“I suppose this was inevitable,” she said, standing and smoothing her skirts.
“London is large,” he said, handing her the book. “You should have been safe.”
“And yet, Providence obviously lacks imagination.”
They stood in silence for a moment, surrounded by political tracts, Latin grammars, and a copy ofThe Seasonsthat had clearly been dropped in the Thames at least once.
Darcy cleared his throat. “Holiday shopping?”
“My uncle fancies himself a connoisseur of Spenserian verse.”
“Most do.”
She raised a brow. “And you? Buying Cicero for amusement?”
“For Georgiana. My sister, if you recall.”
Her expression softened. “She still studies?”
“She reads faster than her tutor. He begged me for something denser. I took pity on him.”
She smiled. Just a flicker. It made the air feel warmer.
Darcy turned back to the shelf, trying to remember what he had been looking for before she arrived, and scattered his thoughts like loose pages.
Elizabeth was already scanning the bindings. “You know,Tom Jonesis rather too pleased with itself.”
“AndPamelais not?”
She lifted a book from the shelf and handed it to him. “Here. Read this instead.The Female Quixote. Slightly mad. Deeply satisfying.”
He turned the volume over in his hands. “Youwouldrecommend something absurd on principle.”
“Andyouwould recommend something unreadable out of pride.”
Darcy returned the book to the shelf, eyes narrowed in amusement. “I prefer a narrative that does not assault the senses.”
“That explains Cicero.”
“You are very free with your opinions.”
“I am a woman of letters.”
“You are a woman of marginal restraint.”
She grinned. “That is the nicest thing you have ever said to me.”
Darcy almost smiled. “Astonishing.”
“I had rather assumed,” Elizabeth said, almost idly, “that we had reached our yearly quota for awkward encounters.”
He glanced at her. “I make no such calculations.”
“Well,” she said, “you are running short on time.”
He frowned. “Pardon?”
She stiffened. “For the year,” she said lightly. “It ends next week.”
