Lady Strathmore leaned in to whisper, “He never stays long. Always slipping away to think. One hopes about Miss Ashford’s fine eyes and charming smile.” She sounded delighted.
Elizabeth nodded and murmured something agreeable, but her eyes were already scanning the floor, tracking the direction of his departure.
Hehad the gall to look aggrieved? Why, she could almost swear he thought she had betrayed him, when it was quite the opposite. Well! Let him run off and “think.” Let him think and stew and reject her help until he ran out of time.
Ten minutes later, he was back, his expression composed, though Elizabeth noted his left cuff was tugged higher than the right—a small tell, to be sure, but not nothing. Not for a man so fastidious as Darcy.
Miss Ashford looked up quickly, her smile blooming like a flower on cue. “Mr. Darcy. How good of you to come over again.”
He bowed. “A temporary diversion, Miss Ashford—regrettable, I am afraid, but necessary.”
Captain Marlowe reappeared at nearly the same moment, carrying two cups of punch and offering one toward Elizabeth, who declined with a polite murmur.
“Oh—of course,” he said quickly. “Perhaps… too sweet for this time of day?” He laughed a touch too fast. “Well, it would be a pity if it went to waste.” He pivoted toward Miss Ashford with a charming, if slightly over-rehearsed smile. “May I tempt you instead, Miss Ashford?”
She accepted with a gracious nod, and he seemed to exhale in relief.
“But I must thank you again, Miss Bennet. That line about Roman generals and heartbreak nearly caused a duel near the fireplace. Lord Wrexham insists the bust is meant to depict stoicism, but I maintain it is mourning something specific. Possibly a lost dog. Unless… do you think that too irreverent?”
Miss Ashford smiled. “Or a lost poem. The expression is certainly poetic.”
The captain raised his cup, emboldened. “Then we are in dangerous territory. I have been known to quote Pope under the influence of sweet punch—though I shall spare you unless asked.”
Miss Ashford’s expression brightened. “You enjoy verse?”
“When it rhymes and does not linger,” he said with a wry twist of his mouth. “I lose confidence once it gets moody.”
Miss Ashford laughed. “I do adore Pope, but also Wordsworth.”
“Ah,” said the captain, then paused. “One rigid, one weepy. Though—I mean that with all respect. Of course. They do have their moments.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “A fair summary. But you left out the part where Pope settles scores and Wordsworth settles into chairs.”
Darcy made a noise in his throat—one subtle enough that it might have only been a deep breath ofennui, were it not for that little line beside his mouth. Elizabeth wished once again for a glass to hide behind, because… ah, yes, there was Miss Ashford, turning to him with the inevitable question.
“And you, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Ashford asked, blushing prettily, as if she could do it on cue. “Do you prefer romance or reason in your poetry?”
He hesitated. “I admire structure. But sentiment properly expressed can be quite powerful.”
Elizabeth puckered her mouth. That was the most noncommittal thing she had heard all evening.
“I admire both,” Miss Ashford said. “Though I confess I find the very sad poets rather... comforting. I like a sonnet where someone dies by the fourth line. It feels honest.”
Elizabeth watched Darcy’s jaw shift.
Now was the moment.
She stepped in gently, with the kind of social grace that could only be mistaken for goodwill.
“Miss Ashford, you should know—Mr. Darcy has an exquisite memory for verse. Especially the sort that reinforces proper behavior.”
Darcy’s gaze snapped toward her.
“Particularly Latin proverbs,” she added lightly. “He once recited seven in a row, all rhyming, about punctuality.”
Captain Marlowe gave a small, diplomatic cough. “That is rather impressive. I should take notes. Though I fear I remember nothing in Latin except ‘hic jacet’ and one toast I once heard at sea.”
Miss Ashford’s eyes lit up. “Latin! My cousin calls it the language of civilization.”
