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“Do you enjoy poetry, Miss Elizabeth?” Darcy inquired through a tight jaw, striving to maintain his dignity while staring at the fan hovering inches from his shoulder.

Miss Elizabeth arranged her cards, her eyes sparkling. “I find poetry very agreeable, Mr Darcy. Provided it is not overly melancholy.”

Lady Catherine tapped Darcy’s sleeve with the edge of her fan once more. “Excellent. Now, tell her you own a fine library. Inform her that she may borrow any volume she desires. It demonstrates generosity.”

“My library is at your disposal,” Darcy recited, his tone flattening into a dull resonance.

“I thank you, sir.” Miss Elizabeth bit her lower lip to prevent a laugh from escaping.

Anne placed a card on the green baize. “Perhaps you ought to instruct him to fetch her a cushion, Mother. Or perhaps he should recite a sonnet. I am certain Miss Elizabeth would enjoy a sonnet.”

“Do not be absurd, Anne,” Lady Catherine scolded, though she tapped Darcy’s sleeve one more time. “A sonnet is too forward for the second day. However, you must offer her a compliment on her appearance, Fitzwilliam. Be specific. Praise her teeth or her posture. Proper alignment is a sign of good breeding.”

Darcy’s nerves were fraying at the edges, the constant nudging and dictation eroding his faculties. He turned to Miss Elizabeth.

“You possess a magnificent posture, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, the words coming with as much dry, sarcastic gravity as he could summon. “Your alignment is a marvel of the modern age. I have never beheld a spine so perpendicular to the floor.”

Miss Elizabeth pressed a palm to her mouth, her shoulders shaking violently. “I practise by balancing the household ledgers on my head, Mr Darcy. It does wonders for the vertebrae.”

Mr Gardiner erupted into a booming laugh, dropping a card onto the baize. Lady Catherine straightened her own spine, missing the jest.

“Ledgers are far too heavy for a lady’s neck,” the matriarch advised. “You must use a volume of sermons. Remind her to use sermons, Fitzwilliam.”

“Sermons are much better for the neck,” Georgiana chimed in, dealing her next hand with a wicked gleam in her eye. “Tell her about the sermons, Brother. You must ensure she balances properly.”

Darcy glared at his sister. “I shall withhold my opinions on sermons, Georgiana, lest I deliver a lecture of my own.”

“Do not scold your sister when you ought to be charming your intended,” Lady Catherine admonished, jabbing the fan at his arm. “Inquire if she enjoys needlework. A domestic wife is a comfort.”

Darcy stared at the fan. “Miss Elizabeth, do you enjoy piercing fabric with tiny metal spikes?”

Miss Elizabeth dissolved into a fit of giggles, burying her face behind her own cards. “Only when I am exceptionally aggrieved, Mr Darcy.”

Before Darcy could endure another instruction, Bates entered, bearing a large tray laden with crystal glasses and a decanter of sherry. The footman paused on the threshold, his eyes darting around the room.

Apollo and Diana were slumbering near the hearth.

Bates swallowed hard. He moved, gripping the edges of the tray with white-knuckled intensity. He embarked on a sweeping, exaggerated arc, pressing his back firmly to the wainscoting, sliding his shoes over the floor. He navigated the room, maintaining a distance of at least twenty feet from the sleeping hounds.

Martin was observing his subordinate’s ridiculous journey. The butler offered a single twitch of his left eyebrow, expressing volumes of professional disappointment.

Bates accelerated his sliding motion, reaching the safety of the sideboard. He deposited the tray with a trembling clatter, executed a hasty bow to the wainscoting, and fled.

“That man possesses the sideways scuttle of a crab,” Lady Catherine observed. She finally turned away from Darcy, the lure of her own match drawing her full attention back to Mrs Gardiner. “Play your card, Mrs Gardiner. I intend to win this hand.”

The subsequent days dissolved into unburdened joy. The open courtship proved to be a delight of the highest order, devoid of the formality Darcy had once assumed such endeavours required. He devoted every waking hour to Miss Elizabeth. He escorted her through the picture gallery, he selected the most perfect, sun-ripened peaches from the hothouses for her breakfast plate, and he ensured the pianoforte remained flawlessly tuned for her evening use.

The estate itself transformed into a grand theatre of comedic occurrences, due to the unexpected diversion currently occupying his aunt.

Lady Catherine and Mrs Gardiner were locked in an ongoing tournament of piquet. The primary drawing-room had become their undisputed domain, a space where pasteboard cards held far more consequence than aristocratic dictates. Mrs Gardiner proved to be a formidable player, hoarding points, unimpressed by her opponent’s titles. Lady Catherine, offended by the prospect of losing to a merchant’s wife, refused to abandon the table.

Darcy observed the phenomenon standing by the tall windows, sipping his coffee, watching the two women battle over the green baize.

“You employ an irregular method of discarding, Mrs Gardiner,” Lady Catherine proclaimed. “You discard kings recklessly. It is an insult to the crown.”

“I discard cards that do not serve my purpose, your ladyship.” Mrs Gardiner’s expression remained serene and uncompromising. “A solitary king may be worth less to me than the chance of completing a sequence, your ladyship. I do not keep him merely to ornament my hand.”

“Cheapside logic,” Lady Catherine muttered, gathering the cards for another deal. “We shall play another round. I refuse to be bested by ornamental theory.”