But today was all business, and Darcy would dwell no more on Nettle causing carriages to veer off course on Rotten Row, Elizabeth’s laughter, Mary and Georgiana’s giggles, and that cloud Charles Bingley and Miss Jane Bennet appeared to have walked on—oblivious to the barbed gossip and glances of the most judgmental eyes in all England.
Perhaps he should not mind them either.
He picked up the note his cousin, Lord Coke, sent, consisting of three mocking words:A tree, Darcy?
The footman admitted him into Number 33, directing him to the drawing room rather than the study.
Elizabeth was already ensconced by the window, curled in a leather armchair with a novel and one slipper tucked beneath her. Lady Sophia presided by the fire, her own book open, chocolate cooling at her elbow. Elizabeth’s morning dress was a pale green that made her look almost demure—if not for the ink smudge on her finger.
Nettle noticed him first, jumping up with a bark of greeting. Lady Sophia smiled indulgently at him, as if he were the pet dog, rather than Nettle, and Elizabeth’s expression was warm, eyes lighting with a smile before her usual discipline intercepted it.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, closing her book. “You are early.”
“I am precisely on time. The clock is currently striking eleven.”
“Time must have gotten away from us,” Lady Sophia said, closing her book with a snap. “You are just in time, for we were discussing Burney’sCecilia, and you might settle a minor dispute between us.”
“I would not qualify myself for that duty.” Darcy spread his hands and took the third chair, petting Nettle, who had dropped her leather ball at his feet.
“Are you familiar with Fanny Burney?” Elizabeth asked.
“I have heard of Burney,” Darcy noted. “She wrote with far more intelligence than the sensationalists who followed her.”
“High praise from a man who reads Parliamentary reports for amusement.” Elizabeth’s eyes flashed with that bright, teasing challenge that had been his undoing since Hertfordshire. She made no effort to sit up or smooth her skirts; her foot remained tucked beneath her, and somehow that careless comfort felt more intimate than her bare hands on Sunday.
“I do not read Parliamentary reports for amusement,” Darcy said. “I read them for information. The amusement is incidental.”
“You see, Lady Sophia? He admits to finding Parliament amusing. The man is beyond help.”
“Not beyond,” Lady Sophia murmured. “Merely requiring considerable effort. Like Mortimer Delvile.”
The name landed with all the subtlety of a pebble in a bowl of soup. Elizabeth’s lips curved, and Darcy recognized the unmistakable scent of ambush.
“And who is Mortimer Delvile?” he asked, because retreat was no longer possible.
“The hero of Cecilia.” Elizabeth lifted her novel, showing him the spine. “Or perhaps I should say the eventual hero. He takes rather a long time to earn the title.”
“A thousand pages,” Lady Sophia added. “An extraordinary amount of paper for a man to waste on his own pride.”
“You make him sound insufferable.”
“He is insufferable. That is rather the point.” Elizabeth tucked her feet more firmly beneath her, settling in for what promised to be a thorough dissection. “Mortimer Delvile is the heir to an ancient family with more ancestors than sense. He meets a young woman of wit, beauty, and fortune?—”
“The fortune is important,” Lady Sophia interjected. “Cecilia has ten thousand pounds of her own, and an income of three thousand, which back then ought to make her acceptable to any family in England.”
“But not to the Delviles,” Elizabeth continued. “Because Cecilia’s fortune comes with a condition. Whoever marries her must take her surname. And the Delviles have spent eight hundred years being Delviles, and they cannot possibly allow their precious heir to become a mere Beverley.”
“The family name,” Darcy said. “I begin to see.”
“Do you? Then you are already ahead of Mortimer, who spends approximately six hundred pages pretending he does notlove Cecilia because loving her would require him to choose between his family’s expectations and his own happiness.”
“And the rest of the pages?”
“Ah.” Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with the gleam that preceded her most devastating observations. “Devoted to Mortimer, loving Cecilia quite desperately while convincing himself that he cannot possibly act upon it. He watches her from across crowded rooms. He finds excuses to be in her company while maintaining a careful distance. He tells himself that his restraint is noble and honorable, when in fact it is merely cowardice dressed in evening clothes.”
Darcy’s collar felt suddenly tight. “The man sounds like an idiot.”
“He is an idiot,” Lady Sophia agreed. “A well-meaning, honorable, deeply stupid idiot who nearly destroys the woman he loves because he cannot bring himself to defy his family.”
