“Must we?”
“It is the established convention when one requests another’s company. It is therefore left to the requestor to initiate said conversation.”
He allowed a half smile. “What would you like to speak of?”
She gestured to the manicured hedges. “You could regale me with tales of your great-great-grandfathers all the way to Cromwell who must have designed the opulent splendour we see around us.”
“If I wished to be bored to the point of tears.”
“Why, then, you could identify for me rose varieties that I know perfectly well, but you know I will listen politely and feign ignorance because that is my part in the conversation.”
Darcy clasped his hands behind his back and tried not to allow his amusement to show. “I despise flowers,” he lied. “Sugary, fragrant things—they give me the head-ache.”
“Then perhaps we may speak of Miss Darcy and her anticipation of her coming out. I understand her aunt, Lady Matlock, is to sponsor her?”
“And Lady Matlock is the one to whom you should apply for intelligence on the matter. My only understanding of the process is that I am to pay a vast sum for the pleasure of recruiting some naif to take away my only sister and her dowry.”
“Then perhaps a matter dearer to my own heart?” she suggested.
“Have you such?”
“What person does not?” she asked with a faint edge to her voice.
“Mrs Wickham, any cares of yours are also my own,” he replied with what he hoped was more gallantry than boorishness.
She stopped and turned to him. “Let us speak of Corbett Lodge.”
“Speak of it? Whatever for? But, very well. It is a moderately sized house made of stone, approximately one hundred fifteen years old, settled in a pleasant valley with atrocious soil and poor drainage. It makes hardly enough to sustain itself in rents and will need further repairs to the chimney before winter if your family are not to die of asphyxiation.”
“So, as you once said to me, the house is no gift? Would you go so far as to say that it is more of a curse, sir?”
“A curse! No, far from it. I fancy it is a good deal finer than what many call their abode.”
“Then I have another question for you, sir. What manner of offense must a person commit to be considered undeserving of the inheritance that had been designed for him?”
Darcy narrowed his eyes. “If you are now inquiring about the person I believe you to be, what makes you think there was only one offense?”
“Because I cannot imagine how there could be more—or, rather, I do not understand how his crimes could be sufficient for you to be justified in all your actions. I would ask you to enlighten me, for you must know it has been a burden to my conscience.”
He gazed down at her, admiring the fire that had kindled to life in those dark, bright eyes. If he continued so, without speaking something of sense, he was in very great danger of his tongue running on without his head. He cleared his throat briefly.
“It is a credit to you that you could feel thus,” he began, “but in matters of virtue, there is no question. George Wickham is all shine and appeal, but he is bankrupt in essentials.”
She tilted her head, and Darcy’s eye was captured by the way the light shafted off her cheekbones. Several old French phrases teased his memory—both oaths and endearments, and a pounding almost-nausea passed through his being. Un trésor…
“Mr Darcy, thus far you have only assured me in the blandest of terms. If you truly expect me to look myself in the mirror and sleep the sleep of the just, I must know that I have not been used in some nefarious way to harm an innocent man.”
“Harm an innocent! Yes, George Wickham knows all about such things.”
“By his account, yes!” she answered with energy. “What was his crime? Bringing baked goods to a widow? Standing aside for another’s happiness?”
Darcy’s hands had fallen to his sides now, and his chest was strangely tight. “Deeds such as his are not fit for the ears of a maiden,” he replied flatly.
“Ah, but Mr Darcy, do you forget that in the eyes of the world, I am a widow? I have no dignity, no innocence, no reputation to risk.”
He set his teeth and looked beyond her, merely to keep himself from falling the dazzled victim of the fire in those glorious eyes. Merveilleuse… “It is not merely your innocence I would protect,” he growled.
She drew a steadying breath, visibly counting before she responded. “Is it true that Bernard Wickham was not the natural son of his father?”
