“Miss Bennet,” he said, standing at once. “I—did not expect company.”
“Nor did I, sir,” she replied with a smile. “Pray forgive the intrusion. I was simply in search of something to read.”
He glanced at the shelves with a rueful expression. “Then I fear you are in for a disappointment.”
Elizabeth stepped further into the room, taking in the thin rows of books, arranged more for display than actual use. “Indeed,” she said with mock solemnity, “this collection looks rather like a gentleman’s cravat: chosen for appearance rather than function.”
Darcy chuckled, the sound low and surprised. “That is an apt comparison. Bingley is a man of good taste but… not wide reading.”
“So, I gather.” She tilted her head, scanning the spines. “The only novel I see isThe Castle of Otranto—and that looks untouched.”
“I believe Miss Bingley purchased it because she was told it was fashionable. She read the first page and declared it too fantastical to be proper.”
Elizabeth laughed. “She would rather a novel where nothing happens and the heroine ends up with a suitable match, no doubt.”
“Indeed.” His lips twitched. “I, on the other hand, found it oddly entertaining.”
She looked at him with exaggerated suspicion. “You, sir, enjoy Gothic romances?”
“I enjoy good writing, wherever it may be found,” he said, a little defensively. At her raised eyebrow, he sighed and said, “I read it when my cousin purchased it for my younger sister. I wished to ensure that it would not frighten her too much.”
“Then you must be a very patient man.”
“Only selectively.”
Elizabeth smiled. “And which books, Mr. Darcy, receive your select patience?”
He hesitated, then gestured to the book in his hand. “This, for instance—Plutarch. I find the moral questions raised in his biographies compelling.”
She grimaced. “That is very admirable of you, but I confess, I prefer characters with a bit more warmth. Some passion, some wit—something that reminds me the writer knew what it was to be human. A good gothic novel is best enjoyed on a stormy night with weak nerves.”
Darcy’s gaze sharpened slightly, and something thoughtful flickered in his expression. “And what do you read when you wish to be reminded of humanity?”
Elizabeth walked to the shelf and plucked out a volume. “Well, this,” she said, holding up a worn copy ofThe Vicar of Wakefield, “is one of my favorites. The vicar’s naiveté ismaddening, but the heart of the story is family and endurance—and that I find very worth reading.”
“I would not have guessed it.”
She raised a brow. “Oh? Whatwouldyou have guessed?”
Darcy considered her. “Something clever. Perhaps something satirical. Swift, or Addison.”
Elizabeth tilted her head in mock offense. “And you think me incapable of appreciating sentiment?”
“I think you far too discerning to tolerate it when it is poorly done.”
She narrowed her eyes, but the corners of her lips twitched. “That, Mr. Darcy, is dangerously close to being a compliment.”
He smiled—truly smiled—for the first time she could remember. “Then I am pleased to be guilty of it.”
The moment held for an instant too long before Elizabeth broke it, turning back to the shelves. “Still,” she said lightly, “if the selection is this poor, perhaps Iwillread the book Mary sent over. It may do me good to be reminded of my sins.”
Darcy laughed again, and this time it came more easily.
“You are welcome to take anything you like,” he said, stepping aside to let her peruse. “Though I fear you may soon be composing yourownliterary work on the poverty of provincial libraries.”
Elizabeth cast him a sidelong glance. “Ah, but then I should have to dedicate it to you.”
His eyes gleamed. “I think I should be honored.”
