Elizabeth laughed under her breath.
And if her breakfast tasted a touch more bitter after that, she said nothing.
∞∞∞
Darcy sat alone in the breakfast parlor, the silence broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire and the faint rustle of newsprint as he turned the page. His brow furrowed, his mouth tightening as he reread the offending paragraph.
Another opinion piece—self-righteous and smug—claiming that a recent defeat on the Continent was Heaven’s punishment for allowing Catholic soldiers to practice their faith within the ranks.
Darcy’s fingers tightened around the edges of the paper. How easily people passed judgment when they had never borne its weight. He had carried that weight himself: whispers behind gloved hands, suspicious looks at church, the quiet cruelty that thrived in school corridors.
He folded the paper with precise deliberation, willing away the sting of old hurts.
The door opened.
“Good morning, Darcy!” Bingley burst in, bright as the winter sun, though the effect was somewhat dimmed by the extraordinary disarray of his hair. He looked half-asleep andwholly pleased with life. “I had no intention of waking so early, but the scent of coffee found me.”
Darcy suppressed a smile. “I am astonished you rose at all.”
“So am I,” Bingley said cheerfully, dropping into the nearest chair. “But I blame Miss Bennet. My dreams were all of her. She is an angel, Darcy. An actual angel.”
“I doubt the parson would appreciate the comparison,” Darcy said wryly, “but yes, she is very handsome.”
“She is more than handsome. She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld.”
Darcy sipped his tea to avoid laughing outright. “You said that of Miss Pitt last month.”
“Miss Pitt?” Bingley waved a hand. “I scarcely recall her. But Miss Bennet—Miss Bennet cannot be forgotten. And she danced with such grace. I declare I have never met a young lady so gentle in manner.”
Darcy hesitated, then admitted, “I was surprised to learn that she and Miss Elizabeth are sisters. They look nothing alike.”
“Ah. Yes.” Bingley chuckled. “Miss Elizabeth is—well—very different from her sister. Both in looks and personality. I daresay a bit too intelligent for my taste.”
Before Darcy could reply, the door to the breakfast parlor opened and Miss Bingley swept in—sweptbeing the only appropriate description, for her gown was a creation of silk, spangles, and entirely too much fringe for so early an hour. Her hair gleamed with fresh pins, and the sharp scent of lemon verbena trailed behind her like a proclamation.
“Good morning,” she said in the tone of one bestowing favor. “I trust you two enjoyed your rest? Mine was tolerable. The beds in the country are always a little hard.”
Bingley muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Mine was not,” though he covered it with a cough.
Miss Bingley took her seat, unfolding her napkin with the precision of a queen preparing for court. “I heard you speaking of the Bennet ladies as I came down the hall,” she said, her gaze fastening upon Darcy like a hook. “Such a large party for so small a neighborhood, do you not think?”
“There are five daughters,” Bingley said. “Each of them was quite charming.”
Miss Bingley gave a small, skeptical hum. “Charming. I see. I believe you danced with one of them, did you not, Mr. Darcy?”
“I did,” he replied shortly.
Miss Elizabeth, I believe. A curious choice, for she is not at all like her elder sister. Miss Bennet is quite lovely, of course, but Miss Elizabeth…”
Miss Bingley paused, as though searching for a generous description.
“…she has a most unusual appearance. Her hair was much too dark to be fashionable…”
Bingley shot his sister a warning look. “Caroline—”
She continued as though she had not heard him. “…and with those eyes… well, let me just say that I much prefer blue or brown, especially with a complexion like hers. It is just not a combination that suits most ladies.”
Darcy set down his teacup with deliberate care. “It is an appearance I have always admired.”
