“I can arrange that.”
The voice came from directly behind them.
Elizabeth turned. Viscount Keathley was standing three paces away, not looking at Darcy nor Elizabeth.
His eyes were fixed with unwavering intensity on Jane.
“That... that will not be necessary, Lord Keathley,” Jane managed.
“Everything is necessary,” he countered, taking a half-step closer. “Everything that might bring you peace of mind or enjoyment.”
“Then I should be obliged, my lord.”
The viscount bowed stiffly and took a step back without another word.
Elizabeth watched this exchange with fascination. She glanced at Mr Darcy, who was staring at his cousin with trepidation.
They reached the park. Elizabeth saw that Miss Darcy and Miss de Bourgh had abandoned all decorum, running across the grass to help Henry retrieve a stray hoop. Miss de Bourgh’s cheeks were flushed with healthy colour, her laughter ringing out clear and strong, and Miss Darcy seemed carefree and light.
Eventually, the hour demanded their return, and the party assembled on the pavement outside the Gardiner home to make their farewells.
Mr Darcy stood before Elizabeth, his smile wide.
“May I call again tomorrow, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked. “Or will Mr Gardiner demand I gut a fish first?”
Elizabeth huffed. “Did that come from your cousins? Never mind, I do not want to know. You may call, Mr Darcy. The fish can wait.”
He reached out and took her hand. He bowed his head, his lips pressing a lingering kiss to her knuckles.
“Until tomorrow,” he promised.
As Mr Darcy stepped back, Elizabeth’s gaze drifted to the side.
Viscount Keathley was standing before Jane. The man had scarcely spoken three consecutive sentences all day. He took Jane’s hand and he bowed, pressing a kiss to her knuckles with a reverence that bordered on the holy. He did not say a word.
How odd,Elizabeth thought.We have broken the viscount.
Chapter Seventeen: The Muting of the Viscount
FITZWILLIAM DARCY HADcategorised the past fourteen days of his life under the heading of a miracle.
The progress of his courtship with Miss Elizabeth Bennet had not merely been successful; it had been flawless. It was a golden, luminous fortnight that had rewritten the geography of his soul. The man who had once paced his chamber at Rosings like a caged beast, bleeding his emotional ruin onto a piece of paper, was officially dead. In his place stood a man who woke every morning in Grosvenor Square with a lightness in his chest.
He was attentive, relaxed, and irrevocably devoted.
They had established a routine that brought Darcy more joy than he had ever thought possible. Every other morning, his carriage made the journey from the quiet Mayfair to the riotous Cheapside. He no longer noticed the rattling carts or the street vendors; he only noticed the knocker on the door of the Gardiner household. He and Miss Elizabeth walked in the park, they conversed in the drawing room, and they engaged in a volley of wit that left Darcy constantly, happily on his toes.
Furthermore, the integration of their respective families was proceeding with an ease that defied logic. Georgiana, who had spent the last year trapped in a cocoon of shyness and lingering trauma, was blossoming in Miss Elizabeth’s company. The two young women were forming a tight, sisterly bond. Miss Elizabeth had a magical ability to draw Georgiana out, treating her not as a fragile porcelain doll, but as an intelligent young woman whose opinions mattered. Georgiana had even laughed aloud yesterday when Miss Elizabeth had recounted a slightly exaggerated tale of Mr Collins measuring the distance between oak trees.
And then there was Anne.
Anne de Bourgh, having permanently shed the three woollen shawls and the rattling cough of her Kentish captivity, was having the time of her life. She had taken London by storm. She was a woman unleashed, eager to experience everything she had been denied while trapped under Lady Catherine’s dictatorial thumb.
She dragged Darcy, Richard, and Georgiana to museums, art galleries, and lectures. But her true reign of terror was concentrated in the modistes.
Only two days prior, Darcy had been forced to escort Anne and Georgiana to Madame Céleste’s renowned dress shop on Bond Street. Anne had met the French dressmaker head-on.
“I do not care if puce is the colour of the season, Madame,” Anne had stated, her eyes narrowing. “I refuse to wear a colour that resembles oatmeal. You will fetch the vibrant emerald silk, or I shall take my considerable patronage to a seamstress who understands that I am not attending my own funeral.”
