He told himself he ought to turn. This was trespassing, in spirit, if not in law. There was no reason to be here. No purpose.
He stayed.
The swing tilted forward again, her skirts catching the breeze. Her voice rang out—unintelligible at this distance, but still unmistakable. He had never once seen her like this, not unguarded, not unraveled by the performance of society.
She was not meant to be watched.
And still he watched.
Darcy swallowed hard and finally turned the mare toward the ridge. Not to retreat. To survive.
It was nothing.
And yet, somehow, it would not go.
The drawing room wasin uproar.
Kitty and Lydia were arguing over which of them would be asked to dance first at the next assembly, Mary was reciting a passage from Johnson without being asked, and Mama was bemoaning the price of satin to no one in particular.
Elizabeth sat in the corner, legs tucked under her, her notebook balanced in one hand and her pencil gripped like a weapon. She had not intended to write. Truly. But then Lydia had mentioned that Mr. Darcy had refused a second biscuit atLady Lucas’ tea two days ago, and something in Elizabeth’s brain had simply snapped.
“He is a man who speaks less than he scowls, and reserves a special breed of grimace for the scent of common tea. His eyebrows communicate more than most letters. His sense of humor is buried beneath four layers of frost and one Latin inscription.”
She paused. Tapped the page.
“He enters a room as though summoned to identify a corpse, and regards conversation as a siege best endured in silence.”
More noise from the other side of the room. Someone—probably Kitty—had stepped on Mary’s hem. Elizabeth tucked her chin and added:
“He may or may not have a soul. If he does, he keeps it ironed.”
Her lips twitched. She scratched out the last part. Rewrote it.
Jane’s voice came from behind her chair. “Is that a story, Lizzy? The novel Mama keeps saying you ought to write?”
Elizabeth snapped the notebook shut, nearly blotting her sleeve. “Of course it is. Pure fiction. What else would it be?”
Jane smiled faintly and bent to pick up her embroidery basket. “You were pulling the same face you used to make when rewriting Shakespeare for fun.”
“I am trying a new tone. Satirical. Entirely made up.”
“What sort of satire?”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “A portrait. Or a character sketch. Possibly a cautionary tale.”
“About?”
“A man.”
Jane blinked. “As opposed to… a woman? I suppose that narrows it down.”
“A very respectable man, or one who thinks of himself as such,” Elizabeth added. “Tragic, really. With excellent eyebrows.”
Jane looked mystified. “Is it a romance?”
Elizabeth hesitated. “No.”
Jane looked more mystified. “Then, what is it?”
