Louisa nodded. “Of course.
“They’re impossible to book now,” Caroline added.
Malcolm launched into a story about his own architect, Louisa contributed an anecdote about stone suppliers, and soon the table was trading names of upholsterers and lighting consultants as though they were football teams.
Darcy, she noticed, navigated it all with practiced ease, fluent in the language of curated spaces and architectural prestige. He belonged in that world.
She wasn’t sure she did.
Chapter Fourteen
The dining room still carried the faint scents of roasted turkey and Christmas pudding, but after they had cleared the table, Jane shooed the men away.
Darcy and his cousins followed Charles into the den. He took in the scene: the dark leather chairs opposite a sofa with a coffee table between, the faint scent of cedar as Charles bent to light the fire, the hush that fell once the women’s voices were behind a closed door.
Charles carried in a tray of whisky glasses and set it on the table. Darcy accepted a glass with a murmur of thanks and sat near the fireplace, awaiting whatever interrogation was about to commence. His cousins had been suspiciously well-behaved during dinner, a sure sign they were saving their best ammunition for when they were alone.
He wondered again what was bothering Elizabeth. She had been just a bit hot and cold since . . . well, since the headphones. But she’d insisted shelikedthem. They weren’t as amazing as the scarf, but they were a good present. Weren’t they?
Malcolm dropped into the chair opposite and stretched his long legs. His grin, even before he spoke, warned Darcy that some teasing was inevitable.Richard sprawled in the other chair at an angle. Charles settled beside Darcy on the sofa, oblivious to the gathering storm.
The first taste of the whisky was smooth, welcome. Darcy let it rest on his tongue and waited.
“Right then,” Malcolm began, swirling his glass with theatrical precision, “shall we discuss the weather? The state of the economy? Or shall we cut straight to the obvious topic?”
“The obvious topic being?” Darcy asked.
“Your Elizabeth,” Richard supplied helpfully, “and her new domestic tendencies.”
“Knitting,” Malcolm added with relish. “Planning on making doilies for your office next? Or perhaps she’s halfway through a tea cosy for your desk.”
Darcy raised one eyebrow but said nothing. He had learned long ago that protesting only made it worse.
Charles, however, snorted into his glass. “Most doilies are crocheted.”
The other three turned their heads to look at him.
Charles stared back. “Everyone knows that.”
“No.” Richard shook his head. “Everyone doesnotknow that.”
“It’s basic knowledge,” Charles protested.
Malcolm shook his head. “Charles, mate, the fact that you possess ‘basic knitting knowledge’ is the problem here.”
Charles grinned. “Not knitting. Crocheting.”
Richard let out a laugh. “We really must have you on our trivia team at the pub.”
“It’s not trivia.” Charles grinned. “Just being accurate. My aunt Philippa was a champion crocheter. I spent many childhood hours being lectured on the differences between single, double, and treble crochet stitches.”
“And now you’re passing that wisdom on to us,” Malcolm said. “How generous.”
“Mock if you will.” Charles shrugged, “But precision matters.”
Darcy wondered idly whether his friend was distracting his cousins intentionally. He rather thought he was. Charles had never seen them quite like this before, didn’t know that once the Fitzwilliams had something in their craws, they could not be stopped.
Malcolm groaned theatrically. “Fine, crocheted then. The point stands.” He turned to Darcy. “Next thing we know, Elizabeth will be cross-stitching cushions with inspirational quotes for your flat.”
