“I contain multitudes, Aunt,” he replied, offering Elizabeth his arm. “Miss Elizabeth? Shall we attempt to survive thepressure together?”
Elizabeth, grateful for the rescue, took his arm and allowed him to lead her to the instrument. The viscount sat beside her, adjusting the sheet music.
“I cannot play a duet, my lord,” Elizabeth whispered. “I do not know this piece!”
“Fear not, my lady,” he whispered back, cracking his knuckles. “Just hit a key occasionally and look intense.”
He placed his hands on the keys.
And then, the rakish, frivolous, gambling viscount erupted into music.
He was not merely competent. He was a virtuoso. He launched into a complex, thunderous Mozart sonata with a flair that made the chandelier shake. His fingers flew on the keys with the precision of a master, the music soaring and crashing through the drawing room.
Elizabeth stopped pretending to play after thirty seconds. She simply sat back on the bench, her hands in her lap, staring at the man beside her in shock.
He plays Mozart,she thought, stunned.
When he struck the final, resounding chord, the silence in the room was absolute.
And then, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam started clapping. Darcy joined in, his face split by a proud grin. Even Mr Collins managed a weak, confused smattering of applause.
The viscount stood up and executed a sweeping bow to the room.
“I find,” he announced, adjusting his cuffs, “that music soothes the savage breast. Or at least, it distracts from the lack of a proper London master.”
Lady Catherine was speechless. For the first time in recorded history, the matriarch of Rosings Park had nothing to say.
The viscount offered his arm to Elizabeth once more and escorted her back to the sofas.
“You are a scary man, Lord Keathley,” Elizabeth whispered as she took her seat next to Charlotte.
“I told you, Miss Elizabeth. I play the fool by choice, remember?” he said and winked.
A lull in the conversation occurred while the footmen were passing around cups of tea. Lady Catherine, recovering her voice, seized the silence to interrogate her guests’ future movements.
“Sir William,” she demanded, stirring her tea. “How much longer do you intend to neglect your own estate? You have been idling in Kent for weeks. The crops will not plant themselves.”
Sir William, still dazzled by the Mozart, leapt to his feet, eager to please the patroness.
“You are correct, Your Ladyship! Unerring wisdom!” Sir William bowed for no reason. “In fact, I was just telling Mr Collins this morning. Our time in this magnificent county has reached its conclusion. Maria, Miss Elizabeth, and I have booked our passage on the post-chaise.”
Mr Darcy, standing behind Elizabeth’s sofa, went rigid.
“Indeed?” Lady Catherine asked. “And when do you depart?”
“We leave Hunsford,” Sir William announced, unaware of the devastation he was causing, “on Wednesdaymorning. First light!”
Colonel Fitzwilliam dropped his teacup.
Viscount Keathley, mid-sip of his own tea, choked and began hacking into his napkin.
Anne de Bourgh stopped breathing.
Elizabeth turned her head slowly, looking up over her shoulder at the man standing behind her.
The confident suitor had vanished. The blood had drained from Mr Darcy’s face, leaving him paler than a marble statue. His jaw was locked, his hands gripped the back of the sofa so tightly his knuckles had turned white.
Elizabeth stared up at him, her own heart hammering a frantic warning against her ribs. The courtship was over.
