Darcy swallowed hard and dug into the recesses of his newly coached brain. “I look at her. I maintain eye contact.”
“Good. Not a glare, mind you. A gaze. There is a distinction. A glare implies you wish to tax her property; a gaze implies you wish to kiss her hand. Continue.”
“I gaze,” Darcy amended, a flush creeping up his collar. “And I reply,‘Indeed, Miss Elizabeth. The barometric pressure suggests a sustained period of no damp, which should prove beneficial for the local wheat harvest.’”
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, who was lounging horizontally upon a leather sofa, let out a groan that sounded like a dying walrus. “Good God, Fitzwilliam. I am falling asleep just listening to you. You sound like a farming almanac.”
Anne de Bourgh, perched as always upon her favourite reading table, shook her head in disappointment. “You are not trying to purchase her land, Cousin. You are trying to woo her. Wheat harvests are not romantic.”
“They are essential for survival!” Darcy protested defensively. “What am I supposed to say? It is a factual observation!”
“Romance is not about facts, Darcy!” Robert cried, throwing his hands into the air. “Romance is about poetry! It is about making the mundane seem extraordinary because she is present! If she asks about the weather, you do NOT mention the barometer. You say,‘The weather is indeed fine, Miss Elizabeth, but it pales in comparison to the brightness of your countenance.’”
Darcy stared at his cousin as if Robert had just suggested he strip naked and dance the minuet. “I cannot say that. I would choke on my own tongue. It is absurd.”
“It is charming,” Robert insisted. “Women love charm.”
“Miss Elizabeth despises empty flattery. If I say that to her, she will look at me as if I have suffered a head injury, and she will becorrect to do so.”
“He has a point, my lord,” Dawson observed from his post by the doors. “Mr Darcy lacks the innate theatricality to deliver such a line without sounding as though he is reading it from a prompt-book.”
“Thank you, Dawson,” Darcy muttered.
“I am stating facts, sir. Your strengths lie in silent, brooding intensity and catastrophic bursts of honesty.”
“Right, fine.” Robert sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “No poetry. But you must engage her, Fitzwilliam. You must ask her questions about herself. And you must smile. Let us practice the smile. On the count of three. One, two, three.”
Darcy forced the corners of his mouth upward, attempting to project warmth, amiability, and a complete lack of arrogance.
Richard recoiled on the sofa. “Desist! Desist! Stop it at once! You look like a gargoyle experiencing a muscle spasm!”
“It is disturbing,” Anne agreed, shuddering. “If you smile at her in such a way, she will call for the apothecary.”
Darcy dropped the grimace, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “It is useless. I am an unmovable object. I do not know how to banter. I only know how to insult her family or hand her my own ruin in writing. I should leave Kent and spare us both the agony.”
“You will do no such thing.” Robert stepped forward and clapped Darcy on the shoulder. “You are Fitzwilliam Darcy. You can manage a conversation with a small, witty woman. You just need to be yourself—but perhaps slightly softer, less... you.”
Robert checked his pocket watch, his eyes brightening. “Besides, all this pedagogical exertion has made me restless. Irequire fresh air. Watching Fitzwilliam’s attempts to express joy is physically exhausting.”
“A walk?” Richard perked up, swinging his booted feet to the floor. “Capital idea. I could use a stretch.”
“Let us all go,” Robert announced, a wicked, strategic gleam entering his eye. “We shall go to the parsonage. We shall invite the entire menagerie for a stroll.”
Darcy’s heart launched into a gallop against his ribs. “Now? We are going now? I am not ready! We have not even covered Scenario Five: The Accidental Hand Brush!”
“A baptism of fire, Cousin!” Robert grinned, moving to the door. “Anne, fetch your bonnet and your companion. We shall need Mrs Jenkinson to satisfy the chaperonage requirements.”
Anne hopped off the table, seamlessly adopting a slight hunch. “I shall summon her. She thinks I need the sun for my vapours.”
Ten minutes later, the Rosings party piled into the viscount’s behemoth of a carriage. The short ride down the lane to Hunsford was silent, save for the sound of Darcy’s boots tapping on the floor.
When they arrived at the parsonage, the intimidating mass of their party nearly sent Mr Collins into a fit of nerves that could rival Mrs Bennet’s.
The vicar threw open the front door, his eyes bulging as he took in the viscount, the colonel, the master of Pemberley, the heiress of Rosings, and the hovering, nervous companion.
“My lord! Mr Darcy! Miss de Bourgh!” Mr Collins gasped, bowing so deeply he nearly headbutted the doorframe. “To what do we owe this second, staggering condescension? Theparsonage is overwhelmed! I must inform Mrs Collins—I must fetch the best chairs—!”
“No need for chairs, Collins,” Robert interrupted, deploying a smile that could melt lead. “The day is fine, and my cousin Miss de Bourgh expressed a desire for a restorative turn about the lanes. We thought we might impose upon your household for company.”
