"Why not? Nothing can shock me now, I just did all the things," I argued.
"I assure you you have not done all the things."
"Are we going to do all the things?"
"Yes—no, perhaps notall."
"Why notall? Perhaps I want to do all the things."
"You do not," said Darcy with decided authority. Yet I was not swayed. "I might. I cannot know," I insisted.
"You should not know." He could not have uttered any sentence that would have convinced me less.
"Why should you get to decide? You should let me read some of your naughty books and let me decide for myself."
"You could never read such books. Not if you insist on calling it your Garden of Delight."
"What do they call it? What doyoucall it?"
"It is not something I would repeat in front of a lady."
I decided to ignore the absurdity of that statement and keep pressing my point. "I want to see your naughty book collection."
"I would not call it a collection."
"Do you have more than two books?"
His silence answered for itself.
"Then it is a collection."
I nudged him. Once. Twice. Incessantly. "Let me see it. If you do not I will assume it does not exist and I will have to conclude you got your experience elsewhere."
"You wish for me to show you my collection?" There was a cunningness to his tone. I knew if I could properly see his expression it would be fox-like.
"Yes." I agreed, because I was almost as eager to see whatever clever distraction hehad thought of as I was his illicit literature.
Breaking our embrace, Darcy stood. With the ease of someone who knew the room he found his way to a candelabra and lit the tapers one by one. His form appeared out of the darkness. I kept my eyes demurely averted until he turned to light more candles allowing me to ogle. I really did not think it was a sight I would grow tired of anytime soon.
After much shuffling about in the wardrobe he produced an unlikely box. It was a case really. A small case, secured by a latch at both sides.
He placed it heavily upon the bed where I sat covered most carefully to the neck with the coverlet. Darcy sat down, covering himself insouciantly to the most minimal degree. He gestured for me to open the case. Conscious of his smirk, I undid the latches and lifted the lid of the case. The horrors I found therein where unthinkable.
I had heard about such men of course. The kind of creatures who kept this sort of collection. That my husband should be one was, well, unsurprising when one really thought about it—but that did not make the burden any easier to bear.
"You are an amateur geologist," I said with farcical revulsion.
"There is no need to say it like that."
"You have a box of stones."
As if it would make it better Darcy said, "There is a fossil or two in there as well."
"They have labels. Individual labels, Darcy—you've organized them," I said, keeping to my horrified act.
"They would hardly be much use if I had not."
"Jane's first suitor was an amateur geologist as well. He inherited quite a lot of money from a rich uncle and he thought he needed a hobby now that he was a gentleman properly. He was very dull to begin with I daresay, but his chosen hobby only made him duller still. He wrote Jane a poem comparing her to some sort of obscure mineral."
