"You might have explained your fears—"
"I wasn't afraid. I was disgusted. I thought you were deformed. You still might be, I do not know." Fine, that was unnecessarily cruel.
Darcy apparently accustomed to viciousness, ignored this comment. "You might have explained and we might have avoided confusion . . . and the involvement of my aunt."
"How could I have explained such a thing?"
"As you you have just now."
"I most certainly could not have. Not with you standing therein the nude," I said, whispering the final words as if someone might be spying on us. The clocks perhaps.
"I would have been happy to cover myself had you told me what was making you uncomfortable."
"The origin of my discomfort should have been obvious. It was absolutely unaccountable of you undressing like that. There had not been enough preface."
"Preface?"
"Preliminaries. Prelude. I was not yet properly . . . warmed."
"Ah."
"And then you disrobed, proud as anything, brandishing that thing."
"My enormous weapon?" he asked earnestly. Then his lips quirked.
I narrowed my eyes at him.
"I had additional preface planned. I thought the dressing gown would impede my movements and as I would eventually have to remove it in anyway it seem most expedientto do so before joining you in bed."
"How was I to know that?"
"You could not have known, of course. It was unconscionable of me to have made such a blunder. Next time I will provide you with a detailed program at least four hours prior any conjugal activity as to eliminate any possibility of misunderstanding."
"I do not appreciate your sarcasm."
"What a pity, as I always appreciate yours."
"Really?" I asked, my tone keen rather than sardonic as I had intended. His opinion should not matter so desperately to me and it does not, obviously, but it would be nice to know there is something about me Mr. Darcy likes.
"Almost always," he amended. There was a softness in his expression I could not account for. It seemed out of place on Darcy's face. At least when I was the object of his attention.
I broke from his gaze, feeling as I did so that it had been a cowardly act.
"Who is your favorite author?" I said before the incessant ticking could overcome me.
Darcy appeared understandably disconcerted by the suddenness of the question. "Why do you ask?" he deflected.
Because I would like to know you and I figured I better get some conversation in quick before you remembered something you had to attend to.
I shrugged nonchalantly. "Just curious."
"I do not think I have one."
"Certainly you do."
"There are so many capable authors from which to choose. My favorite varies depending on mood."
"Pick one."
