“Oh no,” she said lightly. “Not all. Only the absurd ones.”
He raised an eyebrow.
She broke off a bit of the tart and popped it into her mouth. “Do not worry, I never use real names.”
“That is somehow worse.”
She had said it as a jest. But there had been something—something in the way her fingers moved, brushing an invisible outline in her lap as if the act of writing was not a choice, but a reflex. She only smiled again, sunlight sliding down her sleeve, and he looked away quickly—back to the grass, the trees, anywhere else.
He did not trust her.
#
The tart was nearlygone, which she considered a tragedy. Mr. Darcy was still sitting beside her, which she considered a miracle.
They had not insulted one another for at least ten minutes, though Elizabeth suspected that was only because they were still eating. She sipped the last of the lemonade from its glass and licked a bit of sugar from her thumb.
“I feel I ought to apologize,” she said at last.
Me. Darcy looked sideways at her. “Do you have some particular apology to make?”
“No, but I feel that Ioughtto.”
“Say the words, then. Do not mean them.”
She laughed. “What an excellent method of diplomacy. Shall we use it throughout the remainder of our picnic?”
“I insist.”
She set down the glass and leaned back on her elbows. “Very well. I am terribly sorry for buying you.”
“And I am deeply grieved that you bid so little.”
She let out a delighted sound. “So that is the standard, then. Dignity measured in pounds.”
“It is all we have left.”
They sat a moment longer. The breeze rustled through the branches overhead, and the blanket beneath her was warm from the sun.
“How old are you?” he asked abruptly.
She blinked. “What a question!”
“I ask because if you tell me you are fifteen, I will be forced to have stern words with your mother.”
She tilted her head. “Seventeen.”
He narrowed his eyes. “That explains a great deal.”
“It explains that I am clever enough to defeat Lady Millet in social warfare?”
“It explains that you should not be out in society, unsupervised, bidding on gentlemen like sheep.”
“Iwassupervised,” she said sweetly. “My aunt helped.”
He sighed as though this offended him more.
“And you?” she asked. “Since you are the arbiter of social graces, what isyourage, Mr. Darcy of Pemberley?”
