Page 52 of When Elizabeth's Cat Chose Darcy
“Cinnamon!” I hissed, heat rising to my cheeks as I recognized my own lackluster handiwork.
Darcy reached down and retrieved the cloth, holding it by the corner. His long fingers were stark against the uneven, jagged stitches. Rather than looking appalled, he appeared… curious. He traced a crooked line of thread with his thumb, a blocky letter ‘E’—my attempt at a monogram.
“It is mine,” I admitted, my voice sounding much more defensive than I intended. “I am afraid my needlework lacks the ‘improvement’ your sister has mastered. I have a habit of losing my way when the thread becomes tedious.”
He looked up, and at that moment, the distance between us felt as thin as the linen.
“It is a thoroughly honest monogram, Miss Elizabeth, and the hem can be said to possess character,” he said. The usual aristocratic edge had bled completely from his timbre, leaving only a low, resonant warmth. “I find I vastly prefer a line that tells a story over one that merely follows a rule.”
He didn’t hand it back immediately. Cinnamon wove between his legs, pressing against him and purring, clearly considering the gift to be his now.
“May I?” he asked, indicating his intention to return it.
“Please,” I reached for it, my fingers brushing his as I snatched the evidence of my domestic failure away. “Though I suspect I should give it back to the cat. She clearly thinks it is her property now.”
Georgiana stooped to pet the cat. “I do not think she wants you to have it back, Elizabeth; she clearly believes Fitzwilliam’s pocket is a much safer place for a crooked hem.”
