Mr Darcy choked on his own breath. He coughed and then clapped a hand over his mouth.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stopped chewing his meat. Anne de Bourgh leaned forward, her eyes glittering with interest.
The viscount’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Hewrites? Fitzwilliam Darcy engages in written correspondence? Good heavens. Is it legible? Is it exceedingly dry? Does it contain marginalia regarding proper agricultural drainage?”
Elizabeth looked at Mr Darcy. He appeared as though he were about to face a firing squad. She held all the power. She could destroy him. She could recite the phrasewarden of my prisonand watch him disintegrate into a pile of dust.
Instead, she offered a small, mysterious smile.
“I could not say. But from what I have seen when we happened to reside together at Netherfield last year, his correspondence was... expressive, my lord,” Elizabeth said, hertone even. “He had a depth of feeling that one might not immediately suspect from his sombre exterior.”
Mr Darcy exhaled a long, shaky breath. He glanced at her with such gratitude that Elizabeth felt a flush rise in her cheeks.
“I thank you, Miss Elizabeth. Those were letters to my sister, and some overstated sentiment is allowed in private correspondence, is it not?”
You are pushing your luck, Mr Darcy, Elizabeth thought.But you shall have your way this time, because I am not cruel.
“Very well,” the viscount mused, his eyes darting between Elizabeth and his cousin. “I am intrigued. I shall have to demand that Georgiana show me these letters. I was under the impression his emotional range was limited to ‘mild annoyance’ and ‘severe disapproval’.”
Darcy did not bite. “It is time we departed. We have intruded upon the Collinses long enough.”
“We just arrived!” his cousin protested. “I have not even insulted the upholstery yet.”
“We are leaving,” Mr Darcy commanded, stepping forward and grabbing his cousin by the arm.
“Very well, very well. Do not wrinkle the coat, Darcy.” The viscount shook him off, adjusting his cuffs. He bowed to Charlotte again. “Mrs Collins. A delight. I shall pray for your continued endurance.”
He turned to Mr Collins, who was still near the sofa. “Mr Collins. Keep up the good work. Whatever it is you do.”
“I am a clergyman, my lord! I tend to the spiritual needs of—!”
“Fascinating,” Lord Keathley cut him off smoothly and turned back to Elizabeth, executing a flawless, courtly bow. “Miss Elizabeth. You have exceeded all expectations. I look forward to our next skirmish.”
“As do I, my lord.”
The party departed as swiftly and as chaotically as they had arrived. Colonel Fitzwilliam grabbed one final rib from the tray, tipped his hat, and followed his brother out. Anne de Bourgh cast one last look at Elizabeth, offered a minuscule nod of approval, and glided out the door like a shadow.
Mr Darcy was the last to leave.
He paused on the threshold and looked back at Elizabeth. The arrogant façade was gone, leaving only the man who had penned the letter of doom.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he managed. “I... I hope you are well.”
“I am, Mr Darcy,” she replied. “And you?”
He glanced at the floor, then back at her. “I am at your mercy.”
With that parting shot, he turned and walked out of the parsonage.
The silence that descended upon the parlour was deafening.
Elizabeth was left standing utterly disoriented. She mentally reviewed the bizarre, dizzying display she had just witnessed. A viscount had left grieving that he did not have the time to insult the décor, a colonel had eaten their leftovers, an heiress had stared into her soul, and Mr Darcy had begged for dear life using only his eyes.
She wondered exactly what had just happened.
“Well.” Charlotte broke the silence, calmly threading a new needle. “That was more entertaining than discussing the glazing on our windows.”
Mr Collins let out a breath. “A viscount! In my parlour! Oh, my dear Mrs Collins, we must write it down in the parish ledger! History has been made!”
