Robert kept on staring at Jane Bennet.
The bands that had constricted his chest since the day he met her snapped, the paralysis shattering into a thousand pieces, his dormant faculties finally yawning awake.
He leaned back in his chair, crossing one long, elegantly clad leg over the other. The confident smile that had conquered Mayfair slowly spread across his face.
“Well,” he drawled, his rich baritone returning in full force, filling the cramped space. “I must confess, Miss Bennet. I have never felt so inadequate in my life.”
She turned to him, her eyes still sparkling with mirth. “Inadequate, Lord Keathley?”
“Entirely.” Robert sighed dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “Here I sit, a mere viscount. I have a respectable fortune, a passable wit, and an excellent tailor. But alas, how is a man supposed to compete when a horse’s fetlocks have already inspired poetry?”
Miss Bennet let out a delighted peal of laughter. To Robert’s ears, it sounded like silver bells, and it struck him straight in the centre of his chest.
“You are very hard on yourself, my lord,” she teased, the angel giving way to a woman of brilliant humour. “I am sure your fetlocks are perfectly adequate.”
“Adequate?” Robert gasped, clutching his chest as though he had been shot. “Madam, you wound me. My fetlocks are the envy of the House of Lords. Richard, tell her about my fetlocks.”
“They are a national treasure,” Richard supplied from the back row, not missing a beat. “We could use them to frighten the French.”
The lady covered her mouth with her gloved hand, shaking with laughter.
“You see?” Robert leaned closer, dropping his voice into a conspiratorial, intimate murmur that made her breath hitch slightly. “I am a man of hidden depths, Miss Bennet. Though I concede, my diet consists of significantly fewer oats than Bingley’s new companion.”
“A tragic flaw,” she smiled, meeting his gaze with boldness. “But then again, you are employing a chef, are you not? Iimagine you can convey your preferences better than the horse.”
Robert wanted to propose to her right there in the sawdust. He wanted to seize her hands, ignore the Gardiners, ignore the acrobats, and demand that she marry him. But as he looked at her, the impulse died.No.I cannot ask her while the air smells of manure. I shan’t rush this. She has just been liberated from a weak-willed fool. She deserves a man who will plant his feet in the earth and refuse to be moved.She deserves poetry. She deserves a proper courtship.
He offered a crooked smile. “Miss Bennet, I promise you, my chef understands many languages and is entirely at your disposal, should you ever require him.”
Her laughter faded, replaced by awareness, and a beautiful, rosy blush covered her cheeks.
“I shall keep that in mind, Lord Keathley,” she whispered.
The orchestra struck up a new tune, signalling the end of the interval, but Robert Fitzwilliam heard nothing. The muting of the viscount was officially over.
The siege of Jane Bennet’s heart had just begun.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Elizabeth sat at the breakfast table in Cheapside, a cup of tea in her hand, feeling as though she were floating several inches above her chair. The triumph of Astley’s Amphitheatre still hummed in her veins. She had watched the ghost of Charles Bingley evaporate into the sawdust, and she had witnessed the spectacular, banter-filled resurrection of Viscount Keathley.
But mostly, she was thinking of Mr Darcy. She thought of his warm smiles, his eager attentions, and the certainty that the man who had penned the ink-splattered letter of doom was irreversibly hers.
“The post, Miss Elizabeth,” the footman announced, presenting a silver tray.
Elizabeth picked it up, recognising her father’s sprawling handwriting immediately. She broke the seal with eager anticipation. She unfolded the letter, a smile playing on her lips.
My Dear Lizzy,
I must confess, your letter provided me with the most profound amusement I have experienced since Mr Collins attempted to explain the Holy Trinity using a potato, a fork, and your mother. Fitzwilliam Darcy? The proud, statuesque gentleman of Derbyshire? The man who looked at our assembly room as though it were a penitentiary?
I am astounded. I am bewildered. But, my dear child, I am also content.
You are of age, Lizzy, and you possess a mind far sharper than my own. You do not need my permission, but you have my blessing. If you have found him to be worthy of your company, I trust your judgment. Any man who is willing to brave your intellect must be a man of formidable constitution.
Elizabeth let out a relieved laugh. Her father understood and he saw the truth of it. She took a sip of her tea, her heart light, and moved to the final paragraph.
I look forward to shaking his hand. Or perhaps offering him a commiserating glass of port, for he has no idea what heis marrying into.
Yours affectionately,
