“Indeed?”
She blinked slowly. “A good many of them.”
“I imagine you enjoyed the architecture.”
“Oh yes. My sister took sketches. I tried to, but it was hard to hold the pencil when it was warm. Everything gets slippery in Italy.”
Darcy narrowed his eyes. “I had not heard that… particular complaint before.”
“I brought back three fans,” she added brightly. “Two with birds. One with a poem.”
“A poem?”
“Yes, about a fountain. I could not read it, but the man said it was nice.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I see.”
Indeed, this was going well. Inspiring? No. But this was the sort of woman who would never press. Never suspect. Never ask what kind of letter might keep a man up at night.
Miss Partridge beamed, then abruptly looked serious. “I understand you have an estate in Derbyshire. Does it have arches?”
He blinked. “Arches?”
“I mean the old kind. Like in cathedrals. Or bridges. The ones that make you think of—” she paused, visibly fishing “—history.”
Darcy cleared his throat. “Not especially. The estate is Georgian.”
“Oh. That is a shame.” She tilted her head. “But maybe you could add one.”
“An arch?”
“Yes. In the garden. Or in the stables. Arches always seem very mysterious. I like things with gravity. Do you read Byron?”
Darcy shifted. This was a slightly more positive direction for the conversation. “Yes.”
She leaned in a bit, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. “I think he might have been haunted,” she whispered.
Darcy blinked. “Sorry?”
“Some poets are, you know. I read it in a pamphlet. That is why their hair goes all wild.”
Darcy shifted his weight, silently counting to five. How long was he decently required to remain here?
She gestured toward a canvas of a horse in a storm. “I once tried to sketch a nightmare I had. I used charcoal and shut my eyes so the spirits could guide me, but I leaned on the drawing board and got black all over the curtains. Mother was not pleased.”
He stared at her.
She smiled as though this had been a triumph. “And Pemberley has some of the very finest horses, does it not? Doany of them ever stop and stare at nothing? That is usually a sign.”
Darcy lifted his chin a fraction and adjusted the cuff of his glove with exaggerated care. He was no longer interested in finding out what that was a “sign” of.
“Miss Partridge,” he said with immaculate courtesy, “I thank you for the conversation, but I believe Lady Frances may be attempting to summon me.”
“Oh,” she said. “Do extend my compliments to the hostess.”
He bowed. “Of course.”
As he turned away, he caught a glimpse of Elizabeth on the far side of the room, her hand gesturing with perfect ease as she spoke to a woman he did not know and a gentleman who looked dangerously interested.
