Elizabeth considered him, her smile returning. “Then perhaps I shall obey for ten minutes more and call it a compromise.”
Darcy bowed slightly. “A most reasonable rebellion.”
She laughed again and took the chair near the fire. Darcy chose one across from her, close enough for conversation, far enough for propriety, and opened the book she had placed in his hand.
For the next little while, the house remained quiet, Jane slept above stairs, and Darcy let himself believe that ten minutes could be a very great gift.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth had intended to obey Mrs. Nicholls for ten minutes.
This, she told herself, was a most reasonable compromise. Ten minutes in the library could not be considered neglect of Jane, nor could it be called self-indulgence when one had spent most of the night in a chair designed, apparently, by a person with a personal grudge against spines. Ten minutes of warmth, tea, and conversation would restore her enough to be useful again.
The difficulty was that Mr. Darcy sat across from her.
He had opened the book she recommended, but instead of pretending to read it while ignoring her—as many gentlemen would have done—he examined the table of contents with what appeared to be genuine interest. The firelight caught the darkline of his profile, the slight furrow between his brows, and the firm curve of his mouth when some title amused him. Elizabeth tried very hard not to notice all of this, then gave it up as hopeless and took a sip of tea.
“You have not yet objected to my choice,” she said.
His eyes lifted from the page. “Was I expected to?”
“Not expected, perhaps, but gentlemen who ask ladies for recommendations often prefer to admire the taste involved rather than actually submit to it.”
“Then I shall endeavor to distinguish myself by reading at least three pages before forming an opinion.”
“Heroic.”
“I have been accused of less.”
“That I can well believe.”
His mouth curved, and Elizabeth felt a small, unreasonable pleasure at having put the expression there. Mr. Darcy amused was not at all like Mr. Darcy grave. It did not transform him, exactly; he was still too composed for that. But amusement softened the severity about his eyes and made him appear younger, less like a man formed entirely of duty and restraint.
He turned another page. “You said one essay was foolish.”
“Very.”
“And yet you recommend it?”
“Foolish arguments may be useful if they make one think more clearly in opposition.”
“That is a dangerous defense. It would make nearly any bad book valuable.”
“Not nearly any. Only those bad in an interesting direction. Dull foolishness is beyond redemption.”
“I shall remember the distinction.”
“I hope you do. It is essential to any proper education.”
He looked down again, but the smile remained. “And who directed yours, Miss Elizabeth? Your father?”
“In part. Papa has a great many books and very few rules regarding who may read them, provided one does not ask too loudly or disturb his own enjoyment of solitude.”
“That sounds generous.”
“It can be. It can also be a little like being given a key to a cupboard and told nothing about which jars contain preserves and which contain medicine.”
“Then you learned by tasting?”
