“Nettle, no!” Elizabeth dropped her parasol, her knees hitting the gravel as she shielded the baby bird.
“Nettle, look!” Darcy snatched the leather ball from the grass and hurled it with a tremendous, low arc straight down Rotten Row, where the highborn ladies promenaded in their open carriages. Thus distracted, the terrier flew off after the flying leather, her paws throwing up gravel as she forgot the fledgling entirely.
Cradling the baby bird, Elizabeth reached for a low branch, looking up at the nest. She had climbed higher trees than this at Longbourn, having retrieved windblown bonnets as well as the occasional kitten.
“Elizabeth.” Allegra’s hand caught her forearm—gentle, steady, and entirely immovable. “You cannot.”
“It has fallen from the nest.”
“I can see that. And forty of the most malicious tongues in London can see you.”
“It needs to go back home, Allegra, or the cats will have it before nightfall.”
“And your reputation will die in the tree. You are Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Grosvenor Street, not a girl scrambling up oaks in Hertfordshire. Put your hands down.”
Elizabeth obeyed, but the fledgling kept cheeping in her hand, its small, sharp beak gaping wide, as if hungry. Darcy, however, sprang into action, removing his blue coat and handing it to Bingley.
“May I, Miss Elizabeth?” Darcy asked. He bowed to her with perfect, drawing-room formality, extending a single, broad hand for the tiny creature.
Surprised, Elizabeth deposited the fledgling into Darcy’s hand, and the formidable master of Pemberley ascended the elm—in full, unshaded view of the entire Sunday parade.
Bark caught in the fine wool of his waistcoat, and the polished leather of his expensive Hessian boots scuffed against the trunk, but he pulled his massive frame upward. The fledgling was cupped against his chest, held with the meticulous, exaggerated care one reserved for a thing small, frightened, and easily broken.
Elizabeth’s throat closed up so tightly it ached. His hands were so large, the bird so absurdly small, and yet he placed it back into the nest with the absolute gentleness of a mother.
The sparrow, who did not share Elizabeth’s appreciation for the rescue, shrieked and dived straight at his forehead. Darcy ducked, his shoulder brushing a branch until a shower of dry bark cascaded down onto the path.
On a nearby iron bench, an elegant woman gasped aloud. Somewhere behind them, a severe matron raised her lorgnette, whispering to her companion, “Is that truly Mr. Darcy in a tree?”
“I believe it is,” the other replied, her voice faint with disbelief.
He dropped to the turf with a thud—bark in his linen, an elm leaf tangled in his hair, and a red scratch across his hand courtesy of the ungrateful mother bird.
“Give me your hands,” Elizabeth said. “You’re hurt.”
Before she could censure herself, she removed her gloves and took his bare hands in hers, examining the scratch and the scraped skin from the rough bark.
“I dub thee, Sir Darcy, Knight of Foundling Fledglings,” she said, voice light and arch to disguise her racing heart. She turned his hand, thumb brushing the scratch, and for one wild second nearly pressed her lips to it.
She caught herself just in time. She had caused enough scandal for one Sunday, but as she looked up into his dark, arrested eyes, a strange, liberating clarity washed over her.
“I suppose the entire ton is planning our social execution,” she whispered, her fingers lingering against his skin for one rebellious heartbeat longer. “But I find I do not much care what those forty pairs of eyes think, Mr. Darcy… so long as the one pair that matters approves.”
Darcy’s breath caught, a fierce light flaring in his eyes that made her knees weaker than any tree-climbing ever had.
“I believe,” Darcy murmured, his voice a low, rough vibration that seemed to reach down into her very soul, “this is the part where the knight assures the lady that he requires no other approval in this kingdom. But as for the rest of our company…”
Nettle’s leather ball dropped between them, and the terrier barked, tongue lolling in triumph. Elizabeth burst out laughing, tension dissolving into delight, and beside her, Darcy actually chuckled.
“Yes,” Darcy said, looking from the muddy toy up to Elizabeth’s blooming face, the corner of his lips twisting with that rare, ironical humor. “I believe Nettle approves eminently.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A MATTER OF COURAGE
Monday morning wasan official trustee day, but Darcy felt anything but official. The day before, on the Promenade, Elizabeth Bennet had stripped off her gloves and taken his hand—right there, before the entireton—inspecting his knuckles for scratches and declaring, with infuriating cheer, that she could not care less what anyone thought.
He hardly needed reminding. The impertinent Hertfordshire miss had never troubled herself with manners—tramping through mud, likely scaling trees, and dismissing marriage proposals as if they were invitations to tea.
