Chapter Six The Cavalry Descends #2
“And you must be the famous Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” The viscount stopped a respectable distance away but commanded her full attention. “The lady who has conquered the unconquerable.”
Darcy made a sound that could only be described as a muffled whimper and swayed slightly.
Elizabeth squared her shoulders. If the man thought he could intimidate her because he possessed a title and a swagger, he was sorely mistaken.
“I am Miss Elizabeth, yes,” she replied, her voice cool as a cucumber. “Though I am unaware of any conquests, my lord. I generally leave the conquering to the military.” She cast a pointed look at Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was brushing crumbs off his red coat.
“Oh, a parry,” the viscount exclaimed, grinning, his eyes lighting up with delight.
“Modesty becomes you, Miss Elizabeth, but it is unnecessary. My cousin Darcy speaks of nothing else. In fact, he has been quite articulate on the subject of the breadth and variety of your reading habits, though today he seems to have developed a passionate relationship with that iron implement by the hearth.”
Elizabeth refused to cower in the slightest. “I am sure Mr Darcy’s relationship with the fire poker is built upon mutual respect and a shared appreciation for rigid silence,” she countered smoothly. “It is, after all, a very stoic piece of iron.”
From the corner, Anne de Bourgh let out a small snort of laughter.
Mr Darcy closed his eyes. A faint flush crept up the back of his neck, disappearing into his immaculate cravat.
“Brilliant,” Lord Keathley laughed, clapping his hands together. “She is brilliant, Fitzwilliam. I understand now. You are outmatched.”
“Robert, please,” Mr Darcy rasped. He finally, agonisingly, tore his gaze away from the hearth and turned to Elizabeth.
His expression nearly stopped her heart; he was pleading with her. He was standing on a scaffold, waiting for the trapdoor to open. Do not say anything, his eyes begged her. Please, God, do not give him ammunition.
Elizabeth felt a flutter of sympathy again. He was afraid. Mr Darcy was afraid of her.
“I am not outmatching him, my lord,” Elizabeth said to the viscount, though her voice softened slightly. “Mr Darcy and I ... challenge one another’s perspectives.”
“I am sure you do,” the man said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Tell me, Miss Elizabeth. When he is challenging your perspective, does he use words, or does he glare at you until you surrender?”
“He writes,” Elizabeth blurted out, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Mr Darcy choked on his own breath. He coughed and then clapped a hand over his mouth.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stopped chewing his meat. Anne de Bourgh leaned forward, her eyes glittering with interest.
The viscount’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “He writes? Fitzwilliam Darcy engages in written correspondence? Good heavens. Is it legible? Is it exceedingly dry? Does it contain marginalia regarding proper agricultural drainage?”
Elizabeth looked at Mr Darcy. He appeared as though he were about to face a firing squad. She held all the power. She could destroy him. She could recite the phrase warden of my prison and watch him disintegrate into a pile of dust.
Instead, she offered a small, mysterious smile.
“I could not say. But from what I have seen when we happened to reside together at Netherfield last year, his correspondence was... expressive, my lord,” Elizabeth said, her tone even. “He had a depth of feeling that one might not immediately suspect from his sombre exterior.”
Mr Darcy exhaled a long, shaky breath. He glanced at her with such gratitude that Elizabeth felt a flush rise in her cheeks.
“I thank you, Miss Elizabeth. Those were letters to my sister, and some overstated sentiment is allowed in private correspondence, is it not?”
You are pushing your luck, Mr Darcy, Elizabeth thought. But you shall have your way this time, because I am not cruel.
“Very well,” the viscount mused, his eyes darting between Elizabeth and his cousin. “I am intrigued. I shall have to demand that Georgiana show me these letters. I was under the impression his emotional range was limited to ‘mild annoyance’ and ‘severe disapproval’.”
Darcy did not bite. “It is time we departed. We have intruded upon the Collinses long enough.”
“We just arrived!” his cousin protested. “I have not even insulted the upholstery yet.”
“We are leaving,” Mr Darcy commanded, stepping forward and grabbing his cousin by the arm.
“Very well, very well. Do not wrinkle the coat, Darcy.” The viscount shook him off, adjusting his cuffs. He bowed to Charlotte again. “Mrs Collins. A delight. I shall pray for your continued endurance.”
He turned to Mr Collins, who was still near the sofa. “Mr Collins. Keep up the good work. Whatever it is you do.”
“I am a clergyman, my lord! I tend to the spiritual needs of—!”
“Fascinating,” Lord Keathley cut him off smoothly and turned back to Elizabeth, executing a flawless, courtly bow. “Miss Elizabeth. You have exceeded all expectations. I look forward to our next skirmish.”
“As do I, my lord.”
The party departed as swiftly and as chaotically as they had arrived. Colonel Fitzwilliam grabbed one final rib from the tray, tipped his hat, and followed his brother out. Anne de Bourgh cast one last look at Elizabeth, offered a minuscule nod of approval, and glided out the door like a shadow.
Mr Darcy was the last to leave.
He paused on the threshold and looked back at Elizabeth. The arrogant fa?ade was gone, leaving only the man who had penned the letter of doom.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he managed. “I... I hope you are well.”
“I am, Mr Darcy,” she replied. “And you?”
He glanced at the floor, then back at her. “I am at your mercy.”
With that parting shot, he turned and walked out of the parsonage.
The silence that descended upon the parlour was deafening.
Elizabeth was left standing utterly disoriented.
She mentally reviewed the bizarre, dizzying display she had just witnessed.
A viscount had left grieving that he did not have the time to insult the décor, a colonel had eaten their leftovers, an heiress had stared into her soul, and Mr Darcy had begged for dear life using only his eyes.
She wondered exactly what had just happened.
“Well.” Charlotte broke the silence, calmly threading a new needle. “That was more entertaining than discussing the glazing on our windows.”
Mr Collins let out a breath. “A viscount! In my parlour! Oh, my dear Mrs Collins, we must write it down in the parish ledger! History has been made!”
Elizabeth ignored them both. She placed a hand over her heart, feeling its erratic rhythm. She thought of Mr Darcy’s pale face and his final, whispered words.
I am at your mercy.
She turned and marched to the door.
“Where are you going, Lizzy?” Charlotte called after her.
“Upstairs,” Elizabeth replied, her voice firm. “I need to read a letter. Again.”