Page 37 of Darcy's Legacy Tortoise
The dog ignored this command with magnificent indifference. Instead, it pressed closer to my skirts, its great plumed tail sweeping the marble floor with slow, deliberate wags.
“I do apologise.” The voice resolved itself into Mr. Darcy, emerging from the drawing room with an expression of profound irritation. “He is not usually—Caractacus, heel.”
The wolfhound glanced back at his master, looked at me with what could only be described as canine devotion, and with great dignity planted his considerable bulk directly upon my feet.
I surprised myself by laughing. The sound escaped before I could contain it, and the dog’s tail accelerated its tempo in apparent approval. I dropped, most unladylike, to embrace the great creature when his long, wet tongue found my wind-chapped cheekbones, eliciting more laughter while Darcy sputtered and his aunt gasped with outrage.
“He seems to have made his choice, Mr. Darcy.” I scratched behind one enormous ear. The fur was coarser than I expected, wiry and warm. “I am afraid you have been thoroughly displaced.”
A brief change passed over Darcy’s features—surprise or annoyance, or some other quicksilver emotion gone too swiftly to grasp. “Caractacus has never behaved this way with a stranger.”
“Then I am honored by the distinction.” I kept my voice light, my attention on the dog. Far easier than meeting those penetrating dark eyes and remembering the last time I had seen him, watching me with an intensity that had made my skin prickle like autumn frost. “Though I confess I have done nothing to deserve such devotion.”
“No. Neither have I.” His voice was a low rumble, almost as if it were a theatrical aside.
Before I could unravel this peculiar statement, Lady Catherine’s voice swept through the hall with all the delicacy of a mallet to fine china. “Darcy! What is the meaning of this delay? And why is that creature not in the kennels where it belongs?”
“Caractacus does not care for the kennels, Aunt.”
“A dog’s preferences are hardly—” Lady Catherine emerged into the hall and stopped dead at the sight of her nephew’s prized wolfhound plastered against my hems and ruffled petticoats. “What on earth?”
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet, your ladyship.” Mr. Collins performed a bow so deep it seemed to defy both proprietyand the natural limitations of the human spine. “My wife’s particular friend, come to stay with us at Hunsford. I believe I mentioned?—”
“Yes, yes, the girl from Hertfordshire.” Lady Catherine’s gaze swept me from head to hem and found me as wanting as last season’s bonnet. “I see Darcy’s dog has taken leave of its senses.”
“Animals are such excellent judges of character,” I said with honey-sweet innocence, looking directly into her ladyship’s imperious eyes. “One can always trust their instincts in matters of discernment.”
Charlotte made a small, strangled noise. Darcy’s jaw tightened with such force I feared for his teeth. And Caractacus, the magnificent traitor, pressed even closer to my legs.
Dinner proved precisely the ordeal I had anticipated, with the added complication of roughly twelve stone of canine devotion.
Lady Catherine held forth on every conceivable topic—the proper management of servants, the shocking state of modern manners, particularly among young women of obscure birth, and the many ways in which my upbringing had clearly been deficient. I answered with just enough deference to satisfy Mr. Collins and just enough wit to satisfy myself, a delicate art that would have challenged a seasoned diplomat.
The wolfhound lay beneath the table with his massive head planted firmly upon my feet. I had made several earnest attempts to dislodge him. Truly, I had. But Caractacus possessed the immovability of ancient monoliths and the stubborn determination of—well, of a Bennet, if I am to be honest. He had followed me into the dining room despite Darcy’s increasingly exasperated commands, positioned himself beneath my chair,and apparently settled in for the duration of the meal and possibly the remainder of my natural life.
“The dog has never behaved in this manner,” Lady Catherine announced for at least the fourth time, as if repetition might alter the facts. “Darcy, your hound is making an absolute spectacle.”
“I am quite aware, Aunt.”
“He should be removed forthwith.”
“He does not wish to be removed.”
“Since when do we consult a dog’s wishes on matters of proper behavior?”
“Since he weighs twelve stone and has decided to defend his position with the tenacity of a medieval knight.” Darcy’s voice was dry as autumn leaves. I glanced up and caught him watching me—not the dog, but me—with an expression I could not properly decipher. “I find it easier to choose my battles.”
“Ridiculous.” Lady Catherine attacked her pheasant as if the bird had personally offended her. “Miss Bennet, I understand you have four sisters.”
“I do, your ladyship.”
“And none of you properly accomplished, I suppose. Can you play the pianoforte?”
“A little, and very badly.”
“Do you draw?”
“Not at all, unless stick figures count among the fine arts.”
