Page 23 of When Elizabeth's Cat Chose Darcy
Since Elizabeth had not deigned to acknowledge me, neither would I comment on the library’s contents.
I swirled my wine, fingers tight on the stem, and studied my adversary with the same dispassionate scrutiny I applied to drainage proposals and stewards’ accounts. One examines the problem, and one does not admire it.
The green dress was an odd choice. The shade was deeper than fashion dictated, and the cut plainer than Caroline’s silk—no lace at the collar or ribbons at the sleeves, nothing that reached for effect. By all rights, it should have looked provincial. That it did not was an irregularity I attributed to the candlelight, which flattered indiscriminately and could not be held accountable.
Several of her curls had already staged an insurrection near her left temple, escaping their pins with the wilful disregard fordiscipline that appeared to be a defining characteristic of everything associated with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She tucked one behind her ear without interrupting her conversation with Bingley, a gesture so unconscious that it was clearly habitual. I noted this alongside other observations: the way her lips pressed together before delivering a pointed remark, the angle at which she tilted her chin when she wished to appear unconcerned—about twenty degrees, I estimated, though I would need to observe her more to be certain.
When she turned toward my sister, offering me the elegant curve of her neck, my gaze traced the line unbidden, noting a small mole near the nape—another untidy imperfection that enhanced rather than detracted from her allure.
Beneath the table, something warm and furred settled against my ankle. I flinched—which I disguised as an adjustment of my napkin—and looked down to find a pair of amber eyes regarding me with the tranquil possessiveness of a creature who considered me her personal property.
I did not move my leg.
“Georgiana.” Elizabeth’s softened fractionally, the edges rounded in a way she did not seem to control. “Did you practise your Haydn this afternoon?”
“Yes,” said my sister without acknowledging her with a glance.
Silence settled across the table. Even Bingley seemed to register the change. My sister, who had thrown flour and giggled while cavorting in the kitchen, was once again the proper young lady of the highest station. Miss Elizabeth might have spoken to a doorpost.
And then, Georgiana’s neck swiveled toward me, her motion so abrupt it nearly drew Elizabeth’s eyes in my direction. Instead, she caught herself and fixed her gaze at an indeterminate point over my left shoulder.
“Brother, am I still to be civil toyourcompanion?”
The question was devastating. Elizabeth was notmycompanion, but as Georgiana expected an answer, I replied, “You are to conduct yourselfas a Darcy.”
My sister accepted this non-answer with a fractional nod and returned her attention to her plate.
Caroline’s sharp, affronted sneeze announced itself wetly. She pressed her handkerchief to her nose with the aggrieved fortitude of a martyr, though no one acknowledged her discomfort.
Elizabeth, however, rose from the table.
For one bewildering instant, I thought she would leave—that she had made her point, occupied her chair, consumed her dinner, and was now retreating with a semblance of dignity. But she did not walk to the door. Instead, she went to the sideboard and fetched a covered plate I had not noticed. Lifting the cloth, she revealed a neat arrangement of golden biscuits, round and fragrant, dusted with sugar and caraway seeds.
“Miss Darcy and I did manage to finish them before we were interrupted.” She set the plate in front of me, her arm passing so close that I caught the clean scent of lavender, a detail I noted with dispassionate professionalism and did not relish. Not one bit.
But as she placed the plate, her fingers lingered on the edge a moment longer than the gesture required, before she released it and drew her hand back to her side. “I believe they turned out rather well. Would you like to try one?”
Was she specifically addressing me? No matter.
Bingley reached for one and bit into it immediately. “Why, these are magnificent. Darcy, you must try your sister’s Shrewsbury cake. Mrs. Nicholls informs me that they are the King’s recipe.”
Every eye at the table found me. Bingley’s—expectant, unaware of the detonation he had set off with his mouth full of biscuit. Caroline’s—sharp with calculation, willing me to refuse, and Georgiana’s—unreadable, her hands folded in her lap, watching me the way one watches a horse approach a fence, uncertain about clearing it.
And Elizabeth.
She looked at me. Directly and fully, for the first time since walking through that door in her green dress. The impact of her unguarded gaze after an evening of studied avoidance was not unlikestepping from a warm room into a biting wind. Her eyes were dark and bright and carried a challenge so cleanly constructed that refusing it would cost me more than accepting it.
“Mr. Darcy, would you?” she challenged, and the question was not about cakes.
I couldn’t answer, but I picked one up. It was lighter than I had anticipated, sweet with the scent of rose water and butter.
And it was… divine, obviously fit for a king. I record this with the reluctance of a man conceding ground he had fully intended to hold. The butter was rich, the caraway sharp, and the rose water treading the line between fragrance and flavor. The texture crumbled and then reconstituted into something that tasted like the morning I had destroyed—flour suspended in the air, sugar creamed across her face, and my sister’s laughter ringing off the kitchen tiles.
I swallowed. Elizabeth was still watching me, and I discovered I could not look away.
“Well?” Her voice held steady, with the faintest tightening of her lips.
“The caraway is… commendable.” My voice emerged stiffer than I intended, a man reviewing a fine vintage when what he wished to say was something altogether different and considerably less safe.
