“And embroidery,” Elizabeth said, sweet as poison. “He likes verse best when it comes stitched across a cushion.”
Darcy narrowed his eyes. “Miss Bennet is teasing you.”
“Oh,” Miss Ashford blinked. “Are you not fond of moral embroidery?”
“I am not fond of embroidery,” Darcy said, flatly.
“But Latin—”
“Is orderly,” he replied. “Which is not the same as ornamental.”
“Then I wonder that you bother with any salon in London,” the captain laughed, adjusting his stance a little. “Full of ornamental frivolities, they are, but rather entertaining ones. I will confess a partiality to Pope myself. He fits perfectly into a pocket.”
“A pocket?” Miss Ashford looked alarmed.
“In book form,” he clarified quickly. “Though I suppose if you had large enough pockets…” He faltered. “I did not mean—of course—”
Elizabeth offered a smile, small and serene. “Only the abridged editions, I hope.”
“Never fear,” said Marlowe. “I always ask my tailor to reinforce the seams.”
Miss Ashford tittered.
Darcy glanced sideways at Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet, if I recall correctly, has her own fondness for moral instruction. Particularly when set to rhyme. And cross-stitch.”
Elizabeth’s brows rose. “Do I?”
He nodded, too solemnly. “A strong defender of aphorisms. Though you prefer yours delivered through riddles and flirtation rather than fabric.”
“Then I imagine I am overdue for a sampler that reads Irony is the soul’s true virtue.”
Marlowe laughed aloud. “That is very good. Would you mind if I borrowed it for my family motto?”
Darcy pressed forward, gaze never leaving Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet’s embroidery may be theoretical, but I am told her singing is not.”
That made Miss Ashford perk up immediately. “Oh, do you sing, Miss Bennet?”
Elizabeth turned slowly. Darcy stood quite still, composed as a portrait—but she knew the look in his eye. He was not simply teasing her. He was calling a bluff.
Captain Marlowe took it up at once. “Then we must have you at the pianoforte. I was told Lady Frances has a young cousin with a lovely touch. But if we might have a voice as well—unless you would rather not, of course—”
“I do not sing in public,” Elizabeth said sweetly. “Nor in private, if I can help it.”
“Oh come,” said the captain, “surely that is false modesty.”
“I assure you it is not.” She smiled directly at Darcy. “Though I do admire the art of invention.”
“Then you admire yourself,” he said.
The smile vanished.
Captain Marlowe glanced between them with raised brows and then, to his credit, inserted himself with grace. “Well, I see I have interrupted a most instructive discussion. Miss Ashford, shall I escort you to the music room before I say something unforgivable about Horace?”
Miss Ashford, visibly relieved, nodded, and the pair evaporated into the crowd.
That was when Darcy grabbed her by the elbow and propelled her across the room. And there was little she could do but smile as he did so—a little wave at Mrs. Winston, a dip of her head to Lady Stanhope, and… oh, blast, there was the dowager hiding behind her fan and saying heaven-knew-what to her aunt.
She might as well send in her notice to the papers that she had expired—gone, dead, that was it, life ruined.
