“In books, yes. In actual cupboards, Cook would have boxed my ears.”
The laugh that escaped him was quiet but genuine, and Elizabeth looked into her teacup before he could see how much it pleased her. She had been wary of him only days ago. Wary and hurt. And now here they were, speaking in the early stillness of Netherfield’s library as though the assembly had never happened, as though his insult, her wounded pride, and the whole impossible secret of Gracechurch Street lay safely folded away.
Yet it did not feel false.
That was what unsettled her.
“You read more widely than most young ladies of my acquaintance,” he said.
Elizabeth gave him a mock-suspicious look. “Is that praise or accusation?”
“Observation.”
“That is the safest answer and therefore the least interesting.”
“Then praise,” he said.
The warmth that rose in her cheeks was entirely unnecessary. “In that case, I accept it.”
His gaze held hers a moment longer than ordinary civility required, and Elizabeth suddenly became very interested in setting her cup precisely upon its saucer.
“Though,” she added, to recover herself, “I should not have you imagine me a prodigy of scholarship. I read what I can, when I can. Often I begin with one purpose and end somewhere entirely different.”
“As in finding William Bridge among your father’s papers?”
Her surprise must have shown, for his expression softened into something almost shy. “I remembered the name.”
“So you did.”
“It was an unusual quotation.”
“It was an unusual dinner conversation.”
“A pleasant one.”
The words were simple, but Elizabeth felt them with embarrassing force. She looked toward the shelves, pretending to consider whether the histories required rearranging. “Yes. It was.”
Mr. Darcy closed the book upon one finger to mark his place. “May I ask whether you have found any more obscure divines in this library, or must I depend upon your father’s papers for my education?”
“This library is stronger in county history, agricultural improvement, sermons no one has opened in thirty years, and novels tucked discreetly behind heavier volumes.”
“Novels hidden behind sermons?”
“Where else should one hide them? It lends an air of moral struggle to the shelf.”
“Do you approve of novels, then?”
“I approve of anything that is honest about what it intends. A novel that wishes to entertain is less tiresome than a sermon that wishes to be admired for scolding.”
“Some would say entertainment is a poor object for reading.”
“Some people enjoy saying poor things.” She leaned back slightly, more comfortable now than she had meant to be.“Besides, entertainment may have more truth in it than solemnity. A person may reveal himself by what he laughs at.”
“And what does my amusement reveal?”
“That you are not so severe as you appear.”
Darcy’s eyes moved to hers.
