"We shall see," Elizabeth whispered. "We shall see, Aunt."
But as she went to the window to watch the carriage pull away, she caught a glimpse of Mr Darcy looking back at the house. He didn't look like a haunting ghost anymore. He looked like a man who had just survived a battle and was already planningthe next campaign.
And Elizabeth, to her infinite surprise, found she was rather looking forward to the skirmish.
Chapter Five: The Lemon Biscuit Emergency
If there was a patron saint of panic, Fitzwilliam Darcy was currently building a shrine to him in the breakfast room of his London townhouse.
It was Sunday morning. The bells of St. George's were pealing in the distance, calling the faithful to worship, but Darcy was engaged in a different sort of devotion: the absolute, fanatical pursuit of perfection.
He had been awake since dawn. He had paced the length of the first floor three times. He had inspected the drawing room curtains and found them wanting. He had terrified a housemaid by staring intensely at a rug for five minutes, trying to determine if it was aligned with the magnetic north.
"Mrs Crauford," Darcy said, pivoting on his heel to face his housekeeper. Mrs Crauford was a stout, formidable woman who had run Darcy House for twenty years and had never seen her master in such a state. She stood with her hands clasped, watching him with the wary expression of a menagerie keeper observing a lion that had suddenly decided to start a jig.
"Sir?"
"The tea service. The Sèvres porcelain. Is it ready?"
"It has been washed, polished, and set out, Sir. As it was ten minutes ago when you asked."
"And the drawing room? The light is... severe. We should draw the sheer curtains. But then it might be too dim. We want an atmosphere of effortless welcome."
"Effortless," Mrs Crauford repeated dryly. "Of course, Sir."
"And the refreshments." Darcy stopped pacing. This was the critical point. "I recalled... that is, I seem to remember from my time in Hertfordshire..." He paused, feeling the heat rise in his neck. Why was this so difficult to admit? "That a guest expressed a preference for lemon biscuits. The small ones. With the glaze."
Mrs Crauford blinked. "Lemon biscuits, Sir? The cook has prepared the macaroons, the sponge cake, and the almond tarts you requested yesterday."
"Yes, but the lemon biscuits. They are specific. Crisp, but not hard. Tart, but not sour. Does Cook know the recipe?"
"I believe Cook is capable of baking a biscuit, Sir. Though on such short notice..."
"It is essential," Darcy said, his voice dropping to a register of grave importance usually reserved for discussions about the Corn Laws. "If we do not have lemon biscuits, the entire afternoon may well be a failure."
Mrs Crauford stared at him. She looked at the perfectly appointed room. She looked at the master of the house, who was currently wearing a waistcoat he had changed into only twenty minutes ago because the previous one was "too sombre."
"I shall inform Cook immediately, Sir," she said, her tone suggesting she would also be informing the staff to hide the sharp objects. "Lemon biscuits. Specific glaze. Essential for the preservation of the Empire."
"Thank you, Mrs Crauford."
She swept out, leaving Darcy alone with his anxiety. He walked to the window and looked out at Grosvenor Square. It was a grey, flat morning. In a few hours, she would be here. In his house. Sitting on his furniture. Drinking his tea. Eating his biscuits.
He rubbed his chest. The ache was there, a tight knot of hope and terror. He had forced this invitation. He had allowed Robert to bully him into it, yes, but he had been the one to look Georgiana in the eye and agree. And now, faced with the reality of Elizabeth walking through his front door, he felt entirely unequipped.
He was Fitzwilliam Darcy. He owned half of Derbyshire. He had an income that made mothers weep with joy. And yet, the thought of Elizabeth raising one incredulous eyebrow at his curtains was enough to make him want to flee to the Continent.
"You are being ridiculous," he told his reflection in the windowpane. "She is just a woman. A woman who finds you arrogant, stiff, and generally disagreeable. Lemon biscuits are not going to change that."
But he went to check on the progress of the baking anyway. Just in case. On his way to the kitchen, he halted abruptly.
"William?"
He froze in the act of straightening a portrait of his great-grandfather. He turned to find Georgianastanding in the doorway of the drawing room. She was dressed for church, though they had decided to attend the early service to be back in time for the call. She looked lovely, soft, and utterly bewildered.
"Good morning, Georgiana."
"Mrs Crauford says you are terrorizing the kitchen staff about citrus fruit," she said, walking into the room. She looked around. "And you have moved the sofa."
