“I had no intention of ‘touching’ anything, I assure you,” he muttered under his breath.
She turned, brows lifting. “I beg your pardon?”
Darcy cleared his throat and gestured for her to continue. “It is merely my duty to ensure all matters are proceeding as they should.”
She hummed. “Ah, yes. Your duty.” She lined up her next shot, giving him a sidelong glance. “And do you make it your duty to concern yourself with all the young ladies of the neighborhood? Or only the ones you so conveniently find in need of shelter?”
Darcy set his jaw. She was enjoying herself entirely too much.
He took his shot, sending his ball rolling smoothly through the next hoop. “There. That is how it is done.”
Elizabeth approached, adjusting her grip. “Is it?” she mused, tapping her mallet idly against the ground. “How very enlightening.”
She swung.
His ball, not hers, went sailing off-course.
Darcy stopped short. His eyes followed its trajectory into the grass, landing well outside the playing field.
Elizabeth pressed a gloved hand to her chest. “Oh dear,” she said, her voice all syrupy innocence. “Was that yours?”
Bingley, watching from a few yards away, gave an inelegant snort of laughter.
Caroline, meanwhile, looked as if she had just swallowed a lemon whole.
Darcy turned, slowly, back to Elizabeth.
She twirled her mallet lazily, gazing up at him with mock concern.
“You did say the goal was to eliminate the competition,” she reminded him.
Darcy rubbed a hand over his face.This woman.
A few paces away, a group of gentlemen were speaking in low tones. Darcy caught the familiar name Audley and flicked his attention toward them—only to notice that Elizabeth had, too.
She was trying not to look as though she was listening. Failing miserably, of course.
“You seem quite interested in the conversation over there,” he observed idly.
Elizabeth did not miss a beat. “Do I? How very fascinating.”
Darcy studied her carefully. “Mr. Audley is a reformist, is he not?”
She arched a brow. “Are you concerned I may have political leanings, Mr. Darcy?”
“I am concerned about a great many things.”
Her smile deepened, the picture of ease. “How very unfortunate for you.”
She stepped past him toward her next shot, entirely unconcerned. He watched as she lined up her mallet, tapped her ball forward with infuriating precision, and sent it sailing exactly where it needed to go.
Effortless. Graceful. Entirely too composed.
Darcy’s grip tightened around his own mallet.
It was not just the game. It washer. The way she spoke in circles, always just on the edge of saying something significant—before pulling away at the last moment, leaving him grasping for meaning.
He was accustomed to control. To order. To reading a person’s intent within moments. That was his entire occupation—that was why the Prince trusted him. And yet—Elizabeth was an enigma. A puzzle he could not quite fit together.
