“How delightfully scandalous.” Wickham’s smile gave nothing away. “The aristocracy must have their amusements, I suppose. Though I wonder what possesses a woman of privilege to dabble in such… sensational pursuits.”
Elizabeth’s grip on her fork tightened. He knew, and Prue knew, precisely whose novels they discussed. Wickham wassavoring the irony—Lady Renwick’s tales dissected in front of Lady Amelia’s family.
From the corner of her eye, she caught Earl Apethorpe’s expression tightening as Prue prattled on about noblewomen and pseudonyms. Down the table, the Countess had gone pale and still, her wine glass suspended halfway to her lips.
“Miss Duntze,” Elizabeth interjected, her voice bright, “I believe Colonel Powell was asking earlier about your father’s botanical interests. Something about the orchids at the rectory? I confess I could not do justice to the subject, but I know you are far more knowledgeable.”
Prue turned, momentarily diverted. “Oh! Yes, Papa has been cultivating a rather stubbornCypripedium—the lady’s slipper, you know—and Colonel Powell, you must tell me whether you encountered any similar species in India, for I have read that the Himalayan varieties are quite spectacular?—”
The conversation veered, Prue’s enthusiasm redirected to the safer ground of orchids and greenhouses. Elizabeth permitted herself a breath, though Wickham’s eyes, for all their surface ease, had grown keen.
“Speaking of enthusiastic pursuits,” he said, wiping his lips with a napkin. “I understand Mrs. Darcy was quite the intellectual before her marriage. Tell me, Miss Duntze—are the literary salons of London everything they are rumored to be?”
Prue blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. “I would not know, sir. I have never attended one.”
“No? A pity. I had thought perhaps you and Mrs. Darcy might compare experiences.” Wickham’s gaze slid to Elizabeth, warm and innocent and entirely malicious. “But perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps Mrs. Darcy’s interests have always been more… domestic.”
The footmen swept away the first course, and conversation scattered with the plates. Elizabeth caught Darcy’s anxiousglance from the far end and managed a reassuring smile, though her heart twisted at the thought that he might believe Wickham’s insinuations.
Once the second course was served, Colonel Powell lifted a glass of wine and demanded the table’s attention. “I understand congratulations are in order. “A new mistress for Pemberley, and a new mother for young Thomas. Quite the transformation in a single season.”
Jamison circulated with the wine, and Elizabeth noticed his hand trembling slightly as he refilled Lady Matlock’s glass. He was nervous—they all were—and she could not blame him. One mishap, one spilled drop, and the evening’s careful construction would come crashing down.
“To the hosts.” Earl Apethorpe’s voice rose above the conversation, his wine glass lifted. “To Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, who have shown such gracious hospitality. And to the continued happiness of this house.”
Glasses rose in unison. Elizabeth lifted hers, the smile on her lips as carefully arranged as the flowers in the epergne.
“And to Mrs. Darcy’s continued rise in fortune.” Wickham stood, raising his glass for all to see.
“Indeed.” Countess Matlock’s gaze settled on Elizabeth with the particular intensity of a woman forming judgments. “A remarkable rise, Mrs. Darcy. From Hertfordshire to Pemberley in—what was it? A matter of weeks?”
“And if I may add a small tribute, as the brother of her most fortunate husband,” Wickham continued, his voice carrying easily, “to our gracious new mistress. Mrs. Darcy has risen to her position with remarkable… adaptability. One might even say she has made quite the journey—from the sheepfolds of Hertfordshire to the great house of Pemberley. Such transitions require a particular kind of perception. The ability to recognizeopportunity when it presents itself, and to seize fortune rather than wait for it to arrive.”
He smiled at Elizabeth—warm, admiring, and utterly devastating. “Quite the transformation from an independent-thinking young woman who eschewed marriage—I believe there was a hapless parson?—to the happy wife of my esteemed brother. You see? Marriage is not the bondage you supposed.”
“I fear, Mr. Wickham,” Elizabeth said icily, “that you have mistaken me for another philosophical woman. The wine this evening is particularly fine—perhaps it has conjured memories where none exist. I am told Pemberley’s cellar has that effect on those unaccustomed to its quality.”
Lady Matlock’s eyebrow rose to an extent incompatible with the anatomy of her powdered forehead. The look she directed at Elizabeth was positively murderous. Then her gaze traveled to Darcy, and Elizabeth saw the question forming behind her eyes:What do you know about your wife’s past?
Darcy’s expression revealed nothing. But his knuckles had gone white around his wineglass, and when he spoke, his voice was ice.
“I believe the venison is excellent, Aunt. From the home park—we culled a fine buck last month.” Darcy turned deliberately toward Colonel Powell. “The season opens next month, Colonel. I hope you will join us. The Pemberley herd has grown robust, and my gamekeeper assures me we shall have fine sport.”
“I should be delighted,” Colonel Powell replied heartily, his fork spearing a piece of venison from the serving dish. “Nothing like an English chase after years in the tropics.”
“And you, Sir William? Earl Apethorpe?” Darcy’s gaze swept the gentlemen, pointedly omitting Wickham, who sat with the ladies. “We shall make a proper party of it. The lodge can accommodate a dozen, and Cook performs miracles with fresh game.”
The invitations rippled outward, drawing the men into talk of dogs and rifles and the particular challenges of Derbyshire terrain. Elizabeth listened to the masculine rumble of sporting conversation wash over the table like a tide smoothing troubled sand, and allowed herself to breathe.
Across the epergne, through candlelight and trailing ivy, she caught Darcy’s gaze. Something smoldered there—anger, perhaps, or the first uneasy flicker of questions he had not yet found words for.
Dessert would soon appear, and then the ladies would withdraw. In the hush between courses, Elizabeth would have to choose: confession, or the hope that Wickham’s poison had been too subtle to take root.
Neither option offered much comfort.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE RING RETURNED
