Poetry, Elizabeth thought, barely restraining a smirk. He probably composed odes to muddy ditches and shed tears over the fate of a bruised turnip.
“When I walk, ma’am, I am generally occupied with avoiding muddy ruts and escaping unwanted conversation,” Elizabethreplied, her tone carrying an arch, lethal sweetness. “I fear my mind is far too pragmatic for the muses.”
Oliver blinked, looking as though a bucket of cold well-water had just been emptied over his verses, but his mother was entirely bulletproof.
“I suppose his stride is as well-mannered as his upbringing,” Elizabeth said, while her thoughts ran less charitable. For fifteen thousand a year, the man could leap the Serpentine in a single bound, and she would still find him intolerable.
She caught Darcy’s gaze over the top of the matron’s nodding plumes, her fine eyes wide with a silent, suffocating plea. Just past the velvet curtains, another loud whisper of “fifteen thousand a year” tooted by an impending charging mother.
With immediate comprehension, Darcy leaned over in the manner of a guardian. “Miss Bennet, perhaps we should adjourn. Your godmother awaits us and is eager to hear about Mary’s triumph. Shall we?”
“Why yes, indeed, Mr. Darcy.” She took his arm, aware of the whispers and complaints trailing them.
“Why does Lady Sophia’s godson, that man without a title, get to escort the dazzling Miss Bennet?”
“She was his mother’s best friend,” another answered. “Lady Anne has been dead all these years. You’d think she had some kind of plan.”
“Well, I, for one, am calling on them next week,” a third one proclaimed. “Fifteen thousand a year, you hear? And pretty as a button. My son will be the speaker of the Parliament.”
“Yours is too ancient for a lively one like Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Why, she has the disposition of a mischievous kid goat!”
“Ha, for fifteen thousand a year, she can have the ennui of a slug for all I care.”
Elizabeth took the escape Darcy offered, although she would have liked nothing better than to parry each remark with asharper one of her own. Instead, she focused on the man who had taken the role of Lady Sophia’s loyal deputy and allowed himself to be her shield.
The heavy mahogany doors of the townhouse finally closed behind them, cutting off the suffocating heat of the salon and the relentless, chanting chorus of her bank ledger.
“Mr. Darcy, may I ask you something?” she murmured as they neared the curb where the carriage waited, its lamps already lit.
“You may ask,” he replied, his face half-hidden by the shadow of his hat. “Though I reserve the right to answer badly.”
“Do you mind this? All of it?” She gestured vaguely with her fan toward the glittering windows above them. “You are assisting Lady Sophia. You did not choose to spend your Friday evening being besieged on my behalf.”
“No,” he said. “I did not choose it.”
His blunt answer doused her spirits. The musicale had been a triumph—Mary’s playing, their decorum, all of it—but Darcy had endured the evening like a man fulfilling a particularly tedious duty. A job done well, but still a job.
“Then I shall inform Lady Sophia that I do not require—” Her grip on his arm slackened.
“But I do not mind it.” He patted her hand, keeping it on his arm. And her grip on the blue wool of his coat firmed again.
Darcy was looking down at her with eyes that held steady with a heat that made her breath catch. The guard she had maintained all evening wavered at his change in tone.
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” she said softly, her voice barely carrying over the rattle of the horses’ harnesses. “For standing by me.”
The footman opened the carriage door, revealing the dark, velvet-lined interior. Darcy turned to face her, lifting her hand so that for a moment, she thought he would kiss it.
“Standing is not an accomplishment requiring gratitude, Miss Elizabeth.” He handed her into the carriage. “But in that room… I shall endeavor to keep my feet.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE ART OF SOCIAL DODGING
Hyde Parkat the fashionable hour was, Elizabeth decided, a Meryton assembly mounted on the scale of the Roman Colosseum. The tailoring was finer, the horseflesh pricier, and the promenade filled to the borders with the cream of London society, arranged in a dazzling composition of silk, feathers, and suffocating consequence.
Elizabeth, of course, had mixed feelings about the entire show. She had always been curious about this public exhibition, the art of seeing and being seen, but as with everything in London, the stakes were much higher than mere observation, and the promenade was not a casual stroll.
Allegra and Lady Sophia had absolutely insisted upon the Bennet sisters participating—especially after their triumph at the musicale. To hide away now, Sophia had argued, would look like provincial cowardice.
