Page 25

Darcy exhaled, forcing his attention back to the green baize. The crisis had passed, for now.

“Will you take the break, Mr Gardiner?” Darcy arranged the ivory balls and retreated to offer the older man a clear shot.

Mrs Gardiner wheeled him to the head of the table. He locked the iron brakes, leaned forward, and struck the cue ball. The ivory spheres scattered in a beautiful explosion of motion.

For the next twenty minutes, Darcy and Mr Gardiner engaged in a fierce competitive match. The merchant had a cunning eye for angles, using the edges of his chair to stabilise his shots. Darcy played with his usual precision, though he found his focus constantly slipping, his eyes darting to Miss Elizabeth often.

She stood by the hearth, her gaze tracking the movement of the balls with fascination. The warm light of the fire danced across the silk of her gown, highlighting the elegant curve of her neck and the flush on her cheeks.

Darcy sank the final red ball into the corner pocket, claiming the victory.

“A masterful game, sir!” Mr Gardiner cheered, unlocking the brakes as Mrs Gardiner drew his chair back. “I concede to your superior skill. My arms are fatigued.”

Darcy turned, leaning his cue at the edge of the table. He regarded Miss Elizabeth, the loud thumping of his heart drowning out the sound of the rain on the glass.

“Will you honour me with a match, Miss Elizabeth?” Darcy gestured at the table. “I should be delighted to instruct you in the finer points of the game.”

Miss Elizabeth glanced at the wooden cue, then back to his face. The competitive fire he so adored flared in her eyes.

“I warn you, Mr Darcy, I am a frighteningly quick study,” she said, abandoning the safety of the hearth. “If you teach me your secrets, I shall undoubtedly use them to humiliate you.”

“I welcome the humiliation.” Darcy selected a lighter, shorter cue from the rack, turning to hand it to her.

Miss Elizabeth accepted the cue and tested its weight, her eyes bright with interest.

“The stance is paramount.” Darcy forced his voice to remain steady. He positioned the cue ball and a red target ball. “You must plant your feet firmly. Balance is necessary.”

Miss Elizabeth attempted to mimic his earlier posture. She grasped the thick end of the cue, leaning over the baize, her brows drawing together in fierce concentration.

“Like this?” She looked over her shoulder.

Darcy’s brain ceased to function. She was so utterly beautiful, and he felt an overwhelming urge to abandon all propriety, pull her into his arms, and kiss her until they both forgot their own names.

He swallowed hard, fighting a monumental battle for control.

“Not quite.” He remained on the other side of the table. “Georgiana, would you show Miss Elizabeth how to guide the cue?”

“Of course.” Georgiana came next to Miss Elizabeth and laid her own hand on the baize. “Set your fingers here, then raise your knuckles a little. The cue rests between your thumb and forefinger.”

Miss Elizabeth studied the demonstration and arranged her left hand in the same fashion. Georgiana watched, nodding when the cue settled into place.

“Now keep your right arm loose,” Darcy advised. “Draw back smoothly and strike the centre of the white ball.”

“Mind that you do not strike beneath it,” Mr Gardiner added from his chair. “I learnt that lesson at the expense of a very fine lamp in Cheapside.”

“Edward, you are supposed to encourage her,” Mrs Gardiner said, though she was smiling.

Mr Gardiner tapped his knuckle on the arm of his chair. “I am encouraging her to spare the lamps, my dear. That is the kindest advice a beginner can receive.”

Miss Elizabeth glanced at the lamps overhead, then at the cue ball. “I shall try to preserve Mr Darcy’s furnishings, Uncle. I make no promise concerning his pride.”

Darcy met her challenging smile. “My pride is at your mercy, Miss Elizabeth. Take your shot.”

Across the room, a nervous clinking of crystal drew their attention to the sideboard.

Bates was attempting to walk bearing a tray loaded with three full glasses of orgeat. Martin stalked two paces behind him, a looming spectre of judgement.

“Smooth, gliding steps, Bates.” Martin’s voice cracked like a whip. “Do not jerk your elbows. You are a footman of Pemberley, not a frightened sheep.”