Charlotte, to her credit, did not blink. “I thank you for coming to pay your respects, my lord, even though we have never met before.” Mr Collins gasped at the impertinence,clutching his chest, but Charlotte smiled and continued. “You are very kind. We find Her Ladyship’s guidance... comprehensive.”
“That is a very diplomatic word for ‘suffocating’. I applaud your tact.”
Mr Collins gasped again, his hands never leaving his chest. “But... but...” he spluttered.
“Fear not, my good man.” The viscount landed a heavy hand on the vicar’s shoulder, causing him to stagger. “I adore my aunt. Now, do you have any tea and biscuits? Or shall we accompany it with... do I smell mutton?”
The room instantly fractured into pandemonium.
Viscount Keathley was a walking hurricane, displacing the air and demanding total attention. Mr Collins was hovering near him, displaying every pound of sycophantic joy he had in his coffers, occasionally making small, distressed sounds of awe. Sir William was nodding amiably at the wall, still half-asleep, offeringcapitalsat intervals.
In the corner, Anne de Bourgh had bypassed the commotion. She stood near the window, ignoring her cousin’s theatricals. She fixed her pale eyes on Elizabeth, scrutinising her with an intense curiosity, studying her face, her posture, and her reaction to Mr Darcy’s presence.
Elizabeth felt like a bug under a magnifying glass. She tried to offer Miss de Bourgh a polite smile, but the lady tilted her head and continued to stare.
Meanwhile, Mr Darcy remained useless. He had not moved from his spot near the door. Elizabeth could see with absolute clarity that he was mortified by his lingering secretand his cousin’s flamboyant presence. His primary object of fascination remained the fire poker.
“Excuse me,” Colonel Fitzwilliam’s cheerful voice cut through the madness, ignoring the social tension radiating from Darcy and Elizabeth. He wandered over to a small side table where the remnants of the tea tray sat. “Mrs Collins, are these biscuits? I am quite famished. Mutton would be just the thing, to be honest.”
“I believe these are shortbread biscuits, Colonel.” Charlotte waved to the tray. “Though I could offer you luncheon. Allow me a moment.” She turned to the hovering maid to give instructions.
“Excellent.” Richard picked up a crumbling piece of shortbread and took a loud bite, winking at Elizabeth and settling in to wait for the mutton. “Capital. Truly.”
Elizabeth’s head was spinning. She had a whirlwind viscount complimenting her friend’s survival skills, a master of a massive estate studying a fire poker, an heiress dissecting her soul with her eyes, and a colonel begging for a slice of meat.
Having thoroughly demolished Mr Collins, Viscount Keathley turned his focus onto Elizabeth.
He strolled to her, a spark of interest in his eyes.
“And you must be the famous Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” The viscount stopped a respectable distance away but commanded her full attention. “The lady who has conquered the unconquerable.”
Darcy made a sound that could only be described as a muffled whimper and swayed slightly.
Elizabeth squared her shoulders. If the man thought he could intimidate her because he possessed a title and a swagger, he was sorely mistaken.
“I am Miss Elizabeth, yes,” she replied, her voice cool as a cucumber. “Though I am unaware of any conquests, my lord. I generally leave the conquering to the military.” She cast a pointed look at Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was brushing crumbs off his red coat.
“Oh, a parry,” the viscount exclaimed, grinning, his eyes lighting up with delight. “Modesty becomes you, Miss Elizabeth, but it is unnecessary. My cousin Darcy speaks of nothing else. In fact, he has been quite articulate on the subject of the breadth and variety of your reading habits, though today he seems to have developed a passionate relationship with that iron implement by the hearth.”
Elizabeth refused to cower in the slightest. “I am sure Mr Darcy’s relationship with the fire poker is built upon mutual respect and a shared appreciation for rigid silence,” she countered smoothly. “It is, after all, a very stoic piece of iron.”
From the corner, Anne de Bourgh let out a small snort of laughter.
Mr Darcy closed his eyes. A faint flush crept up the back of his neck, disappearing into his immaculate cravat.
“Brilliant,” Lord Keathley laughed, clapping his hands together. “She is brilliant, Fitzwilliam. I understand now. You are outmatched.”
“Robert, please,” Mr Darcy rasped. He finally, agonisingly, tore his gaze away from the hearth and turned to Elizabeth.
His expression nearly stopped her heart; he was pleading with her. He was standing on a scaffold, waiting for thetrapdoor to open.Do not say anything,his eyes begged her.Please, God, do not give him ammunition.
Elizabeth felt a flutter of sympathy again. He was afraid. Mr Darcy was afraid ofher.
“I am not outmatching him, my lord,” Elizabeth said to the viscount, though her voice softened slightly. “Mr Darcy and I ... challenge one another’s perspectives.”
“I am sure you do,” the man said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Tell me, Miss Elizabeth. When he is challenging your perspective, does he use words, or does he glare at you until you surrender?”
“He writes,” Elizabeth blurted out, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
