A flicker of heat passed across her cheeks, and I found I disliked not knowing its cause.
“High praise indeed, Mr. Darcy. I shall inform the King’s baker that his recipe has been deemedcommendableby the master of Pemberley.” Her voice was full and resonant, and I could not help comparing it to fine port.
“This is not Pemberley,” I said, for want of anything better to say. “Mr. Bingley has already consumed four, which should be all the commendation you require.”
“I believe the rosewater is excessive,” Georgiana said, biting into one. “I added more than Miss Elizabeth specified, and I was told I was being reckless.”
Bingley laughed outright. “Miss Darcy, youare a woman of formidable talents. These are superb, and I insist you make them again.”
“Then perhaps you had better ask my companion for permission.” She smiled at Bingley in a way that puzzled me. “I’m pleased that you prefer my excesses.”
“That settles it.” Bingley’s smile brightened. “I shall expect Miss Elizabeth to fill your days and anticipate all the good taste she can supply.”
Caroline emitted a sound halfway between a sneeze and a snort. And Elizabeth? Dinner having concluded civilly, for the most part, she scooped up her cat and wished the table a good evening, not sparing me a final glance.
She did not need to. The first one—the one over the Shrewsbury cakes, where I had discovered no strategy for being looked at by Elizabeth Bennet—was sufficient.
