“I should imagine not! Though, he cannot have been all that displeased, for he danced with her at my ball.”
Miss Darcy looked positively triumphant. “Did he indeed?”
Mrs Annesley coughed again, and Bingley turned to her in frustration. “Are you quite well, madam? Allow me to call for some water.”
She declined, and after several reassurances as to her perfect health, Bingley returned his attention to Miss Darcy. She looked somewhat contrite, but that did not prevent her, after a surreptitious glance at her companion, from leaning towards him and asking, “Is Miss Elizabeth very handsome?”
“Miss Darcy!” Mrs Annesley interrupted. “I think it high time you called for tea.”
Bingley judged it best to say no more, but as the ladies busied themselves ordering refreshments, he reflected that the answer to the question was very simple:Yes, she is.
“Touche!”
Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped back, tugging at his shirtsleeves where they stuck to his arms with perspiration. “Father wishes you to join him for dinner a week on Thursday.”
Darcy was engaged in wiping his brow on his sleeve; thus, much of his face was obscured. Fitzwilliam nonetheless observed his grimace.
“Come now, it ought not to be too dire. Only a few sundries in attendance.”
The director called, “En garde,” and both men resumed their positions.
“Ashby will bring Lady Philippa, of course. And she will no doubt bring Lady Daphne.”
“Rapture.”
Fitzwilliam grinned.
“Prêt! Allez!”
He lunged immediately, but Darcy parried, closing the distance between them. Fitzwilliam scrambled to retreat, but in lightning tempo, his cousin executed a sharp beat to his sword, feinted an attack in sixte, disengaged and thrust in the opposite line.
The director called it. “Touche!”
“Bugger!”
“En garde!”
“You will never guess who else will be there,” Fitzwilliam said, ignoring his aching sword arm and resuming his position.
“Prêt!”
“Wellington?” Darcy said flatly.
“Allez!”
Again, Fitzwilliam lunged first, attempting to catch him off guard, but it was a weak attack. Darcy must have seen it also, judging by the speed and angle of his riposte.
“Touche!”
He wondered, on occasion, why he bothered taking Darcy on at all. He brought his feet back under him and stood straight, pushing his damp hair from his face. “Better than that. Guess again.”
“Byron.”
“No.”
“Prinny.”
“A sensible guess, if you please.”
