“The master of Pemberley accepts the comparison,” Darcy said. “Though he notes that he has never been known to eat a violet.”
“The day is young,” Elizabeth said, her eyes teasing as she walked by him in a manner that made him swallow. And then his cheeks heated at Georgiana’s arched brow and Hannah’s hurried and slightly clumsy curtsy.
Both his sister and the maid wore the dreamy, satisfied glow of young women convinced they had witnessed a romance blossom in the kitchen garden, all thanks to a humble brown snail. Hannah retreated with her basket of herbs, and Georgiana plucked a sprig of rosemary from the border, mischief, no doubt, in mind.
“Georgiana,” Darcy warned. “I can see from the look on your face that you are contemplating something I am going to regret, and I would ask you to reconsider.”
“It is mistletoe,” she declared, holding the rosemary sprig above their heads. “You must kiss your wife. Those are the rules.”
“It is rosemary, and we are in April,” Darcy countered. “There are no such rules, because you have manufactured the entire occasion from a sprig of herb and an excess of imagination.”
“I have manufactured nothing. The tradition is perfectly clear. When mistletoe appears, a gentleman is obliged to kiss the lady beneath it, and if the gentleman refuses, the lady is entitled to consider him a coward. I am quite certain Elizabeth does not wish to think you a coward, Brother, especially after she has spent the afternoon sitting in the dirt on your behalf and has earned, at the very least, a kiss.”
Elizabeth laughed, and the sound reverberated through Darcy’s chest, settling somewhere he could not quite name. He looked at her—hair half-down, dress ruined, a snail named Sidney feasting on violets at her elbow—and saw that the peril he had once fled in Hertfordshire now sat before him, entirely undaunted by dirt or bandages.
Taking her hand, not the bandaged one, but the other, he raised it to his lips, pressing his mouth to her knuckles. And he kissed her there, holding her still as if he would not let her go.
Georgiana emitted a sound of mock disappointment, but at least she withdrew the branch.
“I cannot properly kiss my wife with my sister present,” he explained, releasing Elizabeth’s hand with a care that was not quite steady. “You must accept this abridged edition.”
“How disappointing,” Elizabeth chuckled. “And after Georgiana labored so hard over the shrubbery.”
“It was mistletoe,” Georgiana said, but she was beaming, and Darcy knew that whatever she had seen on his face when his mouth was on Elizabeth’s hand, it was enough to sustain her romantic convictions for, hopefully, the rest of the evening.
Elizabeth rose and brushed the dirt from her dress. She plucked the sprig of rosemary from Georgiana’s fingers and tucked it into her pocket—a gesture so slight it might have gone unnoticed, except that Darcy did not overlook it. Except he did not know what to make of it, feeling both the danger andswallowing the hope that this woman was as different as she was unexpected.
CHAPTER NINE
THE WICKHAM WEIGHT
Settlinginto Pemberley as a new bride meant callers, garden walks, and turning pages for Georgiana in the music room. Elizabeth took to all of it with rather more enthusiasm than she had expected. As for her main occupation, her resolve remained firm—she would become Little Tom’s mother, whether the child cooperated or not.
Thus, each morning found her strolling at the precise hour Hartley ushered the boy into the lower garden, her steps drawn—quite by accident, of course—toward the mossy stone wall where violets flourished, and snails conducted their affairs with admirable industry.
A snail she would call “Sidney” would be busy devouring a violet. She would choose the largest and hardiest one, and gently place him on a branch. And Hartley would appear with her small charge, who advanced with his thumb planted in his mouth. And, as planned, Darcy’s old and beaten one-eared wooden horse would be placed on a stone bench along the wall and never offered or spoken about.
On this occasion, after more than a week of trials and errors, the child ambled down the path and spotted the horse and Elizabeth at the same time, and he stood still with one footstretched as if advancing and the other foot pointed stubbornly away from them.
She noted his hesitation but preferred to study Sidney with great concentration, adding a yawn for effect, and her indifference was rewarded with the presence of the two-year-old padding across the grass. A shadow fell over Captain, and a chubby hand shot out and swept the horse to the ground, where the poor beast acquired yet another nick.
This time, however, the child bent down to examine the nick, and then, his thumb popping from his mouth, he seized the horse by his remaining ear. “Mine!”
Without looking at him, Elizabeth raised the branch bearing the snail and said teasingly, “Mine.”
“No!” He dropped the horse to point an accusing finger at Sidney. “Mine.”
“We might share,” she suggested, plucking Sidney from the branch and setting him gently upon Captain’s saddle. “See? He is riding Captain. They are the best of friends already.”
Little Tom stared at the horse, the snail, and then Elizabeth. “Me ride Captain.”
“Oh, I’d say you’re rather too big for Captain.” Georgiana’s voice floated down the path, arriving with Darcy. “He lost his ear at the Battle of the Nile, you know, and has never been quite the same.”
Little Tom paid her no attention, knocking the snail off the saddle and bolting with his mount.
“Oh, dear.” Georgiana watched him vanish behind the rosemary bush. “I hope Sidney isn’t hurt.”
Darcy bent to retrieve the dislodged passenger, turning the snail over in his palm. “He appears indignant but intact.” He returned Sidney to his violets with unexpected gentleness. “Captain, I suspect, will bear the greater scars.”
