Page 14 of The Longbourn Bloodline

Her mother’s fan fluttered over her heaving chest, not at all noticing Mrs. Beaumont’s pinched expression at her lack of decorum.

Darcy, however, stepped in smoothly. “Mrs. Beaumont excels in the art of finishing young ladies, instructing them in all of the social graces, posture, how to sit and walk, converse with a fan, and how to pour tea in the proper manner.” Darcy’s gaze traveled over her in a way that made her acutely aware that she was still wearing her morning dress and had not yet pinned her hair properly. “She is accustomed to preparing ladies for the very highest circles.”

“The highest circles,” breathed Mrs. Bennet, and Elizabeth watched stars glow in her mother’s eyes. “Lizzy, you must remove the mud from your hems. Lydia, Kitty, stand up straight, and Mary, put down that book. You must all make an effort to improve yourselves, for Mr. Darcy has been so condescending⁠—”

“Condescending is certainly the word,” Elizabeth muttered, but her mother was already herding the younger girls toward Madame Beaumont like a shepherdess with particularly unruly lambs.

“And Mr. Moretti, the man with the violin case, will provide music instruction,” Darcy continued at her side. “I understand you and your sisters have been rather neglected in that regard.”

“We play to our satisfaction.” Elizabeth glanced at her father for assistance, but found him shaking hands with the music master while laughing over a joke about his wife and a hapless harp she had apparently toppled in her youth. She returned her attention to Darcy’s lifted patrician chin. “We do not require this extravagant expenditure, particularly when the roof above your temporary lodgings still admits the winter frost.”

“Did your mother not clarify?’ Darcy unfolded his arms and inclined his head with that exacting formality she had learned to distrust. “I have authorized the funds to be transferred from the Pemberley coffers for the benefit of you and your sisters. As we discussed, the cultivation and refinement of young ladies is a matter of paramount importance to the stability of the estate.”

“We discussed no such thing,” she hissed, stepping closer so her voice would not carry to the hovering tutors. “I told you precisely what I thought of your oversight. We are not a charitable institution in need of a benefactor, and I certainly do not require a master to instruct me in my behavior like an unruly spaniel.”

“In that, I quite agree, as spaniels are notoriously difficult to train,” he replied with a dry, infuriating flick of his brow. “You, however, are merely resistant to instruction. As your cousin and the future master of these grounds, I take a certain responsibility for the collective polish of the household.”

“A responsibility you invented this morning between breakfast and ruin,” she retorted, as he guided her firmly by the elbow toward a younger sandy-haired man who appeared to be perspiring under his collar. “This is Mr. Cecil, who specializes in botanical illustration and watercolors. All of the truly accomplished young ladies in London excel in botanical still-lifes.”

“As we have an abundance of actual weeds in the garden, we have absolutely no need to paint them on expensive paper,” she muttered, trying to wrench her elbow from his grasp. She spotted Jane standing at the window, smiling at the hapless Mr. Cecil. Certainly, her eldest sister would balk at the arrogance of the master of Pemberley proclaiming them five waifs in need of artistic education.

“Jane,” she said, moving toward the easels already set up. “Surely you must see this for the farce it is.”

But Jane turned to smile at Darcy, much warmer than Elizabeth had ever seen. “Lizzy, I have always wished for an art master. Imagine gathering the blooms and being able to create a painting or rendering that beautiful vista from the top of Oakham Mount.”

“Papa.” Elizabeth whirled around and marched toward her father. “The noise, the intolerable turmoil. All of the bustle, the pianoforte murdering Handel at all hours, the dancing master raising dust over the floorboards, and the tutor chattering in French! Where on earth will you retreat to for peace?”

“I confess I shall be delighted to witness my daughters and my wife’s improvement campaign,” her father said, eyes twinkling. “The sheer prospect of Mrs. Bennet learning to speak discreetly in a foreign tongue and keeping her voice behind her fan is worth every penny of Mr. Darcy’s fortune. I anticipate a season of the finest comedy and an appropriate modicum of tragedy when Lydia fails the difficult task of polite conversation.”

He patted Elizabeth’s shoulder with affectionate indifference. “Do try to stand straight, Lizzy. You are already the shortest of the five, and Mrs. Beaumont looks as though she might measure you for a wooden splint at any moment.”

Elizabeth could have growled like a spaniel if Mrs. Beaumont hadn’t been eyeing her. Her entire family was enjoying this fiasco far too much, and she laid the blame squarely at Darcy’s feet.

Darcy, who followed Elizabeth around like a vulture circling a diseased rabbit, bent lower to whisper, “So, you see? Your sisters are delighted. Your mother is transported over the prospect of Almack’s and your father approves. I wonder, which of the masters will you engage with? Perhaps the dancing one? We do not favor mere country dances in London, but a mixture of the cotillion, quadrille, and oh, I hear the waltz is all the rage.”

“You may spare me your raging fads, Mr. Darcy. I happen to delight in country dances, where one actually breathes and converses normally rather than mincing about like a mechanical doll. Furthermore, I do not aspire to an Almack’s invitation, nor do I care a straw for speaking in anything other than the King’s English.”

“The Bingley sisters speak excellent French and Italian,” Darcy said, in the same level, infuriating tone he might use to observe that the roof was leaking. “Caroline and Mrs. Hurst toured the Italian lakes last spring. Their ability to converse easily in a second language is considered essential in the circles where the Darcy and Fitzwilliam families move. I should not wish the Miss Bennets to feel at any disadvantage. However you may protest now, your sisters will thank me eventually.”

“My sisters will do nothing of the kind. And I—” Elizabeth drew herself up to her full height, which was unfortunately several inches shorter than his chest. “I will not be subjected to Mrs. Beaumont’s instruction on how to carry myself. I will not flick a single fan, nor will I fling watercolors across an expensive easel.”

Darcy’s eyebrow rose in measured degrees, climbing higher with each “not” she hurled at him.

“I will stick to country dances, and I will not touch the smallest black key on the pianoforte.”

“Neither will I pick up any of the French grammars, or stick a paintbrush anywhere except in your eye.”

Amusement touched Darcy’s mouth at her litany of refusals, which only encouraged her to persist, if only to wipe that smirk from his face.

“I will never accept your interference in our family. And I will never, under any conceivable circumstances, marry you.”

Darcy’s expression remained maddeningly unchanged. No flinch, not even the decency to look surprised. He only tilted his head, his dark eyes glittering with wicked, unbearable satisfaction.

The blood drained from Elizabeth’s entire body when she realized what she had said.

“Marry me?” he repeated with apparent relish. “Miss Elizabeth, wherever did you conjure up such a peculiar notion? I do not believe I had ever proposed.”

Elizabeth’s gaze darted around the crowded drawing room, hoping no one had heard. Lydia was still begging for gowns and ribbons for the dancing lessons, Mrs. Bennet invoked Almack’s with religious fervor, and Mary had begun her ponderous scales on the piano while Mr. Moretti wound the metronome. Jane conversed dreamily with Mr. Cecil, and Kitty had a ruler stuck down her back by Mrs. Beaumont and appeared to be walking with yarn tied between her feet.