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Amidst the din of howling dogs, shouting relatives, and gothic literature, Darcy shifted closer to Elizabeth. He maintained the appearance of polite distance while closing the physical gap between them.
He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, withdrawing a small wildflower, its petals a delicate shade of blue. He extended his arm, resting the bloom gently on the folds of her skirt.
“I offer my apologies for this circus,” Darcy whispered, his speech barely audible under the surrounding noise. “I intended to provide a romantic setting. I have failed spectacularly.”
Elizabeth picked up the tiny flower, brushing the soft petals with her thumb. To her, the simple, unadorned gesture held far more romance than any grand declaration.
“Do not apologise, Mr Darcy,” she reassured him, turning her gaze to meet his. “I believe everyone is supporting our courtship in their own peculiar way. Your aunt ensures propriety, my uncle provides facts, and your cousin provides the atmosphere. I am grateful for all of it.”
“You do not find the situation intolerable?”
“I find it magnificent,” Elizabeth promised, her smile one of pure warmth. “Besides, despite the interruptions, you are proving very skilled at courting me.”
He blinked, surprise softening his features. “Really? I believed I was presenting a portrait of utter incompetence.”
“The wildflower is a triumph of romantic observation,” Elizabeth teased gently. “It is precisely the correct hue.”
Mr Darcy absorbed the compliment, and a boyish smile transformed his countenance. He attempted to shift his position on the grass, aiming for a posture of relaxed confidence to match his sudden triumph.
He uncrossed his legs, stretched them out before him, and leaned his weight on his right palm, crossing his booted ankles.
Apollo, seeking refuge from the gothic novel, trotted over to their blanket. The hound did not stop at the edge, but he continued walking, his large body knocking into Mr Darcy’s supporting elbow.
Mr Darcy’s arm buckled. His elegant posture collapsed, his shoulder hitting the blanket with a muffled thud before he rolled onto his back, his boots tangling in the fabric.
The master of Pemberley lay flat on his back, staring upwards at the canopy of the oak tree, his dignity shattered by a canine nudge.
Elizabeth covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with laughter.
He did not attempt to recover his dignity. He just turned his head on the blanket, meeting her laughing gaze. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, growing rapidly into a full laugh that mingled beautifully with the howling dogs and the shouting aunt.
The courtship was a complete disaster of propriety, Elizabeth decided, holding the blue wildflower safely in her palm, and she would not change a single second of it.
Chapter Ten: Mr Darcy’s Lakeside Courtship
The clock in the corner of the drawing-room chimed the ninth hour, heralding an evening of enforced recreation. Martin oversaw the placement of the card tables, directing two footmen with minute twitches of his left eyebrow. Darcy observed the preparations from his place near the hearth, a sense of impending doom settling in his very marrow.
“Mrs Gardiner,” Lady Catherine proclaimed, pointing a feathered fan to the table. “You shall join me. I require worthy opposition for piquet. The vicar at Hunsford is abominable at mathematics, and I am eager to test your Cheapside arithmetic. I suspect you count every penny in your ledgers. That translates well to pasteboard.”
“I shall endeavour to provide a challenge, your ladyship,” Mrs Gardiner agreed, her lips twitching as she claimed her seat.
Mr Gardiner followed, settling eagerly at the neighbouring table. “We merchants have a great fondness for keeping score, madam.”
“Anne, you will play against Georgiana,” Lady Catherine continued her assignments. “And Mr Gardiner, you shall take Miss Elizabeth.”
Lady Catherine pivoted, directing the fan to Darcy.
“Fitzwilliam. You will sit beside Miss Elizabeth while she plays. You are courting the young woman, and you must remain in her proximity. Sit.”
Darcy claimed the designated chair next to Miss Elizabeth, anticipating an hour of pleasant conversation while she turned the cards, and perhaps a chance to truly learn her opinions without everyone listening.
He was mistaken.
Lady Catherine, seated to his left at the neighbouring table to play Mrs Gardiner, did not focus on her own game. She leaned over the armrest of her chair, and tapped her fan upon his sleeve.
“You must initiate the conversation, Fitzwilliam,” she instructed in a loud whisper that reached every ear in the room. “A gentleman does not sit in silence. Inquire regarding her preferences in literature. Women appreciate a gentleman who values their reading habits.”
Darcy closed his eyes, his teeth grinding together. He was eight-and-twenty years of age and he managed ten thousand a year and a vast estate. He did not need a governess to dictate his discourse as if he were a boy in short coats attending his first assembly. He tolerated the situation, but he did so sullenly.
