He inhaled slowly. Then, finally, gritting his teeth, he turned back to the earl.
“Give me the Gardiners’ direction.”
The earl grinned. “Excellent choice.”
Chapter Ten
The morning had beenquiet—deliciously so.
Elizabeth had woken late, grateful for the absence of any immediate obligations. No grand parties. No whispered gossip. No encounters with arrogant gentlemen. Just a book, a warm breeze from the open window, and the relative peace of her uncle’s townhouse. She was still curled up in the parlor, comfortably absorbed in Shakespeare’sMuch Ado About Nothing, when Wilson, her uncle's manservant entered and shattered her illusions of tranquility.
“Mr. Darcy is here to call, miss.”
The words slammed into her like a bucket of cold water. She sat bolt upright, barely managing not to drop the book. “Mr.Darcy?”
The manservant’s face remained impassive. “Yes, miss. He is in the front hall.”
No. Absolutely not.
Elizabeth snapped the book shut and resisted the urge to throw it across the room. There had been no indication, no warning—nothing to suggest that she might be forced to endure another round of the earl’s meddling this morning. What was Darcy doing here?
More importantly, what was she supposed to do about it?
She stole a glance toward her aunt, who had been sewing with Miss Fletcher by the window. Mrs. Gardiner had paused mid-stitch, her needle hovering over the fabric. “Ah,” she said lightly, setting the embroidery aside. “That is unexpected.”
“You could say that. Tell him I am indisposed.”
“I am afraid it is too late, my dear. No doubt, he heard Wilson addressing you from the hall.”
Elizabeth groaned as she rose to her feet. There was no way out of this. The rules of civility demanded she receive him. And the rules of war demanded she prepare herself for the battle ahead.
She smoothed her gown, squared her shoulders, and nodded to the manservant. “Very well. Show him in.”
Darcy entered with the same stiff, self-important air he had carried at Matlock House. Rigid posture. Measured steps. Expression carved from stone. Elizabeth could tell immediately that he was just as displeased about being here as she was.
Good, she thought dryly.At least we are both suffering.
He bowed formally. “Miss Bennet.” He then turned his head, as if surprised to see anyone else in the room with her. “Mrs. Gardiner, and…?”
She curtsied, keeping her expression as bland as she possibly could. “Mr. Darcy. This is my aunt's companion, Miss Anne Fletcher. Miss Fletcher? Mr. Darcy of… forgive me, where were you from, again?”
Elizabeth could not have been more pleased to see the faint flicker of annoyance at her intentional ignorance. He cleared his throat. “Pemberley, in Derbyshire.”
“Ah, yes, of course.”
A silence stretched between them, long enough to be noticeable, short enough to remain just within the bounds of politeness. Elizabeth resisted the temptation to glance toward her aunt and Miss Fletcher. The latter was watching them with frank curiosity, while Mrs. Gardiner’s expression was carefully neutral.
They were enjoying this, Elizabeth realized sourly.
Finally, Darcy cleared his throat. “I trust you are well.”
Elizabeth smiled—a sharp, insincere thing. “Oh yes, perfectly so. And you, sir?”
His jaw flexed. “Well enough.”
Another pause.
It was remarkable how a man so intelligent could be so utterly incapable of basic conversation.
