“She has fine eyes,” he said, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
“Fine eyes.” Lady Sophia contemplated her Madeira. “You rode forty-eight miles in a single day to tell me my goddaughter has fine eyes. Your diligence is remarkable.”
“You asked me to describe her.”
“I asked what she islike. You mentioned her eyes. There’s a distinction, and it doesn’t suggest you’re unconcerned.” She raised a hand before he could argue. “Very well. She has fine eyes. More importantly, does she seem the sort of woman who will be improved or diminished by London? Does she have any idea how to go on in society, or are we beginning entirely from scratch? Begin.”
He cleared his throat. “She is not easily managed.”
“Splendid. Managed women are so very dull. Go on.”
He tried again. The difficulty—which he would not have admitted under direct questioning—was that when he attempted to describe Elizabeth Bennet in the analytical terms Lady Sophia required, the description dissolved into something less useful. The way her chin had tilted while she was grinding through her indictment of his proposal. The way she had looked at him whenhe paused in the doorway, before she turned the whole thing into an obligation.
“She is well-read,” he managed. “Quicker than most people she meets. She tends to find the absurdity in a situation before anything else.”
“Does she find the absurdity in you?”
A pause. “Frequently.”
“Better and better.” Lady Sophia sipped her Madeira with the satisfied air of a woman whose investment was paying dividends. “What else?”
“Her opinions are—” He stopped. Forceful was one word. Devastating was another. Much like her evisceration of his botched proposal. “She does not perform deference,” he said finally. “She will tell you exactly what she thinks, and she will do it in terms that are…” Another pause. “Memorable.”
“How delightful. Thetonis absolutely drowning in performed deference. A woman who says what she thinks will either be the sensation of the Season or run out of town by May Day.” Lady Sophia did not appear particularly concerned about either outcome. “And her manners? Her address?”
“She moves well.”
“In what way?”
And he couldn’t help remembering the way she danced, questioning him on his silence, her chin lifted, eyes flashing, and the three miles she walked through muddy fields. Crossing a room with assurance, completely unmindful of whether she was being observed, which made it precisely impossible for him to stop looking.
“Well?” Lady Sophia prompted. “You seem to be lost in thought, or reviewing especially memorable moments?”
Darcy let the remark pass. He knew better than to engage in verbal fencing with Lady Sophia; he had long since accepted that it was a contest he could never hope to win.
“Her manners are easy. Natural, rather than studied. She may find certain aspects of fashionable society…” He searched for the diplomatic phrasing, “somewhat artificial.”
“She will find it insufferably artificial,” Lady Sophia said cheerfully. “So do I, and I have had sixty years to accommodate the feeling. She will manage. What about the family? You mentioned exuberance.”
“Mrs. Bennet,” Darcy said, in the tone of a man selecting his words from a very short list of polite options, “is spirited. She has nerves, and she mentions them frequently.”
“Every woman in our society has nerves.” Lady Sophia waved this aside. “And the sisters?”
“Miss Bennet is lovely and amiable. Miss Mary is serious—she plays and reads, though her taste in both runs to the improving rather than the enjoyable. Miss Catherine is impressionable. Miss Lydia is fifteen years old and constitutes a category of her own. She told me I had a charming jawline.”
Lady Sophia’s Madeira arrested halfway to her lips. “A charming jawline? How terrifyingly observant of the child. I suppose I shall have to hide the silver when she arrives. What else?”
“She insists that I’m handsome, and Lizzy is mad to—” He caught himself. “Something about my scowl.”
“Indeed?” Her expression was a portrait of innocence. “How perceptive you are, dear, for a woman you barely knew. It is exactly why I entrusted this duty to you.” She drained the last of her Madeira and set the glass aside. “Very well. Now that I have extracted the relevant information through what amounts to an excavation of your better instincts, we may proceed to the practical matters. I have already written to Mr. Bennet, a formal invitation for the entire family, sent by express this morning.” She looked at the flickering fire in the hearth. “They should be receiving it about now.”
“Pardon me? I was not aware that the entire family would descend on?—”
“My dear Darcy. Surely you do not imagine her family, especially a mother with considerable ambition, would decline the invitation. If I am to introduce Elizabeth to theton, she must have her family about her—however colorful they may be. A young woman alone in London is an object of suspicion. A young woman surrounded by her sisters is merely an heiress with relations. The distinction matters. And the dog, naturally, would be included. What is the terrier’s name?”
“Nettle,” Darcy said, in the tone of a man reporting a casualty.
“Nettle.” Lady Sophia’s smile was small and private and contained, Darcy suspected, at least three layers of meaning. “What a perfectly apt name. Arrangements for Nettle as well, if you please. I will not have my goddaughter arrive and find her dog left behind in Hertfordshire.”
