She bit her lip to hold back a smile and turned to the shelf once more, unsure which of the titles she might borrow—but very certain that, whatever she read that afternoon, the company had already been the most intriguing part.
∞∞∞
As the door closed softly behind her, Darcy remained still, eyes fixed on the space where Elizabeth had stood only a moment before. The echo of her voice still lingered in the quiet of the room, the cadence of her wit looping through his thoughts like a refrain he had not known he longed to hear again.
He exhaled slowly, his fingers resting on the spine of the book he had abandoned the moment she entered. Plutarch suddenly felt exceedingly dry.
There had been something different in her manner today—something more open, more engaging. And yet it had not been flirtation. No coquettish games, no artifice. Just… her. Bright, intelligent, sharp-tongued and warm-hearted. A woman unlike any other he had met—particularly in Hertfordshire, though he was beginning to suspect she might be unlike any other anywhere.
Her laugh—that low, clear sound—played again in his mind, and he allowed himself a smile, small but genuine.
She had teased him, yes. She always did. But she had listened, too. They had spoken as equals. He could not remember the last time he had shared a conversation with a woman that had not left him feeling either awkward or exhausted. And though he was more aware than ever of how quick her mind was, he found no discomfort in it. Rather the opposite.
Darcy stepped forward and reached for the book she had handled.The Vicar of Wakefield. He turned it over in his hand, considering the worn leather binding, her delicate fingerprints surely lingering on the cover. It was not what he wouldhave guessed, no. But perhaps that was what made her so compelling. With Elizabeth Bennet, nothing could be assumed.
He replaced the book on the shelf with care, his mind already drifting ahead to that evening’s dinner. He knew Miss Bingley would not be in attendance—a small mercy—and Mrs. Hurst would attempt, however awkwardly, to maintain decorum. But it was not the absence of Miss Bingley that made him anticipate the meal.
It was the prospect of seeingheragain—of hearing her voice, watching the way she tilted her head when considering a reply, the gleam in her eyes when something amused her.
Dinner could not come soon enough.
Fortunately, Darcy was able to pass the time by reading the very novel she had recommended. The words moved before him easily, and he found himself even chuckling on occasion during the more dramatic scenes.
How had she described it?“Best for stormy nights and weak nerves”? He smiled again, the corner of his mouth lifting despite himself.
When the dinner bell rang, he closed the book with care and made his way to the drawing room, where Bingley and the Hursts were already gathered. Miss Bingley, as expected, was absent. Mrs. Hurst offered a tentative smile and gestured toward the dining room, and soon they were seated—four at a table meant for ten.
Conversation started slowly. Jane Bennet still remained upstairs recovering, and Elizabeth had chosen to remain by her side until the last possible moment, joining the party only after the soup course had begun.
Darcy stood when she entered and inclined his head in greeting. “Miss Elizabeth.”
She dipped in a curtsey, her eyes warm. “Mr. Darcy.”
The tension eased a little when she joined the table. Bingley, delighted, launched into a tale about one of his many mishaps involving one of his hunting dogs and a chicken who made it into the house in town, and Elizabeth responded with polite amusement. Mr. Hurst, fortified by wine, grunted and asked for more bread.
It was during the fish course that the conversation took an unexpected turn.
Mr. Hurst, glass in hand, muttered something about “popery on the march” in the army again—something he’d read in theGazette—and punctuated it with a poor imitation of a priest crossing himself. “Next thing you know, we will be bowing to Rome again,” he drawled, chuckling at his own wit.
Darcy’s hand stiffened around his fork.
Elizabeth, whose brow had drawn together in a frown, set down her utensil and turned to the host. “Was there another article about Catholic soldiers, today Mr. Bingley?”
Bingley blinked, caught off-guard. “Yes, I believe something about new allowances for religious liberty in the ranks. Caused a stir in certain circles.”
“Indeed?” Elizabeth said, her tone mild. “I suppose that would be the same sort of stir that came with the Act of Toleration, or the repeal of the Test Acts, or any of the other steps toward religious freedom that seem to make England less proud and more panicked.”
Darcy’s eyes lifted sharply.
Mr. Hurst snorted. “Bah! Next they’ll be letting Jesuits run the universities again. Let them go to France if they want their popes.”
Darcy remained silent, watching.
Elizabeth’s chin lifted. “England lost her colonies in America for many reasons, but one was certainly her inability to allowmen freedom of conscience. We have repeated that mistake many times over the years—and it never ends well.”
Darcy could not look away.
He cleared his throat. “You believe, then, that religion should play no role in public policy?”
