them on display in our townhouse, she would have stirred up a great deal of talk. As you well know, it can get so tiresome hearing endless praise.”
Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap, dropped her head, and pursed her lips in anger. Mrs. Hurst need not worry abouthershowering Miss Bingley with praise!
Some sketching paper and charcoal sat abandoned on a table near the sisters. Mrs. Hurst looked down at the art supplies and fluttered her hands in the air, apparently seized by an exciting idea. Her exaggerated movement awakened the dogs and sent them barking to the nearest window. “I have the perfect solution to ourennui!We ladies shall participate in a little contest.”
“How delightful!” Miss Bingley responded with an obvious lack of sincerity. Georgiana did not look enthused. Elizabeth wanted nothing to do with anything either Bingley sister would plan—especially if it meant she might inadvertently expose her secret set of skills.
Mrs. Hurst continued, “Caro, Miss Darcy, and Miss Elizabeth will display their artistic talent by sketching a portrait of Mr. Darcy. He may continue writing his letters, and we can have some diversion.” Elizabeth could not think of a worse idea. She had been avoiding Mr. Darcy’s gaze since entering the room, and Mrs. Hurst would have her staring at him and studying his face?
Mr. Darcy did not even bother to look up from his letter.
“What about the colonel and me? Are we to sit and twiddle our thumbs while everyone else is occupied?” asked Mr. Bingley.
“You shall judge the competition.”
The colonel spoke. “I shall naturally select Georgiana’s sketch. It would not be a fair competition.”
“I would rather not participate. I am not very good with portraits.” Elizabeth’s intention was to augment Colonel Fitzwilliam’s argument with her own and hoped that the plan would be abandoned. Unfortunately, their objections seemed to solidify Miss Bingley’s determination.
“We shall not sign our signatures, and the gentlemen will sit on Mr. Darcy’s side of the room so that they cannot peek.” Miss Bingley did not notice the trepidation in Georgiana’s face or the way Mr. Darcy tightened his grip on his pen. Elizabeth expected to hear it snap at any moment.
“It is settled, then,” declared Mrs. Hurst as the clock on the mantle chimed the hour. “When the clockchimes the next hour, you must hand me your unsigned sketches to give to the gentlemen to judge.”
Mr. Darcy looked up to smile softly at Georgiana. After receiving encouraging nods from both her brother and her cousin, she leaned over her paper and started drawing.
Elizabeth watched him, hoping he might look at her, that he might communicate what he thought in a glance. But he did not. She started sketching, giving little thought to proportion or angles, outlining as much as she could from memory.
A snort at her side made her look up to see Miss Bingley regarding what she had drawn. She looked satisfied with herself, as though she had already won. If Miss Bingley thought she could trample all over Elizabeth just to get what she wanted, she was in dire need of correction.
Vanity won over reason. Elizabeth pulled her paper closer to her, angling it away from her adversary, and began to draw in earnest.
CHAPTER 18
Darcy kept his eyes fixed on the letter he had been writing. Since Miss Elizabeth had set foot in the room, he had been unable to form a coherent thought. He gripped his pen, willing his mind to behave, but he seemed more likely to break the utensil than write a coherent sentence. And now he had to sit in place for an hour while she stared at him. He could feel her eyes upon him, studying him. If only he was sitting farther from the fire, farther from her.
He looked up and saw her cheeks flushed, her lips parted, which made him recall the jolts of liquid energy she had sent through him with every rub of her forehead against his cheeks and nuzzle at his neck. He had read about spontaneous combustion and thought it unproved nonsense, but now he was a believer.Eyes on the paper, Darcy.
His behavior earlier had been foolish. The ride through the rain could not be helped; any gentlemanwould have offered the same assistance. However, it had not been necessary for him to hold her as long as he had once they arrived at Netherfield Park. He had not needed to stand at her side near the kitchen stove as long as he had. Darcy told himself that he was concerned over her safety. That was true, but there was more to it than that. He had been unable to help Wickham—God knew he had tried!—but he had found Miss Elizabeth, who had allowed him to help her. She had clung to him trustingly until he convinced himself to release his hold around her, a struggle that should have been easier than it was.
The trouble was that he liked Miss Elizabeth. He remembered the softness of her in his arms, her fingernails poking his chest where she held onto his cravat, the smell of wildflowers in her wet hair. He would not abuse the trust the circumstances had required her to bestow upon him. It evoked a sense of responsibility toward her, a protectiveness that frightened Darcy with its ferocity.
The dogs left the room. Darcy dearly wished he could get up and leave with them.
He turned his attention to the page again and had trouble remembering to whom he had been writing.Ah, the sailor.Darcy wished to thank the man personally for taking care of Wickham until the end. His kindness might have been bought with the promise of a reward, but it was kindness all the same and deserved a proper expression of gratitude. It was not an appropriate letter to write with an audience observing,though, so he pulled a fresh piece of paper on top of it.
