“I welcome the diversion.” He rested against the pillow, looking more relaxed.
She cleared her throat dramatically and took on the role of an orator with her hand across her breast.
“Oh, fairest bloom of nature’s garden sweet,
Whose beauty doth the very stars outshine,
Before thy gaze my heart doth wildly beat,
And yearns to make thy precious spirit mine!”
She glanced up to find Darcy watching her with those deep, penetrating eyes. “Well? Are you not moved to raptures, sir?”
“Profoundly,” he replied dryly. “Though I confess I am struggling to imagine any lady responding favorably to being compared to a garden bloom.”
“Perhaps the next verse will prove more compelling,” Elizabeth suggested, continuing with increased dramatic flair:
“Thy lips, like petals of the reddest rose,
Thy cheeks, like apples ripened on the bough,
Thy slender form, which grace and charm bestows,
Before thy beauty, I can only bow!”
By the final line, Darcy was actually smiling—a genuine smile that transformed his usually severe countenance. “I stand corrected. What woman could resist such eloquence? Especially the comparison to an apple.”
Elizabeth laughed, delighted by his unexpected humor. “Indeed. Though I would prefer not to have my form compared to fruit of any variety.”
Their shared laughter filled the room, a surprisingly harmonious sound that caught Elizabeth off guard. She immediately pressed her fingertips to her lips, suddenly conscious of the impropriety. Here she was, alone with an unmarried gentleman in his bedchamber, reading ridiculous poetry and laughing like old friends.
“Forgive me,” she said, composing her features. “I’ve forgotten myself.”
“On the contrary, Miss Bennet. If we are to be trapped in these gruesome circumstances, we might as well find what pleasure we can in ridiculing bad verse. May I?” He gestured toward the book.
Elizabeth handed it to him, curious to see what he would select. He propped it on his lap, awkwardly turning the pages with his left hand.
“Ah. Here is one that may restore our faith in the poetic arts—or at least provide fewer botanical comparisons.”
He began to read, his deep voice giving the words a gravity she had not expected:
“Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng,
But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.”
He paused, meeting her eyes. “Longfellow. Not quite as entertaining as comparing a woman to an apple, I grant you, but perhaps more truthful.”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth said softly, wondering if he, too, was often defeated by his foils as much as she.
“Your turn, I believe,” Darcy said, returning the book to her.
Elizabeth accepted it, their fingers brushing momentarily in the exchange. She ignored the inexplicable flutter the brief contact caused and quickly turned to another page.
“Oh, this one promises to be particularly dreadful,” she announced. “Listen to this effusion of sentiment.”
“When first I gazed upon thy face divine,
My soul was struck as by a thunderbolt!
