The procession into the dining room was a theatre of war. The table was laden with silver, crystal, and a vast array of roasted meats.
Before anyone could touch their napkins, Mr Collins sprang into action.
“If I may, Your Ladyship!” the vicar cried, clasping his hands together and looking towards the ceiling. “O Lord, we thank Thee for this bountiful harvest, and for the even more bountiful condescension of our noble patroness, who graces uswith her infinite wisdom and her superior poultry! May her glazing forever remain intact!”
Viscount Keathley bit his own knuckle to suppress a shout of laughter.
“Amen,” Lady Catherine declared, incredibly satisfied. “A very adequate grace, Mr Collins. Though a bit brief. Now, Dixon! Carve the meat! And do not slice it too thick.” She turned to the viscount, conspiratorially. “The lower classes have no notion of moderation.”
“Truly appalling, Aunt,” he answered. “A servant who slices the mutton too thick should be horse-whipped.”
The dinner descended into cross-conversations, the cousins executing their strategy flawlessly.
Miss de Bourgh, Lord Keathley, and the colonel formed a unified front, seamlessly baiting Lady Catherine into a one-sided lecture aimed at Sir William and Mr Collins.
“Aunt Catherine.” The viscount leaned across the table. “Sir William was just telling me that he believes the Hertfordshire postal routes are superior to the Kentish ones. I told him he was mistaken, of course.”
“Superior!” Lady Catherine roared, slamming her fork down. “Sir William! How dare you suggest such a thing! The Kentish roads are a marvel of my own design! I have personally written to the Postmaster General no fewer than twelve times regarding the proper sorting of the mail!”
Sir William, who had said no such thing, was terrified, but so honoured to be yelled at by a peer that he forgot to eat his potatoes. “Capital, Your Ladyship! Staggering insight!”
Under the cover of Lady Catherine’s booming voice, the battlefield was left wide open.
Darcy had managed, through a complex series of subtle manoeuvres involving Dixon, Lady Catherine’s butler, and a misplaced chair, to seat himself opposite Elizabeth.
“My cousin is a master tactician,” Darcy murmured, his voice pitched to reach only Elizabeth’s ears amidst the din of the postal debate.
“He is a force to be reckoned with,” Elizabeth smiled, cutting her meat. “Though a useful one. Sir William looks as though he might faint from the honour of being berated.”
“He will survive. His knighthood has trained him.” Darcy’s eyes danced. He leaned forward slightly, closing some of the distance between them. “You seem well this evening, Miss Elizabeth. The walk across the park has given you excellent colour.”
“I believe the colour is due to Mr Collins’s grace, sir. My cheeks are permanently burning with the sycophancy of his sermon.”
“It was a masterpiece,” Darcy agreed, his eyes tracing the line of her smile. “Though I confess, my attention was not focused on the prayer.”
Elizabeth’s pulse kicked up. He was doing it again. He was flirting. He was wooing her right under his aunt’s nose, deploying dry wit and meaningful, searing gazes that made her want to squirm in her seat.
“And where was your attention focused, Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth would not be intimidated and attempted to match his game.
“On the only thing in the room worth observing,” he replied, his voice dropping an octave.
Elizabeth swallowed hard, her heart soaring. She made no more attempts. This Mr Darcy was bold, charming, and... delightful.
When the dinner concluded, the party did not adhere to the traditional separation of the sexes. Lady Catherine, deciding she had not sufficiently tortured her guests, commanded everyone to remain together and move to the grand drawing room.
The moment they were seated, the dictator struck.
“Miss Elizabeth!” Lady Catherine pointed her cane across the room. “The pianoforte is open. You shall play for us. I am told you practise occasionally, though I doubt you have had the benefit of proper London masters.”
Elizabeth stiffened. She was not in the mood to be treated like a performing monkey. “I thank you, Lady Catherine, but I must demur. I fear my abilities are far too rustic for such an elegant instrument.”
“Nonsense!” Lady Catherine barked. “I insist. It builds character to perform under pressure. If Anne were not so frail, she would play, and you would see how true technique sounds.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to deliver a polite but firm refusal, when a shadow fell over her.
“Aunt Catherine,” Viscount Keathley drawled. “It is Easter Sunday. A day of miracles. And I believe the greatest miracle of all would be for me to accompany Miss Elizabeth in a duet.”
Lady Catherine blinked. “You, Robert? You do not play the pianoforte.”
