“They are shallow and harmless,” Mr. Bennet replied. “I dare say Mr. Darcy would not concern himself. He seems too intelligent for that sort of pettiness—and I imagine he has heard far worse.”
“Words still wound, no matter how often one hears them.” Elizabeth folded her arms and glared at her father’s indifferent countenance. He withdrew in silence, leaving her simmering in frustration. She went to bed still feeling irritated.
Shaking off the recollection, she reached the summit of the hill and paused to draw breath. The climb was not especially difficult, but she had taken it at a brisk pace and now found herself in need of respite. Crossing to a fallen oak log, she seated herself and rubbed her hands together to warm them. Her gloves were thin, and quite unequal to the morning’s chill, but the fur-lined pair she owned tended to grow unpleasant during a long walk.
“Good morning, Miss Elizabeth.”
She started in surprise, turning toward the sound. “Mr. Darcy!” she exclaimed, catching sight of him at the edge of the tree line atop the mount. He sat astride a large, brown-and-white stallion. The horse tossed its mane in the crisp morning light, its breath misting visibly in the air. Mr. Darcy dismounted, and Elizabeth rose to greet him.
“Will you sit beside me, sir?” she asked, gesturing to the log. “’Tis more than large enough for two.”
He nodded and joined her. “This tree was felled a few years ago,” she explained. “The local furniture and cabinet makerharvested the oak timber. My father’s desk was fashioned from the very wood.”
“A fond reminder of his boyhood, I expect. This oak tree must have been a sterling specimen for a lad to climb.”
“Only for a boy, Mr. Darcy?” She lifted a brow in mock offence. “I must inform you that you are in the presence of the finest tree-climber in the shire. My speed reaching the top remains unbroken—and as the tree is no more, it shall stand indefinitely.” She smiled triumphantly.
“Do you still climb trees, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked, eyes bright with amusement.
“I shall never confess it.”
Her answer appeared to delight him, for his smile deepened.He ought to do that more often,she mused.His smile does much for his features.He was not an outwardly handsome man—nor would he ever be; indeed, society would never agree to that. But Elizabeth did not mind. She found his face interesting. The broken nose and the scar added a touch of mystery—at least Elizabeth thought so.
“Do you find me handsome, Miss Elizabeth?”
His unexpected question caught her off guard, and Elizabeth responded before she could think better of it.
“No, sir.” Clapping a hand over her mouth, her eyes widened in horror. Dropping it again, she hastened to apologize.
“There is no need,” he said, raising a hand to silence her. “I asked and expected an honest reply. Had you answered otherwise, I should suspect you of seeking my favor for some self-serving purpose.”
“Appearances are not everything,” she protested earnestly. “I like your company very much.”
“An old friend once said that only those with none claim looks to be of little importance.” The tone of his words held a bitternote, and he bowed his head, his gaze on his clasped hands. “Yet your words would seem to contradict his.”
“Your friend sounds dreadfully boorish,” Elizabeth replied, with a flash of indignation. “My father has impressed upon me that a person’s worth lies within. You, sir, are far more than your face.”
He glanced up at her quizzically. “My scar does not trouble you?” he asked, plainly astonished. “’Tis a recent addition to an already imperfect countenance.” He traced a finger down its length, a thoughtful look overtaking him. “Does it make me appear roguish?”
She laughed. “I have heard it whispered once or twice.” After a brief pause, she continued. “Have you been approached by those seeking only to benefit from your acquaintance?”
“Such is often the way for those with wealth,” he replied indifferently. “Perhaps I find it easier to discern sincerity, precisely because…” He trailed off.
“Because people overlook you at first,” she said quietly, “only to trip over themselves for an introduction once they learn of your fortune?”
He looked at her, eyes alight with surprise. She pressed on.
“I noticed it at the assembly. Mama scarcely acknowledged your presence—though she is shallower than most. Even after learning of your income, she did not believe you worthy of her daughters’ notice.” Elizabeth shook her head. “Mama is absurd.”
“That is not how most matrons respond.” He seemed amused rather than offended. “Tell me, did she warn you against me?”
“Not directly,” Elizabeth admitted, rubbing her hands together for warmth. The sun had begun to warm her cheeks, but the air remained sharp. “I must apologize on her behalf. She would never own to any fault, I fear.”
He grinned. “Think nothing of it. Her opinion is not singular. I have heard worse. Most mamas are willing to overlook my visage for the sake of seeing their daughters as mistress of Pemberley.”
“Is it a very great estate?” She had grown curious about Mr. Darcy’s home. He lived in the North, but she could not recall if she had ever heard precisely where.
“It is. Pemberley is in Derbyshire, very near the Peak. The estate spans some ten miles. It is maintained largely through tenant farms, though we also harvest timber and raise sheep. Most recently, I have invested in a number of textile mills.”
