"It promotes better conversation angles."
"It looks like we are preparing for a tribunal." She stopped in front of him, tilting her head. "William, look at me."
Darcy sighed and met her gaze. He saw the worry there, but also a new sharpness. The events of the last two days—the encounter at the bookshop, the raid on Cheapside—had awakened a spark in his sister.
"This is not normal," she stated. "You are never this agitated. Not for Lady Catherine. Not for the Prince Regent. You are acting as if we are about to be besieged."
"We are having guests. It is proper to be prepared."
"It is proper to be polite. It is not necessary to redecorate the house." She reached out and took his hand. "William. You told me you 'liked' her. You said she was an acquaintance whose intellect you admired."
"I do."
"This," she gestured to the room, to his tense shoulders, to the general air of hysteria, "is not 'liking'. This is panic. Is it... is it more than that, Brother?"
Darcy looked at her. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to say,Yes, it is everything. It is the only thing.But he couldn't. Because if he said it aloud, and then Elizabeth rejected him,which was the statistically probable outcome, the humiliation would be absolute. And worse, it would break Georgiana's heart too, just as she was learning to trust again.
"It doesn't matter," he said finally, his voice rough. He pulled his hand away gently. "It cannot be anything more, Georgiana. Her connections, our situation, the history with Bingley and her sister… it is impossible. I am merely trying to be a good host."
Georgiana looked at him sadly. "You are trying to be perfect. You always think if you are perfect, nothing can hurt you."
Before Darcy could respond to that uncomfortably accurate dissection of his character, the front doorbell rang.
"They cannot be here yet," Darcy said, panic flaring. "It is only ten o'clock!"
But it was not the Bennets. It was, in fact, a forest.
Mostyn, the butler, appeared at the door, looking as flustered as a man of his dignity could be. "Sir. A delivery. From... from Lord Keathley."
Behind him, a procession of footmen began to march in. They were carrying vases. Massive, overflowing vases. Not just a bouquet, but an entire horticultural exhibition.
Roses. Dozens of them. Hundreds of them. Hothouse roses in shades of cream, pale pink, and vibrant peach. They filled the room, the scent instantly overpowering the smell of lemon polish.
"Good heavens," Georgiana gasped.
"Robert," Darcy growled.
A card was attached to the largest arrangement, which required two men to carry. Darcysnatched it up.
For the Goddess. An English Rose should be among her own kind. Try not to let Darcy wither them with his gloom. - R.
"He is insane," Darcy muttered. "He has bought every rose in London."
"It is romantic," Georgiana sighed, touching a velvet petal. "A little excessive, but romantic."
"It is a fire hazard," Darcy countered. "Where are we supposed to sit? We shall have to navigate a jungle to reach the tea tray."
"We will make room," Georgiana said firmly. "Put that one by the window. And that one... oh, would it fit in the hall?"
As the servants rearranged the floral invasion, the door opened again. This time, the perpetrators themselves arrived.
Robert Fitzwilliam strolled in, looking sickeningly pleased, followed by a grinning Richard.
"I see the tribute has arrived," Robert announced, surveying the room. "Excellent. It adds a touch of life, don't you think? Covers up the smell of despair."
"You have turned my drawing room into a conservatory," Darcy said.
"You are welcome." Robert clapped him on the shoulder. "Now, where are these lemon biscuits I heard about? Rumour has it you held a knife to the cook's throat to get them."
