17. Chapter Seventeen #3
A breeze lifted the edge of Elizabeth’s bonnet ribbon and brushed it against her cheek. She tucked it back beneath her chin. “I confess, that still astonishes me at times.”
“Georgiana’s trusting her?”
“Lydia being trusted.”
Darcy’s mouth moved with restrained amusement. “She has earned it more than I expected.”
Elizabeth arched one brow. “Mr. Darcy, are you admitting fondness for my youngest sister?”
“I believe I admitted nothing so serious.”
“You did. In tone, if not in words.”
“In tone?”
“Yes. A very grave, brotherly tone. Quite condemning.”
He gave a low laugh. The sound warmed her more than the sun. “I have grown rather fond of Miss Lydia,” he said. “Though I reserve the right to be alarmed by her.”
“That is wise. Fondness should never interfere with self-preservation.”
“She is rash, impertinent, and far too delighted by disorder.”
Elizabeth was vastly amused. “Do continue. I can scarcely distinguish whether you condemn or admire her.”
The look Darcy gave was unfair. “Perhaps I have discovered an admiration for impertinent misses.”
She shook her head, though she could not help smiling. “That is a broad category.”
“Not very broad.”
“Are you flirting with me, sir?” She adored him.
“Yes.” The single word touched her more effectively than a compliment. He did not even pretend innocence.
Elizabeth looked ahead quickly, but she could feel him beside her, amused and pleased with himself. “You were more dignified when I disliked you,” she said.
“I was more miserable then.”
That answer sobered her. She reached again for his hand, and this time he rotated his palm upward before her fingers touched his.
“I was wrong about so much,” she said.
“So was I.”
“Yes, but I was confidently wrong. That is always worse.”
“I assure you, I was arrogantly wrong. We may dispute precedence.”
“I yield. Arrogance outranks confidence.”
“That is generous of you.”
“I am a generous woman,” she said saucily.
“Lydia has mentioned this new development in your character.”
Elizabeth groaned. “Has she?”
“At breakfast. She announced her own generosity, but I inferred the habit may run in the family.”
“She will never allow me peace if she discovers she assisted us.” Lydia had been almost bearable the last few days. Elizabeth did not wish for that to change.
“Then we must not tell her.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “You cannot expect to keep anything from Lydia. She will smell romance in the curtains.”
Darcy startled into laughter.
The mare flicked her ears again, perhaps offended by the disturbance.
Elizabeth watched him with a satisfaction too great to hide. “There. That is what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“You laugh more now.”
His humor softened, though not into sadness. “Do I?”
“Yes. Georgiana notices too.”
“She has had cause to worry over my spirits.” His face grew sober as he spoke.
“She loves you.”
“I know.” The simplicity of his answer touched her. No vanity. No embarrassment. Merely gratitude, worn deeply.
“And you love her very much,” Elizabeth said.
“She is my first duty and one of my greatest comforts.”
“Then I am glad Lydia has been good for her.”
Darcy nodded. “I am glad as well. It has required some rearrangement of my opinions.”
“Painful?”
“Frequently.”
“I hope you survived.” Lydia could be a menace when she wanted.
“Barely. Your sister is formidable.”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “Lydia will be unbearable when she learns that, too.”
“She is already unbearable.” Darcy watched the road, but his mouth curved up in a smile.
“And yet you are fond.”
“Yes.”
There was no resisting the tenderness that rose in her then.
Tenderness for Georgiana, who had found a friend where no one would have thought to seek one.
For Lydia, who had somehow stumbled into loyalty and grown a little because of it.
For Darcy, who could revise his judgments and admit it with more grace than most men would ever attempt.
The gig moved down a shaded lane and passed through a patch of sunlight so bright Elizabeth had to lower her eyes. Darcy guided the mare around a rut, his arm brushing hers. The brief contact now carried the memory of his embrace, and she had to draw in a careful breath.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
“I am trying,” he said softly, “to behave with appropriate restraint.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“How unfortunate.” She rather liked it when he kissed her.
His hand caressed hers.
“Elizabeth.”
She ought not enjoy provoking him. She did.
The lane opened into a small clearing near the stream. Darcy drew the gig to a halt and helped her down. This time, when her hand rested in his, neither pretended indifference. He kept hold of her after her feet touched the ground.
They walked a short distance to where the water crossed over flat stones and disappeared beneath ferns. It was not a grand view. Not imposing. Merely lovely in a small, secret way.
“I came here often as a boy,” Darcy said. “When I wished to avoid lessons.”
“You avoided more lessons than Latin?”
“Rarely.”
No, she could not imagine Darcy shirking his duties. “But not never.”
“No.”
“This is excellent news. I had begun to fear you were born responsible.”
He laughed. “I disappointed many tutors before reforming.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
“That is hardly rebellion.”
“I was six.”
She scoffed. “Indeed? You are a hardened offender.”
He smiled down at the stream. “My father pretended severity. My mother sent biscuits afterward.”
Elizabeth tried to picture him small and solemn and secretly biscuit-fed. The image delighted her more than it should.
“You must tell me more stories of your childhood,” she said.
“I warn you, there are fewer scandals than Lydia would prefer,” he cautioned her.