Chapter Eighteen
London
Elizabeth and her aunt visited Matlock House bearing a basket of sweetmeats, French pastries, and hothouse flowers to thank the countess for inviting them to the Fitzwilliam box at the opera the night before.
Jane remained at home, claiming a headache; it took nearly a quarter hour of assurance from Jane that she only wanted rest this morning before Elizabeth would consent to leave her sister.
Upon arriving at Matlock House, Elizabeth was happy indeed that she had come.
The butler showed them into the drawing room with a barely-contained look of high humor; Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner soon discovered the cause of it.
Viscount Bellamy lay sprawled out atop the large pianoforte, the colorful banyan he wore over his clothes falling open, a red rose clenched between his teeth.
Georgiana sat before an easel, painting a portrait of her cousin, while Lady Matilda appeared to be doing the same with a set of watercolors. To Elizabeth’s supreme amazement, the stoic Mr. Darcy was sketching with charcoal, a puckish grin on his face.
As the two women burst into unfettered laughter, the viscount looked over and waggled his brows at them, the rose tipping to one side as he grinned rakishly.
Mr. Darcy sprang to his feet, looking a little chagrined, and as he ran his hands through his hair, he smeared charcoal across his cheek.
Elizabeth found the sight strangely and intensely beguiling.
“Mrs. Gardiner, Miss Elizabeth, what a fortuitous moment for your arrival. I have been learning something of your mischief, have I not?”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth laughed. “I am all astonishment!”
The viscount addressed them without moving from his position, the long stem of the rose still in his mouth, his words amusingly distorted.
“You cannot take all the credit, Darcy – it is hardly the first time we have done something so absurd. But it is amazing that you should be the one to suggest such a lark.”
The countess set aside her watercolors to thank Mrs. Gardiner for the basket, while Mr. Darcy stepped closer to Elizabeth.
“My cousin Richard recently came into possession of an estate, and we thought he might desire a most distinguished portrait gallery in his new home,” he said, straining to affect nonchalance as his eyes twinkled with mirth and his face reddened with mortification.
Georgiana also approached Elizabeth, wiping her hands on the apron she wore over her simple pink frock before taking Elizabeth by the hand. “It is a silly family tradition, to make amusing little portraits of one another. Have you never noticed the others we have had framed?”
She led Elizabeth around the room, pointing to a few other unconventional portraits hanging on the wall in various parts of the room, all surrounded by more traditional artwork.
Elizabeth stopped before a small sketch of a beautiful, dark-haired woman dressed in the Grecian style, reclined on a sofa.
A pale, sickly man who rather resembled Mr. Bingley fed the lady grapes.
Mr. Darcy came to stand close enough to whisper in her ear, “That is Bingley’s late elder brother Henry, and his wife, my cousin Lady Rebecca. For his wedding gift, he requested we memorialize him thus, that we might ever remember him with a smile.”
Elizabeth’s hand brushed against his as she turned to peer up at him. “There is something rather charming about that. But tell me, do your guests often remark on these interesting works of art?”
“Not nearly as frequently as I should wish it; most of our guests are dismally polite and pretend not to notice,” the countess said with a laugh as she resumed her watercolors.
“We must be a very large party when we take your likeness, Miss Elizabeth,” the viscount quipped. “I daresay we shall require half a dozen variations of the scene at least!”
Mr. Darcy grimaced at his cousin, but Georgiana eagerly agreed with him. “Oh! But should you like to join us, Lizzy? I have another canvas if you wish to paint with me, or Tilly might share her watercolors.”
Elizabeth declared that she should prefer to draw, as Mr. Darcy did, and even Mrs. Gardiner was persuaded to join in their japery.
The latter sat with the countess and began diligently painting a faithful rendering, and as a maid brought in tea and refreshments, Mr. Darcy beckoned Elizabeth to join him on the sofa.
“I have lately purchased a new sketchbook, as this one is nearly all used,” he said, offering her the newer leatherbound sketchbook. “You shall have the honor of making the first sketch in its pages.”
“Oh, but I must see your sketches,” Elizabeth said. He leaned closer to her as she perused his drawings, and she smiled at the endearing sight of his charcoal-smudged cheek. “You have a little….”
Before she could finish her sentence, the viscount cleared his throat loudly.
When Elizabeth looked up, she instantly understood that he, the countess, and even Georgiana had silently conspired to say nothing of the charcoal smudge to Mr. Darcy.
The viscount gave a little shake of his head, his eyes widened in silent beseeching.
“I hope you will give some serious consideration, Miss Elizabeth, to how you wish to be captured when we take your likeness,” the viscount drawled. “I shall even grant you a rare courtesy, in choosing where your portrait is placed.”
“I cannot think why you should want a portrait of me,” Elizabeth said, feeling almost bashful as Mr. Darcy again grimaced at his cousin. A strange notion took hold in her mind – if her novels were to be trusted, she might say Mr. Darcy was actually jealous of how the viscount teased her.
“You are practically family already,” Georgiana said cheerfully.
“Quite,” the viscount agreed. “But to truly be one of us, she must not tell Darcy what I know she wishes to.”
Mr. Darcy sat up straighter, his brows furrowed, and Elizabeth felt she must take pity on the poor man. “As brilliantly as Mr. Darcy has heeded my advice to make mischief, I rather fear his reprisals if I do not defend his dignity,” Elizabeth drawled.
The tea had not yet been steeped, and so she retrieved a handkerchief from her reticule and dipped one corner of it into the teapot of hot water.
She moved closer to Mr. Darcy, tapping her own cheek before slowly raising the handkerchief to his face; her other hand automatically moved to rest lightly on his chin as she dabbed away the charcoal.
Mr. Darcy tensed and shuddered, then relaxed as he seemed to comprehend her purpose.
She had acted quickly, but it now seemed an eternity passed as she wiped his cheek.
She had never been so close to him, never behaved so brazenly with him.
He held her gaze, his lips parted, and Elizabeth felt such a strange longing for their bodies to be closer still that she recoiled as soon as she had achieved her purpose.
A strange breathy sound came out of her mouth, rather than any coherent words.
Atop the pianoforte, the viscount gave a hoot of laughter, causing Elizabeth to jolt.
As Viscount Bellamy entreated Mrs. Gardiner to retrieve the rose he had dropped and place it back in his mouth, Elizabeth returned her attention to Mr. Darcy’s sketches.
She remained all too aware of his physical proximity, but she managed to be awed and impressed by his talent for drawing as she flipped through sketches of himself, his sister, and his relations.
He pointed out his aunt Lady Catherine, his cousin Anne, and his cousin the colonel, and after an especially comical rendering of Mr. Bingley, Elizabeth found several sketches of the most beautiful manor she had ever seen.
“Is this Pemberley?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice full of emotion. “I fear I scarcely do its beauty justice. You must see it for yourself to understand what I mean.”
Elizabeth smiled up at him as she turned another page, revealing an equally skillful rendering of Netherfield. “My goodness, I did not think you approved of Netherfield enough to take such a likeness,” she said wryly.
Mr. Darcy reached for the sketchbook. “I ought to return to my drawing of Phillip, and you have not even begun; we shall fall behind the others.”
But as he spoke, Elizabeth turned another page, revealing a sketch of herself. It was different from the others somehow; she stared at the image of her own face and realized that she had never posed for him, nor ever observed him sketching – he must have drawn her from memory.
She also understood that he had not wished her to see it. “Another subject I did not think you admired well enough to immortalize,” she said with a nervous laugh.
His hand brushed hers as he took the sketchbook from her, and then his fingers lingered over her own as he offered her the new one. “Another subject whose beauty I have not fully captured,” he said softly.
It was difficult for Elizabeth to focus on their shared occupation after this, but she and her companions chatted merrily together for nearly an hour as they worked on their drawings and paintings, and the viscount kept up a steady stream of chatter.
Mr. Darcy betrayed flashes of irritation with his cousin from time to time, and always when the viscount addressed his jests to Elizabeth.
Though it seemed to her that Viscount Bellamy was just as liberal in his banter with the other ladies present, she could not dispel her suspicion that Mr. Darcy was jealous of what attention the viscount paid her.