She yawned, fanning her hand over her mouth, and then gave him a confident grin. “Wide awake, sir.”
How silly that he did not look in the least reassured. “And you must start learning the name Elizabeth Bennet.”
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “I am quite certain that is not my name.”
“It is now.”
She leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm, her fingers idly tracing her cheek. “Elizabeth Bennet,” she said, testing the name on her tongue.
Darcy nodded sharply, as though relieved she had not already forgot.
She said it again, more slowly this time, listening to the way the syllables linked together.
El-i-za-bethBen-net.
The rhythm was all wrong.
She tried again. “E-liz-a-beth Ben-net. Are you sure the ‘t’ is pronounced? Perhaps it is silent, like the French. Or is it spelled with two ‘t’s?”
Then—unexpectedly—she laughed. It felt funny in her mouth, like wearing someone else’s shoes—a name that did not belong to her, that had never belonged to her.
“No. You are making too much of it. I only want you to remember it—Elizabeth Bennet. Now, say it without laughing,” he directed.
“E-lihza-beth Ben-net,” she repeated, tilting her head, letting the words roll from her lips as if saying them aloud might make them fit better.
Darcy sighed, running a hand over his face.
But she was not looking at his face.
She was watching his mouth. Why had she never noticed how firm his mouth was? The way it moved around the words, the shape of them pressed between his lips. “Say it again for me,” she begged, having some trouble not slurring her words. Watching him talk would be worth a little embarrassment.
He repeated it, slower this time, his voice deep and precise as he touched his pointer finger to his thumb. “Elizabeth Bennet.”
Elizabeth murmured it after him, barely paying attention to the name now.
His mouth was—well. The sort of mouth she and Charlotte used to giggle about behind their fans. She had never noticed before. Perhaps he would speak some more if she asked him to.
“Are you sure I cannot use the ‘Lady Elizabeth’ title?”
Darcy tilted his head back against the seat, exhaling sharply, looking as if he were seriously contemplating leaping from the moving carriage. Apparently, she was not going to be able to goad him into saying it again for her.
Elizabeth lifted her shoulders. “That is an awful lot of syllables for my head right now. Perhaps it would be easier if I went by Lizzy.”
Darcy visibly recoiled.
She laughed again. Oh, he was becoming delightfully predictable, this man. And predictable people could make for the most delicious entertainment.
The carriage took a turn, and Elizabeth saw a gate post pass the window. They must be approaching Longbourn.
Darcy straightened, taking one final, steadying breath before giving her a pleading look. “Please,” he said, voice tight with desperation, “for the love of all things decent, try to act with some dignity. Mr. Bennet shall perform the introductions and hasten you upstairs—hopefully before you make too much of fool of yourself, but you musttrynot to act inebriated when you meet the family.”
“I shall not disappoint, sir.” Elizabeth tilted her chin, adjusting her fichu with all the composure of a reigning queen, her fingers fumbling only slightly at the delicate fabric.
She barely noticed when Darcy groaned, leaning forward abruptly. Before she could blink, his hands were at her collar, cool fingers brushing against her throat as he tugged the fichu back into place.
Elizabeth froze.
His touch was quick, efficient—practiced, almost—as if he had straightened a thousand fichus before hers.
