6. The Charming Colonel #3
Darcy followed her gaze. “My cousin is merely admiring good artwork. He is quite a connoisseur.”
“Hmmm.” Elizabeth put an elegant finger across her lips, and Darcy wondered that he had not noticed how full and rosy they were.
“Should I warn Jane that Fitzwilliam men are prone to sudden enthusiasms that evaporate as quickly as they appear? Or is that particular failing unique to the Derbyshire branch?”
“You are determined to find malice in every motive, are you not?”
“I am merely attempting to comprehend a gentleman who insists upon bearing the burdens of the entire county upon his broad, impeccably tailored shoulders,” she said, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper.
“Tell me, Mr. Darcy, does the weight of our collective ignorance keep you awake at night, or does the consciousness of your own benevolence afford you quite enough sleep?”
Darcy stared at her, caught somewhere between a desire to shake her and an unholy, terrifying urge to laugh, which he forcefully suppressed. “You have a redoubtable talent, Miss Elizabeth, for turning gratitude into an insult. I, however, enjoy very little about this situation.”
“Then we are in complete agreement.” She turned back toward the room, where Richard had coaxed Jane into demonstrating a watercolor technique, their heads bent together over the easel.
“Though I confess your cousin seems to be enjoying himself rather more than you. Perhaps charm is not equally distributed among the Fitzwilliam branches.”
Darcy felt the barb land and stilled himself not to react. Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed with sudden, strategic interest. “Your cousin’s sincere interest in our improvements has me reconsidering my position.”
“If this is a roundabout way of soliciting my opinion on your accomplishments, you may spare yourself the exertion.”
“Your opinion, Mr. Darcy? Good heavens, no.” A quick, bright smile touched her lips.
“I was thinking of a far more practical education. The dancing master, for instance, seems remarkably patient, and I am told your cousin has a fine reputation for gallantry. One must keep abreast of the latest London styles. The waltz, I understand, requires a very particular sort of partnership.”
“If you imagine Richard has the patience to instruct a beginner in the waltz, you are grievously mistaken.”
“Am I?” She cast a sidelong glance across the room, where Richard was currently demonstrating a graceful turn for Lydia.
“He seemed remarkably obliging just now. And unlike some gentlemen of our acquaintance, the Colonel appears to believe that a lady may be addressed without an accompanying lecture on estate management.”
“Richard is unfailingly polite to a fault,” Darcy said, his jaw tightening with every syllable. “You may avail yourself of the dancing master as you seem fit, but do not suppose my cousin would request a set.”
“Oh, I believe we shall come to an understanding. But Mr. Darcy, those are not your concerns.” She pointed a calculating smile in the direction of the Colonel, who had now been surrounded by Lydia, Kitty, and Mrs. Bennet practicing curtsies and bows.
“I simply wish to be prepared. I am certain Longbourn will host a ball once your extensive renovations are completed, and I should hate to embarrass my family by stumbling through the figures when a dashing colonel in regimentals offers me his hand. I most certainly cannot let my sisters monopolize his gallantry.”
“He has not asked you,” Darcy bleated and checked his hand from adjusting his too-tight cravat.
“Not yet. But give him five minutes and a glimpse of my untouched pink journal, and I am certain he shall come dashing to my rescue.” She turned away, her shoulder brushing his in a calculated, deliberate slight.
“If you will excuse me, Mr. Darcy? I believe I must go and inquire whether the Colonel prefers a three-step or a catapulted catastrophe. One must endeavor to make oneself known, is that not so? Especially for young ladies who lack the suitable connections.”
And she was gone, gliding across the room toward Richard with her green skirts swaying, her laughter already rising as she tapped his shoulder and said something that made him turn from Jane with a delighted grin.
Darcy watched his cousin take Elizabeth’s hand, watched him lead her through a demonstration turn, watched the two of them begin the opening figures of a waltz while Mrs. Bennet clapped, Lydia demanded to be next, and Mary observed from behind her blue journal.
A movement at the edge of his vision made his face flush, and this time, his hand wandered unbidden to his cravat.
Mr. Bennet sat in his customary chair by the fire, a glass of wine in his hand and an expression of profound entertainment on his face. As Darcy’s gaze met his, the older man raised his glass in a silent toast—to Darcy, to Elizabeth, to the magnificent disaster unfolding before them both.
His eyes sparkled with wicked delight, and Darcy, refusing to play along, kept his glass firmly on the table.