“I hardly know what you are referring to.” Elizabeth averted her face, which had become quite heated. “Look here, Mr. Craster has written a sonnet comparing my eyes to midnight fire.”
Lady Sophia leaned back, her teacup poised as she looked at Elizabeth’s flushed cheeks and defiant eyes.
“Tell me, my dear,” the old lady murmured, her voice laced with a dangerous, quiet amusement. “Do you wish for Darcy to throw his card in the salver with the Sir Geoffreys and weeping Arthurs?”
Elizabeth felt heat climb her neck and willed it to stop. “Then I would be very surprised, given that he has explicitly promised never to address me again on subjects beyond trust business.”
“Has he indeed?” Lady Sophia’s voice held a note of satisfaction, as though Elizabeth had confirmed a suspicion she had been nurturing. “How very interesting. And how very like Fitzwilliam to make such a promise and then torture himself keeping it.”
“I did not ask for the promise.”
“No. But you did something that prompted it. I wonder what.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. How much did Lady Sophia know or guess? Had Darcy confided in her? But no, the man had too much pride. He would never reveal that a woman below his consequence had called him the last man in the world she could be prevailed upon to marry.
She nearly slapped her own forehead. Why had she been so cutting? The man had all but dropped his heart at her feet—awkwardly, yes, but still… oh.
“Are you well, Miss Elizabeth?” Lady Sophia’s voice held a mocking edge. “Or shall I fetch your trustee to see to your Consols?”
Thankfully, Mrs. Alford appeared in the doorway.
“Lady Lucas and Mrs. Collins to see Miss Bennet, my lady. And a Mr. John Lucas, from Hertfordshire.”
“How delightful,” Lady Sophia murmured. “The provinces have come to call. Do show them in, Mrs. Alford. And perhaps bring fresh tea. Sit down, Elizabeth, and lower your color beforeyour guests mistake your trustee-induced agitation for a London fever.”
Elizabeth shot her a warning look. Lady Sophia ignored it, settling deeper into her chair, clearly ready for the next act.
The Lucases entered in formation: Lady Lucas first, resplendent in a new pelisse of mulberry silk; Charlotte second, sensible and familiar in dove gray; and John Lucas bringing up the rear with the hunted agitation of a young man compelled into a courtship call. His coat was too tight across the shoulders, his cravat was too loose, and his face wore a look of mortified goodwill.
“Lady Sophia,” Elizabeth said. “May I present to you my dear Hertfordshire acquaintances, Lady Lucas, Mrs. Charlotte Collins, and Mr. John Lucas.”
“Lady Sophia!” Lady Lucas curtsied so deeply she needed Charlotte’s help to right herself. “What an honor to be received in such elegant surroundings. I was just telling Charlotte that Grosvenor Street is precisely what I expected for our dear Elizabeth, although of course we knew her when she was merely a gentleman’s daughter with no particular prospects, and look at her now!”
“One does find that fifteen thousand pounds a year provides an excellent foundation for a young lady’s prospects,” Lady Sophia murmured. “Do sit down, Lady Lucas. And Mrs. Collins, Mr. Lucas, it is nice to make your acquaintance.”
She accepted their bows and curtsies, then said, “Do not mind me. I shall read my novel while you young people visit. Miss Jane appears to be still abed, and the young ladies, Miss Georgiana Darcy and Miss Mary, are in the music room, if you should like to join them.”
Elizabeth appreciated her discretion, as her chaperonage was required, and she welcomed both Charlotte and John. While her friend felt the same, warm and delighted to see her, John Lucas,who had always been a reliable dance partner and friendly face at the various Hertfordshire social events, seemed stiff and mechanical, stuttering his answers and seeming to trip over his own feet.
“My dear Miss Elizabeth,” Lady Lucas began, leaning forward as if she had something of great import. “What a pleasure to visit you at this glorious house. Sir William will be so sorry to have missed this. He is dining with friends he met at St. James and sends his warmest regards and his congratulations on your remarkable good fortune. I was saying to John only this morning, as he was dressing—and he took such care with his cravat today, as you can see—that true merit is always rewarded in the end.”
John Lucas turned a shade of violent purple that dangerously matched his mother’s mulberry pelisse. He stared fixedly at his teacup as though praying it might swallow him whole.
“Thank you, Lady Lucas. You are very kind,” Elizabeth said, her fingers remaining steady on the silver sugar tongs, though her eyes flicked to Charlotte. “And how wonderful to have you here as well, Mr. Lucas. I hope you are enjoying your stay in London.”
“Oh yes, quite,” John Lucas stammered, his eyes darting nervously between Elizabeth and his mother. “That is to say, the weather has been…fine. Quite fine indeed.”
He took a hasty sip of tea and promptly choked on it. Charlotte patted his back discreetly as he coughed and sputtered.
Lady Lucas tsked impatiently. “John, do sit up straight. And put your teacup down before you scald yourself.” She turned back to Elizabeth with a bright, calculating smile. “You must forgive my son, Miss Bennet. He is not used to being in the presence of such an elegant and accomplished lady as yourself.”
“Oh, but John and the Bennet family are such good friends, since our youth. We have caught frogs together, and I do believe there was that incident of the acorn battle?” Elizabeth sent Lady Sophia a smirk, sharing her amusement at Lady Lucas’s transparent matchmaking endeavors.
“And John has felt your absence so keenly in the neighborhood, Miss Elizabeth,” Lady Lucas continued, entirely oblivious to her son’s impending social suffocation. She gave a heavy, significant nod toward the young man. “The Meryton assemblies have been quite dismal without you. John has said repeatedly that no other lady in the county understands the rhythm of a reel half so well. Haven’t you, John?”
“I… yes… that is to say, the dancing has been very… the floors are quite large here, are they not?” John stammered, shifting his boots on the Persian rug and nearly upsetting his saucer in the process.
“The floors are indeed large, John,” Elizabeth supplied with an open, sisterly warmth. “But I assure you, the London dancers have no better manners than those in Hertfordshire. You are very welcome to Grosvenor Street.”
