“Why indeed,” she said, with a most alluring toss of her dark curls. And then, in yet another mercurial shift, the lady said, “But I must ask you, sir, ifIhave yet been forgiven?”
“Forgiven for what? For the lingering scent of musky hound in my carriage, for four days of a stuffed head?”
“Of all my sins against you, I suspect my lack of worshipful gratitude has been the worst,” she said sweetly. “But somehow, I cannot find it in me to thank you sincerely for scaring the life out of me, plunging me underwater, and for nearly knocking loose my hold on my sister’s drowning dog.”
“There you are wrong, miss,” I said crisply.
“Am I? What have I done that is worse than failing to truckle to your superior self?”
“You have ruined my best boots,” I said gravely, “and for that, you are months away from absolution.”
Her laugh pierced me. “Oh? I suppose that upon receipt of new boots, the loss of the old ones will be forgotten.”
“With Herculean effort,yes.”
I could have gone along in this way for another five miles, but we approached the door of the manor house, and Miss Elizabeth excused herself.
I rode away bewildered and lightly singed.
Playing pranks on Miss Bingley required an entirely different skill level than seeking to discompose the lightning bolt at Longbourn. In fact, Longbourn in general, began to trouble me. It was a refuge on the one hand—a welcome respite from the constant threat of entrapment at Netherfield Park. But I was becoming—what was I becoming? I suppose the word wasentangled. I was becoming attached to the Bennets, and unsure whether this was warranted or even wise.
