“One begins to wonder whether you ever remain in Hertfordshire.”
Her mouth tipped upward. “More often than you might think, sir.”
“And armed with your usual weapons?”
“Fan, wit, and one hidden notebook. But I am heavily outgunned, I assure you.”
He looked amused. “I have missed that.”
She blinked. “What?”
He cleared his throat. “What you said. I must have missed the artillery lining up at the door.”
“Ah. Why, yes, there they are, by the potted plant. The two ladies with the hairstyles that look to have celestial aspirations.And there, that lady with the orange gown—why she could freeze a tropical sea with that glare, I am sure of it.”
He grunted quietly. “I daresay the size of the canon shot is hardly relevant when a more accurate sniper could take it out with a single quip.”
“Ah! So, you have, indeed, been taking notes, sir.”
“Always.” A servant passed with a silver tray of wine and cordial. Darcy reached out—only just brushing her wrist in the process—and handed her a glass without comment. Their fingers did not quite touch, but the warmth of it lingered stupidly in her palm.
They drifted to a corner near the harpsichord as the music began again—Haydn, she thought. Something nimble. Neither of them sat. The conversation hovered between them like steam from a cup.
“How long are you in town?” he asked.
“Just through the end of the month. I must return before the Meryton scandal mill dries out.”
“You jest, but I suspect they rely on you for sustenance.”
She smiled. “And you? Still stalking the city like an unpaid magistrate?”
“I am here on business,” he said. “And because the dowager Lady Matlock claims I do not laugh often enough.”
“I would not call that an inaccurate accusation.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I laugh. When appropriate.”
“And how frequently is that?”
“Twice, to date.”
“I am honored to have witnessed both.”
At that, he gave a short, quiet laugh—not the low bark she remembered from long ago, but something quieter, as though he did not wish to be caught in the act.
The music swelled. Someone cleared their throat far too theatrically nearby. Elizabeth shifted slightly, drawing out her notebook and scribbling a line.
Darcy leaned a little closer, peering at the page. “You are annotating the guests again.”
“Absolutely not.”
His mouth curved. “That was the tenor, was it not?”
“I have named no names.”
“Is that… a drawing of his boots?”
She did not answer. He laughed again, more freely this time.
