Fitzwilliam’s grin widened. “Excellent. I shall be sure to draw attention. Perhaps recite Byron under a rose arch. Or better yet,flirt shamelessly with every widow present. Someone ought to keep the ladies distracted from your dour glower.”
“I hate you.”
“Not nearly as much as you hate parties.” Fitzwilliam moved to the door, then paused. “Eleven o’clock. I will not come up and fetch you, so you had best be at the carriage.”
“And if I am not?”
“I shall send Lady Chiswell’s footman into your bedroom with a harp.”
Darcy scowled.
“See you tomorrow,” Fitzwilliam called, and was gone.
The door closed with a click. Darcy sat alone once more.
He stared at the abandoned grammar. He did not retrieve it.
Instead, he bent to put on his boots.
Chapter Two
Elizabeth had not expecteda velvet tent.
She blinked twice, just to be sure it was not a mirage. No—there it stood, pitched at the edge of the lawn like a conquering banner, swaths of dark red fabric fluttering at the corners, and golden tassels swaying like it had been summoned from the Arabian Nights and accidentally dropped in Derbyshire.
“Well,” she said, adjusting her bonnet, “someone is very serious about charity.”
Beside her, Jane laughed softly. “Mrs. Gardiner says Lady Chiswell is rather fond of spectacle.”
“And velvet, apparently.”
The rest of the lawn was no less ambitious. Tables groaned under sugared fruits and trifles in glass bowls. A string quartet had taken up residence near the hedges, tuning their instruments with the air of people who did not care if anyone listened. A gaggle of children raced past with paper fans and sashes of silk tied about their waists. And everywhere—everywhere—there were hats.
Huge ones. Plumaged ones. One so large it appeared to have a birdcage embedded in the brim.
Elizabeth made a note of it. Literally. She tugged her small notebook from the inner pocket of her reticule, shielded it behind her shawl, and scribbled:
Spotted: A lady bearing the full contents of the London aviary atop her head. When it took flight in the wind, no one dared stop it.
Her hand had moved before she quite realized it. Writing was second nature now—like breathing, only neater.
“Lizzy,” Jane murmured, nudging her. “Are you writing again?”
“I am making a charitable contribution to the future,” Elizabeth whispered back.
Mrs. Gardiner was speaking to someone near the lemonade table. Elizabeth only half-listened, her eyes darting over the crowd with the precision of a field scout. There was something delightfully absurd about the whole affair. The ladies preened. The gentlemen barked in polite laughter. Everyone pretended not to notice the bidding table being discreetly set up in the shade.
“Oh dear,” Elizabeth murmured. “There are ribbons.”
Jane followed her gaze and stifled a giggle.
“Are you quite certain we are not at a cattle fair?” Elizabeth added.
Before Jane could answer, Mrs. Gardiner returned, her cheeks a little pink from the sun—or the conversation.
“Girls,” she said, lowering her voice, “I have just encountered Lady Matlock.”
Elizabeth blinked. “TheLady Matlock?”
