7. A Trustee’s Duty #2
“I am aware of the custom. But these are not ‘ends,’ Mr. Darcy. These are whole crates that appear on the invoice but never, I suspect, reach the chandeliers. I managed the stores at Longbourn; I know how long a fine wax taper burns, and I know the smell of tallow being used where beeswax was paid for. Either the storerooms of 33 Grosvenor Street are packed with unused crates, in which case we can purchase less, or someone is selling the surplus.”
“Or the supplier is shorting us,” Darcy said. “I shall speak to the steward.”
“I will speak to the housekeeper,” Elizabeth corrected. “It is my roof, and my wax.”
“I did not suggest otherwise.”
“You did not. You are very careful not to suggest anything.” The ghost of a smile crossed her face. “I have observed this about you.”
He swallowed the retort that it was her attitude of mistrust that warranted this carefulness, and hence was relieved when a soft thud interrupted them.
Evidently bored by the dry proceedings, Nettle emerged from beneath the desk, bearing a small leather ball which she deposited at Elizabeth’s skirts.
“Not now, Nettle,” Elizabeth murmured, though her hand strayed toward the dog’s ears.
Nettle wagged her tail. She picked up the ball and set it down again, closer to Elizabeth’s shoe, looking up expectantly. And then she flicked her attention to Darcy.
“Take her out,” Lady Sophia said from behind her novel, her hearing miraculously restored.
“Both of you. The garden is large enough for a terrier’s constitutional, and you can discuss the remaining matters outside.
Business conducted in fresh air is invariably more productive for all parties involved. ”
“We should finish the accounts first,” Elizabeth said, her gaze fixed on the columns.
But Darcy was already moving. He was being offered exactly what he had spent the last hour praying for: her company without a mahogany barrier between them. He picked up the leather ball and tossed it lightly from one hand to the other.
Nettle’s eyes followed the movement with frantic devotion, her entire body vibrating.
“Nettle, mind your manners!” Elizabeth scolded, but she was looking at Darcy’s hands, not the dog.
“I believe her manners are entirely dependent on the flight of this ball, Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, offering her a smile. “And I find I am quite susceptible to her brand of persuasion.”
“The garden is visible from the window,” Lady Sophia added, her voice trailing off as she turned a page. “Go. Before the dog decides the rug is an acceptable substitute for grass.”
Darcy inclined his head at Elizabeth, an invitation, and she sighed, setting aside the ledger as they stepped into the mid-spring air. It was cool and sweet with the scent of turned earth. Nettle prancing and panting, her eyes keen on the ball.
Cocking his arm back, he threw the ball the length of the gravel path, and Nettle tore after it like a small, furry cannonball. The ball disappeared behind the early roses.
“She will dig up the roses,” Elizabeth observed, though the tension in her shoulders was beginning to yield to the sun.
“I don’t suppose her teeth are sharper than a rose’s thorns.” Darcy watched as Nettle found the ball and trotted back. “See? She respects them. A discriminating animal.”
“She bites people who deserve it and leaves the rest alone.” Elizabeth received the ball from Nettle and threw it, not quite as far as he had. “Rather like her mistress, though I employ sharper teeth.”
She shot him a look, half-expecting him to stiffen at the barb. Instead, Darcy caught the ball on its return and held it just out of Nettle’s reach, causing the dog to dance on her hind legs.
“I have experienced your teeth, Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice low and remarkably steady. “I prefer them to the false smiles of the ton . At least with you, I always know where the wound is.”
Elizabeth’s stride faltered. She looked at him—really looked at him—and saw a man who had just admitted to being hurt, and who was now grinning at a scruffy terrier.
Rather than speak, he drew his arm back and threw the ball even farther.
“You have a good arm,” Elizabeth said, watching the ball’s flight. It bounced off the wall, and Nettle streaked after it, delighted.
“I played cricket at Cambridge,” he admitted, the heat of the exertion—and her scrutiny—climbing his neck. “I was told I was a ‘demon’ bowler, though I suspect my teammates were merely afraid of my temperament.”
“A demon bowler,” she repeated softly. “How very unsurprising. And yet… I had not pictured you in a cricket field. Was your cravat as starched and white as it is now?”
“I assure you, madam, I was as stained with grass as any other man by the ninth wicket.”
She passed her gaze over his formal clothing. “Perhaps there is a man beneath the stiff cravat after all. It is a comforting thought.”
Smiling inwardly at her notice, he received the ball from Nettle and lobbed it so high it seemed to vanish into the sun, before falling too close to a window.
“And now, Mr. Darcy, you are going beyond the duties of a trustee. Is there any particular reason you are attempting to provide the birds with a new plaything, or is this merely a demonstration of your… superior reach?”
“It was a clean throw,” he said, though his chest rose with a slightly heavier breath.
“It was a spectacle,” she corrected, a full smile finally breaking through.
“And while Nettle is no doubt impressed, I suspect Lady Sophia would prefer her windows remain in their frames. We should return before you decide whether you can clear the chimneys. I should hate to explain to my godmother why her trustee is currently attempting to scale the roof to retrieve a leather ball.”
Darcy’s lips twitched as he watched her turn. Her step was light, a pert, practiced air of being aggrieved that he found more intoxicating than any ballroom grace. Nettle streaked past, and Elizabeth intercepted the ball, throwing it one last time toward the garden door.
He followed three paces behind, his gaze fixed on the swaying of her skirts. When she bent to retrieve the ball from the grass, she glanced back, catching him in the act of observation.
Darcy cleared his throat, rubbing his chin as if a pressing matter of estate law had just occurred to him. “Miss Bennet. Regarding the Bellwood tenant, Mr. Hodges. You were right, and I felt it only proper to say so.”
Elizabeth straightened, the damp leather ball in her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. I am already well aware of the fact, though I confess I did not expect you to concede it.”
“With you, I find myself conceding daily.” He tried to keep his voice steady, though he felt a sudden, ridiculous fear that he looked like a stunned sheep in the path of a carriage.
“How very generous, Mr. Darcy,” she said in a parched tone. “I wasn’t aware that this, too, would be part of your duties.”
She turned away, leaving him to the silence of the garden.
Darcy watched her go, a slow, dazed warmth spreading through his chest. He had told himself that his role was professional, to be performed with detached competency.
But as he stood there, he realized with a sinking heart that he was quite simply a man completely at her mercy.