She beamed. “Yes, but I told him that is precisely what makes them romantic. A fleeting bloom. Like passion.”
He could feel his spine stiffen. “One hopes for something slightly more durable in marriage.”
Miss Ashford laughed. It was a tinkling sound, like a set of spoons accidentally dropped into a harp.
“How terribly earnest, Mr. Darcy. But yes, I suppose durability is useful… in furniture.”
He stared at her.
She laughed. It was not unpleasant, but neither was it warm. It rang like crystal tapped too sharply. “You are so very droll, Mr. Darcy. One wonders if you ever do smile.”
He did not reply. There was no need. She did not seem to expect conversation so much as reaction. Laughter, agreement, something rehearsed.
He wanted to close his eyes. Just for a moment. Instead, he sat still, every inch of him straining not to look like a man whose time was running out.
Because it was.
This was what it had come to. A polite, presentable young woman who believed passion ought to wilt prettily after a fortnight, and with whom he could not form even the roots of aconnection even if his future depended on it—which, vexingly, it rather did.
Across the room, Elizabeth Bennet was speaking to the Marchioness of Denby. Her hands moved when she spoke, not wildly, but with purpose. She laughed at something, tipped her head back slightly, and Darcy felt something shift in his chest.
Then she caught his eye.
Her expression—he could not read it. Not teasing. Not exactly sympathetic. Perhaps resigned. Like a woman watching a once-noble hound attempt to court a goose.
He looked away first.
Miss Ashford had taken the pause as license to continue. “Did you see the patronage list for the Orphans’ Benefit? Mama was so gratified to be included. She says it is quite the most important charity this winter—apart from the alms-for-aproned-widows society, but no one likes their treasurer.”
Darcy inclined his head. “It is a worthy cause.”
“Oh yes,” she said eagerly. “I visited one of the foundling homes last week. Such tiny beds. I could not think what to say to the children, so I brought gingerbread and left it in the hall. I hope that was the done thing.”
He paused, uncertain whether the question was genuine.
She pressed on. “They do not really speak, you know. Not properly. One does not want to overstay when conversation is so limited.”
Darcy said nothing. He found that preferable to saying something he would regret.
Miss Ashford seemed unfazed by his silence. “But I am terribly fond of the cause, truly. I have already ordered a new gown for the benefit—deep blue with silver trim. It seemed… appropriate to the theme.”
“The theme is child welfare.”
“Yes,” she said earnestly. “And children do love spangles and ribbons.”
Darcy inhaled once, slowly. The teacup in his hand felt suddenly heavier, as if weighed with the full burden of his dwindling prospects.
This was it. This was his best option.
A woman who confused philanthropy with fashion and thought affection could be measured in sequins.
He resisted the urge to close his eyes.
Miss Ashford looked pleased with herself, clearly interpreting his silence as agreement rather than despair. She adjusted her glove, glanced across the room with the contented air of one who believed she had done her conversational duty.
Darcy was beginning to calculate how many more minutes he must endure—just long enough to appear civil, not long enough to encourage—
“Miss Ashford,” came a familiar voice. Elizabeth had arrived at his elbow with a kind of unstudied chaos about her that should not have been allowed in drawing rooms. “How delightful to see you. I was just saying to my aunt—somewhere in this room, I believe—that no gathering is complete without a lady whose voice rings with the sweetness of a bell.”
