“Illuminating is one word for it. Exhausting is another.” He tapped the spine of Plutarch against his palm. “We are a difficult bunch. We have too much money, too much pride, and a staggering inability to communicate our actual feelings without making a complete mess of things.”
He paused, his eyes holding hers with a significant, penetrating weight.
“My cousin,” he said, choosing his words with deliberate precision, “is an idiot.”
Elizabeth let out a short, startled laugh. “You speak plainly, my lord.”
“I speak the truth. Fitzwilliam is a brilliant, honourable, deeply feeling man. He is also a socially inept idiot who has all the diplomatic grace of a rhinoceros.” He took a step closer, the dusty light of the library catching the serious set of his jaw. “But his heart, Miss Elizabeth... his heart is steadfast. Once he attaches himself, he does not let go. He would tear down the world for the people he loves.”
Elizabeth’s chest tightened. She looked away, tracing the edge of a wooden shelf with her finger. “He has a strange way of showing it.”
“He has a disastrous way of showing it,” the viscount agreed readily. “He believes that duty and control are the only shields against the world. When he is faced with something he cannot control—like an inconvenient passion—he panics. He lashes out. He retreats behind his wealth and his consequence because he is afraid of being vulnerable. I am not excusing his behaviour, Miss Elizabeth. He has made grave errors injudgment. But I am telling you, as the man who has known him his entire life... the exterior is granite, but the interior is made of cotton.”
Elizabeth listened to the viscount’s earnest, beautiful defence of his cousin. It echoed everything Anne de Bourgh had told her in the grove.
She looked up at him. The rakish viscount was acting as an ambassador for a man who had failed to speak for himself.
“You are a very loyal friend, Lord Keathley,” she observed.
“He is my brother, in all the ways that matter,” Robert replied, offering a small, self-deprecating smile. “I play the fool so he can be the serious one. But right now, the serious one is drowning, and the fool is trying to throw him a rope.”
Elizabeth absorbed this. She thought of her own pride, her own swift judgments, and the certainty with which she had condemned Darcy only a few months ago, based on the fiction a scoundrel had whispered in her ear.
She took a breath. She needed to send a message. A message the viscount could carry back to the man in question without compromising her own dignity.
“Lord Keathley,” she began, measuring her words. “I have always been a great admirer of fine architecture.”
He blinked, momentarily thrown by the sudden shift in topic. “Architecture, Miss Elizabeth?”
“Indeed.” She stepped closer to the bookshelf, feigning interest in a volume about the migration habits of swallows. “In my youth, I was captivated by statues made of smooth, polished marble. The sort of façades that are flawlessly constructed, and easy to look upon.”
She thought of Charles Bingley’s smiles and weak will.
“But recently,” she continued, turning back to look into the viscount’s eyes, “I have begun to rethink my preferences. I find that smooth marble can be slippery. It offers no purchase and it can crack under pressure.”
Lord Keathley’s posture straightened. He was listening intently now, the cogs in his mind turning rapidly as he decoded her metaphor.
“I have come to realise,” Elizabeth said, offering a meaningful smile, “that I am not so opposed to rough-hewn stone.”
The viscount’s breath hitched.
“Rough-hewn characters can be difficult, certainly,” Elizabeth elaborated, her voice dropping to a warm, sympathetic register. “They are jagged. They can cause injury if one brushes against them carelessly. But they are solid, because they hide their true composition under a hard exterior, and they have a strength that polished marble lacks.”
She paused, holding his gaze. “However, such characters often require a great deal of revision. They need to file away their sharper edges. They need to learn that a foundation built on pride is not nearly as secure as one built on mutual respect.”
Viscount Keathley stared at Elizabeth. He saw the intelligence, the forgiveness, and the challenge she was issuing. She was not rejecting his cousin. She was laying out the terms of his surrender.
Elizabeth watched in fascination the exact moment he comprehended her metaphor. A triumphant smile spread across the viscount’s face. He stepped back, restoring the lazy, elegant slouch of his rank, but his eyes were blazing with victory.
He transferredPlutarchandThe Mysteries of Udolphoto his left hand. With his right hand, he reached up and tapped the brim of his fashionable beaver hat.
“Say no more, madam,” he drawled, his voice thick with respect and barely contained glee. “Say no more.”
“I am glad we understand one another, my lord,” Elizabeth said.
“Perfectly. I shall return to my... botanical studies. And I shall convey to my cousin that a sudden interest in architecture might be highly beneficial to his health.”
“See that you do.”
