Page 12 of Honor Requires

“A little,” Elizabeth answered. “He will now sit when commanded, provided there is a biscuit somewhere in the arrangement.”

“That is not obedience,” Darcy observed. “It is negotiation.”

Elizabeth turned toward him, her eyes alight. “You perceive his character exactly, sir. I had not thought you so intimate with canine principles.”

“I have some experience in managing creatures larger than myself in self-importance, if not in person.”

Mrs. Gardiner’s smile betrayed enjoyment. “And do they likewise answer only for biscuits?”

“No,” Darcy said gravely. “Some of them require leases, introductions, or praise in impossible quantities.”

Elizabeth laughed outright then, and the sound pleased him absurdly.

“That is very severe, Mr. Darcy. I hope you do not class my dog with fortune hunters and bores.”

“I would never insult Bruno so deeply.”

The quick look she gave him—half amusement, half surprise—went through him with a force he did not care to examine too closely.

The conversation turned for a time to books. Georgiana, emboldened by Elizabeth’s easy manner, confessed an enthusiasm for poetry that she had previously been shy of displaying before new acquaintances. Elizabeth answered at once with equal animation, and soon the two were comparing favorite lines and discussing which heroines deserved admiration and which only indulgence.

Darcy listened more than he spoke. When Elizabeth appealed to him on a disputed point involving a novel of sentimental tendencies, he was drawn in despite himself.

“You cannot truly admire her, Mr. Darcy,” she said. “She is forever in transports and distress, never managing the smallest practical exertion.”

“I admire no such thing,” he replied. “But I own there is some consistency in a character who is foolish from beginning to end.”

“That is a comfort indeed. We must value perseverance wherever we find it.”

“Even in folly?”

“Especially in folly,” said Elizabeth. “Sense can support itself. Nonsense requires determination.”

Mr. Gardiner chuckled. “You will find no ally in me, Lizzy. I have long suspected that half the novels in England are merely collections of improbable people making poor decisions in elegant parlors.”

“And the other half?” Elizabeth asked.

“Collections of poor decisions in shrubbery.”

Darcy laughed with the rest, though his gaze returned, almost without his willing it, to Elizabeth. He could not recall when conversation had last given him so much pleasure, nor lingered with such persistence. There was no need to labor for effect with her. Her frankness invited sincerity. She neither drew him out by flattery nor kept him back by studied reserve. He could speak and be answered; listen and be engaged; disagree and be amused rather than wearied. It was an ease he had not anticipated and was already unwilling to relinquish.

Georgiana soon crossed to the pianoforte at Mrs. Gardiner’s request, and after some hesitation allowed herself to be persuaded into playing. Darcy saw at once that the idea had succeeded only because Miss Bennet stood near her, turning the pages and offering encouragement so naturally that Georgiana seemed scarcely aware of being managed.

She played well. Not brilliantly perhaps, but with taste and feeling, and more confidence than she had shown in months. When she finished, Mrs. Gardiner praised her warmly, and Elizabeth added, “There is a sweetness in your playing, Miss Darcy, that would reconcile one even to a melancholy air.”

Georgiana blushed with pleasure. “You are very good.”

“No,” said Elizabeth, smiling. “Only greedy. If I compliment you, I hope to prevail upon you to play again.”

“That is not generosity, then,” Darcy said.

“It is strategy.” Her smile lit up her eyes, enhancing their beauty.

Darcy swallowed, his heart beating painfully in his chest. “You admit it openly?”

“I find confession disarms suspicion.”

He smirked. “Then I shall be on my guard.”