Page 32 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

Moira's response was characteristically brief, though she opened her primer with something approaching willingness. Elizabeth gestured towards the chairs arranged near the fire. “Will you not sit, Mr Darcy? Unless you prefer to stand about looking as though you are attending a funeral rather than a French lesson.”

The unexpected tartness startled a laugh from him. He found himself sitting before he quite meant to. “I apologise if my countenance suggests mourning. I assure you, I am merely—”

“Terrified of informal conversation?” Elizabeth supplied, settling opposite him with that maddening smile playing about her lips. “Yes, I had observed this affliction at our previous encounters. It seems to strike you most severely in drawing rooms.”

“I had not realised my discomfort was so apparent.”

“Oh, it is painfully obvious.” She accepted the cup Mrs Hill offered before dismissing the housekeeper with a gentle nod. The older woman withdrew to her post by the window, within earshot for propriety yet distant enough for privacy. “You wear social unease the way some men wear cologne. Liberally and with great determination.”

Darcy discovered himself smiling despite the weight pressing on his thoughts. “I shall endeavour to apply it more sparingly in future.”

“Please do not,” Elizabeth said softly. “It is one of your more endearing qualities, watching you gird yourself for battle against the terrifying prospect of discussing the weather.”

Mr Darcy raised an eyebrow. “I am perfectly capable of discussing the weather.”

“Are you?” Her smile was mischievous. “Because I distinctly recall you once responding to my sister's comment about rain with what can only be described as a grunt.”

“That was not a grunt. It was a sound of agreement.”

“It was a grunt.” Elizabeth laughed now, genuine and delighted. “Poor Jane thought she had offended you mortally, when in fact you were simply incapable of forming words in the presence of pleasant conversation.”

“In my defence, your sister had just asked whether I thought the rain might continue, which struck me as a question to which no reasonable answer could be given. Rain either continues or it does not. Speculation seemed futile.”

Elizabeth's laugh rang out again, bright and unrestrained. Darcy felt something in his chest loosen despite everything. “You see? This is precisely what I mean. Most men would simply say yes and move on with their lives. You, however, must analyse the meteorological philosophy underlying casual remarks about precipitation.”

“I did not analyse—”

“You absolutely did. I could see you doing it. Your brow furrowed in that particular way it does when you are thinking too much about something that requires no thought whatsoever.”

Darcy touched his brow self-consciously. “I was not aware my face betrayed my thoughts so thoroughly.”

“Oh, it does. You have an entire vocabulary written across your forehead. There is the 'I am being forced to endure tedious company' furrow, which is quite deep and appears most often at assemblies. Then there is the 'someone has said something illogical and I am restraining myself from correcting them' furrow, which is slightly less pronounced but twice as frequent. And finally...” She paused, tilting her head. “There is the 'I am attempting to converse like a normal human being and failing spectacularly' furrow, which is what you are wearing at this precise moment.”

“I am not furrowing,” Darcy protested, though he could feel his treacherous face doing exactly that.

“You are. Look, there it goes again, deepening as we speak.”

From across the room, Moira's voice rose in triumph. “J'ai réussi! Miss Darcy, I did it! The whole passage without stopping!”

“Beautifully done,” Georgiana praised. Elizabeth glanced over with a fond smile before returning her attention to Darcy.

“Your sister is remarkably patient. I confess, I attempted to teach Moira some French myself last week and nearly caused an international incident. Apparently, my accent is an insult to France and Scotland both, according to Moira, which is quite impressive considering I was only attempting to discuss breakfast.”

“What precisely did you say?”

“I meant to ask if she wanted bread. I may have accidentally suggested her father was a loaf.”

Darcy felt laughter building in his chest, unexpected and irrepressible. “How does one confuse bread with—”

“I do not know!” Elizabeth threw up her hands in mock despair. “The French language is a conspiracy designed to humiliate the English; I am convinced of it. There are far too many similar words that mean entirely different things, and the pronunciation is clearly intended to make us all sound as though we are choking on fromage.”

“I believe the word you want is pain.”

“Yes, well, the whole experience was certainly painful.”

The laugh escaped before Darcy could stop it. Elizabeth's face lit with such evident satisfaction at the sound that he smiled despite the documents waiting back at Lucas Lodge, despite Malcolm MacKinnon's impending claim on her future, despite everything.

“There,” she said with satisfaction. “I knew it was possible.”