Chapter Twenty-Eight
Elizabeth sat with Mr. Darcy exactly as they had been for the past several minutes, close enough that their knees nearly brushed, hands joined as if either of them might vanish should the other let go, and smiling with the foolish, helpless serenity of two people who had just experienced something miraculous.
Mr. Darcy’s thumb moved once, lightly, over the back of Elizabeth’s hand, as if to reassure himself it was real.
“I will have to consult your father,” Mr. Darcy said, and then his gaze dropped to her mouth.
The look was so intent that Elizabeth felt her own breath catch. He leaned in. Not with haste, not with hunger, but with an unmistakable certainty.
Elizabeth tilted her chin up.
A male voice nearly shouted a greeting nearby.
Mr. Darcy halted so abruptly that Elizabeth almost laughed at the expression that crossed his face. It was part irritation, part reluctance, and part something like disbelief that the rest of the world persisted in existing at all.
He withdrew. “Later,” he said.
She wished to say something clever, but in the end all she could manage was a nod and a breathy “Later.”
There were footsteps, a pause, and then the parlour door opened.
Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared first, as if the house belonged to him; he paused on the threshold long enough to take in Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy in one sweeping glance, and his mouth slowly widened into something approaching triumph.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, excellent.”
Mr. Darcy’s expression was perfectly civil, which Elizabeth thought meant he was measuring the distance to the door, and deciding whether it was acceptable to throw a colonel back out into the street.
Behind Fitzwilliam came Adrian, his cheeks pink with winter air and a folded packet in his hand where the broken seal was royal and not at all English.
He bowed to Elizabeth with a flourish that managed to be both respectful and faintly theatrical. “Cousin.”
“Adrian,” Elizabeth said. “Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
Mr. Darcy offered a bow that was impeccable and a shade too controlled.
“Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said, and then glanced back to Elizabeth. ”Miss Bennet. Forgive us. Our timing, I perceive, is . . . regrettable.”
“Catastrophic,” Adrian agreed, clearly without any idea of why the colonel thought so. “But I thought I must find you without delay. It appears the Crown has . . . opinions I must share.”
Mr. Darcy’s gaze shifted to the packet. “Whose Crown?” he inquired, sounding as though he already knew the answer and did not approve of it.
Adrian’s grin deepened. “That would be mine. And Elizabeth’s.”
He crossed to the nearest chair and set the packet in his lap as though it were a perfectly ordinary letter rather than something that had likely travelled with a royal courier. Fitzwilliam took his own chair and looked at Mr. Darcy expectantly.
Adrian unfolded the letter. “This arrived at my London residence while I was away,” he explained, unfolding it. “I left it for a time after I arrived in the excitement of meeting you. Long letters from the crown are always a tedious business.”
Mr. Darcy frowned. “What does it say?”
Fitzwilliam leaned back, folding his arms. “What does it not say? That might be easier to canvas.”
Adrian cleared his throat with exaggerated importance. “Very well. I am to read this aloud, apparently, because Their Majesties suspect I may ‘abbreviate’ when left to my own devices.”
“You? Never.” Fitzwilliam’s eyes gleamed.
Adrian turned his nose up in a haughty manner that lasted precisely two seconds.
Prince Adrian is to present himself immediately at Longbourn in Hertfordshire, to locate Princess Elizabeth—”
Elizabeth felt her spine straighten of its own accord. “Well,” she teased, “that is one instruction already disregarded.”
Adrian lifted an eyebrow, but continued to read.
—and to offer, in the name of the king and queen, their gratitude for the care and protection given her by her English family.
At that, Elizabeth’s chest eased a little. Whatever else her royal relatives meant to do, they had at least begun with courtesy.
Adrian read on, occasionally pausing to flick his eyes toward Elizabeth with a comic expression.
Prince Adrian is to answer any questions with honesty and tact, and he is to speak of Prince Maximillian with particular tenderness, as Her Royal Highness may feel the absence of her parents more keenly at present.
Adrian grimaced. “My apologies. That part was just for me.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened briefly.
Then Adrian’s brows jumped. He read the next line.
“Under no circumstances is Her Royal Highness to accept gifts of livestock from enthusiastic subjects while travelling, no matter how sincerely offered.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam made a sound that might have been a cough or a laugh.
Elizabeth blinked. “Livestock?”
Adrian looked up, entirely innocent. “It continues.”
“I do believe that tells me all I need to know,” Elizabeth said with a little smile.
“Alas, that is only the beginning.” Adrian resumed his reading.
“If presented with a goat, a hen, or any animal not of sturdy temperament and affectionate disposition, Prince Adrian is to decline firmly and offer instead a small sum to the family in question, so that they may keep the creature themselves.”
Mr. Darcy stared at the paper as if it had personally offended him. “Why,” he asked slowly, “is this a concern?”
Adrian folded the corner of the letter as though marking the passage for future reference. “That,” he said, with satisfaction, “is Uncle Robert’s story to tell.”
He continued to read. There were instructions about introductions, about not permitting Elizabeth to become fatigued by too many visitors, about refusing any “over-zealous courtier” who attempted to lecture her on her duties before she had even seen Thurnia.
There was a pointed paragraph reminding Adrian that any commentary on the length, expense, or general pointlessness of court ceremonials will be unwelcome when presenting Elizabeth to Their Majesties.
They finished the second page and began the third, Adrian clearing his throat. They had completed the reading of two more pages when Mr. Darcy, who had been holding himself with rigid patience, asked, “Does it say anything about marrying?”
There was a brief silence.
Then Adrian looked at Mr. Darcy properly for the first time, and said, with slow relish, “Marrying?”
Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed. She could not help it. She had just enough time to think that Mr. Darcy looked absurdly pleased with himself before Colonel Fitzwilliam added, “Darcy, I have known you since you were in short coats, and I do not believe I have ever seen you so—”
“Smug?” Adrian supplied.
“Secretive,” Fitzwilliam said. “This is deeply unsettling.”
Mr. Darcy’s gaze did not leave Adrian. “Well?”
Adrian let the moment draw out precisely long enough to be cruel, then said, “There is something here. Let me find it.” He ran a finger down the page, lips moving soundlessly as though he were sincerely searching.
Elizabeth watched him enjoy himself at their expense. “Adrian.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair. “Is it written in lemon juice, Adrian? Shall we hold it over a flame to see the letters appear?”
“Do not be absurd,” Adrian said. “This is merely the preface. There is always a preface.”
Mr. Darcy’s gaze did not move from Adrian’s hand. “You have already read it.”
Adrian looked up, all innocence. “I have skimmed it.”
“You have memorised it,” Colonel Fitzwilliam corrected.
The prince turned the page with a slow, reverent deliberation that would have suited the unveiling of a portrait. “Ah, yes, here we are. No, I beg your pardon. That is the section inviting Elizabeth to choose books for the library.”
Elizabeth was briefly distracted. “Library?”
“It is better than the goat,” Mr. Darcy muttered.
Adrian turned another page. Then another. His finger continued its leisurely journey down the lines.
Mr. Darcy’s voice, when it came, was quiet. “Adrian.”
“Yes?”
“If you prolong this moment any further,” Mr. Darcy said, “I will be forced to remind you that several gentlemen from Cambridge still speak of a foreign prince who borrowed the cord from every bell-pull in his lodgings and left the housemaid to search for them.”
Adrian lifted one hand to rest over his heart. “That is a vile slander.”
“That young prince replaced them,” Mr. Darcy went on, unmoved, “in such a way that nothing in the house rang where it ought.”
Elizabeth bit her lip.
Adrian shrugged. “In my defence, I replaced them neatly.”
"Two days later," the colonel added.
“You also,” Mr. Darcy continued, “persuaded a perfectly respectable tutor that the college had instituted a new rule requiring every young gentleman to appear for chapel with his stockings pinned over their breeches, and you watched from the cloisters while the first-year men marched in looking either confused or mutinous.”
Adrian smiled. “Glorious. Whoever managed that was brilliant.”
Mr. Darcy’s gaze did not waver. “And if you insist upon continuing, I shall write your father about the pudding.”
Adrian froze. “You would not.”
“I would,” Mr. Darcy said softly. “Particularly the portion involving treacle, a candle, and the vice-chancellor’s hat.”
A beat.
Adrian’s expression collapsed into reluctant surrender. “Very well,” he said, with a sigh that suggested this was a sacrifice. “For the sake of family harmony, and because I have no desire to see my youthful ingenuity used against me—”
“Adrian,” Elizabeth warned. She would not say it, but her concern had been muted by the fact that he was making a joke of it. Surely he would not tease them if it were something terrible. Would he?
Adrian cleared his throat with exaggerated solemnity. “Prince Adrian will, upon meeting Princess Elizabeth, ascertain whether she is already married or engaged. If she is, Their Majesties will honour said attachment and will not interfere.”
Relief rushed through her.
Mr. Darcy released a deep breath.