“Everyone is in on it,” Captain Carter explained to Lydia over lawn bowls. “And no one believes Darcy will get her.”
Lydia snort-laughed. It was beyond diverting to imagine that Lizzy was the object of some great game amongst the gentlemen, a contest between Mr Darcy and his cousin! How droll! She wondered idly whom Lizzy would pick. Mr Darcy had more money, of course, but the colonel… She allowed her eyes to fall on that man. Yes, quite dashing.
“We sisters have our own little games, you know. For the sake of my own wager, I should dearly like to see her kiss Mr Darcy.”
“The colonel is a favourite of most ladies who like a red coat,” said Captain Carter, no doubt seeking reassurance of Lydia’s favour. But she was determined not to give it to him. Men were too quick to become complacent. It did them good to feel uncertain.
“I can see that,” she mused. “Not the handsomest face, to be sure, but a lady does admire an athletic build like his.”
The captain frowned and tossed his ball, which not only overshot the jack but sent it careering off. Lydia laughed loudly but quickly changed to a more placating countenance when he glanced her way.
“Bad luck!” she exclaimed. “I think the lawn is dreadful uneven, do not you?”
He looked relieved. “It is. What say you that we quit this stupid game and eat?”
“I should like that above all things,” Lydia cooed, “but I do wonder…”
“What?”
“As much as I like a little wager among sisters, all I stand to gain for it is some old shoe roses.”
“You are welcome to throw in with the regiment,” Carter replied. “I can lay your bet for you, if you wish me to.”
“I do,” she said, lashes fluttering in a way she hoped was beguiling. “After all, more money in my pocket can only mean more fun in Brighton! Put it on Mr Darcy—I might as well have all my eggs in one basket.”
They spoke more of Brighton as they went to where long tables had been laid with all manner of delicacies. Miss Bingley had done an excellent job arranging the picnic, commissioning cold meats and cheeses, heaps of fresh, crusty bread, a tower of delicious-looking fruits.
Lydia’s father had also come to fill a plate, and hearing Carter rattling away about Brighton, he remarked in a very calm way, “We shall hope to have plenty of letters from you, young man, so that we too may know the delights of which you speak.”
“I shall write to you, Papa,” Lydia cried out staunchly. “Not every day, of course, but you may depend on a letter or two, that much I promise.”
“About that… Finish your luncheon, child, and then I wish to speak to you.”
By all means.Lovelier words had never been spoken.
She just sent Fitzwilliam packing in favour of me.Darcy could scarcely credit that and yet, Fitzwilliam was banished and he alone had the privilege of extending his arm to receive Elizabeth’s hand.I think she did. She sent him packing.
Her hand made a charming weight in the crook of his arm as they continued across the lawn towards the garden where the roses, as well as some spring blooms, made a beautiful prospect.None so beautiful as the one beside me, he thought.
A loud laugh made Elizabeth stiffen, then glance backwards to where one of her sisters played lawn bowls with Captain Carter. She gave a little frown and a sigh, followed with a shake of her head.
“I think you are very worried about your sister,” Darcy observed mildly as they entered the garden.
“I was so very offended by the implication that my father did not do as he should to guide his daughters.”
“I never should have presumed?—”
“You were correct. Which makes it all the worse, unfortunately.” She laughed, but it sounded forced. “This scheme of hers to go to Brighton is excessively ill-advised. When I see how she behaves with my mother and father only paces away?—”
“Elizabeth.” He said her name in a low tone, and she stopped mid-stride to look up at him. “Pray worry no more about this.”
“How can I not? Lydia is too heedless, far more concerned with entertaining herself than with ensuring that she?—”
“Elizabeth.” Darcy decided to risk covering her hand with his. “As it happens, I spoke to your father last night about this verything. I told him why some men—one in particular—ought not to be trusted.”
“Thank you.” She gave him a smile, albeit a worried one. “Alas, my father is not the sort to hear gossip. Even with names and dates, he tends to disbelieve?—”
“He believed me,” Darcy said with quiet insistence. “For I gave him all the names and dates he required. Your father might be a sceptic, like his daughter, but I do think he had faith enough in my character to know I would not impugn my own sister so easily.”
