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“Mr. Darcy, why so formal?” Her voice was slightly mocking. “Mrs. Reynolds informs me that you have requested the pleasure of my company. I confess I was not aware that a formal invitation was necessary to dine with one’s own husband.”

“Mrs. Reynolds has a gift for diplomacy.” He pulled the chair across from his for her. “I hope you do not mind the informality. Please, allow me to seat you.”

She smiled at him, noting the lack of footmen, and allowed him to tuck her chair in place. “Since I have never had the pleasure of a supper dance with you, I am happy to accept your serving me.”

He reached for the decanter and poured. “Will you try the wine? It is older than both of us combined and has been languishing in the cellar awaiting a worthy occasion.”

Elizabeth accepted the glass and held it to the candlelight. The Burgundy glowed deep and clear. She tasted it, and her eyes widened.

“This is extraordinary.”

“My father bought it in sixty-three. He was twenty-two and had more taste than sense, which I gather is a common condition among young men with new cellars to fill.”

“Then I must warn you, Mr. Darcy, we must drink this vintage before my next birthday if this wine is to remain older than both of us combined.”

“Then we must open another bottle before that happy occasion. My apologies. I do not know the date.”

“As I am not yet one-and-twenty, I will keep you guessing, sir.” Her eyes sparkled as she took another sip.

He rose to serve the soup course.

“Mr. Darcy, please sit. Your hovering is making me nervous.”

“I am attempting to serve the soup.” He ladled soup into her bowl with the careful concentration of a man who had never in his life been required to perform such a task. A small amount splashed onto the tablecloth. “I dismissed the footmen because I thought you might prefer⁠—”

“Privacy over proficiency?”

He ladled soup into his own bowl with marginally more success and returned to his seat. “In my defense, the ladle is poorly balanced.”

“A likely excuse.” She tasted the soup and her expression softened. “This is excellent. Your cook has a light hand with the seasonings.”

“I shall convey your compliments. Though I suspect she will be more pleased to hear that I did not spill the entire tureen into your lap.”

“Were you tempted?”

“A gentleman does not incriminate himself.” He tasted the soup and nodded at her assessment.

Candlelight played over the green of her gown and lent warmth to her cheeks; when she lifted her glass, the sapphire on her finger flashed blue against the crystal.

She had not worn the ring on their walk. He had noticed its absence, though he had not mentioned it. And now it was back on her hand, and he did not know what to make of it.

“You are staring at me, Mr. Darcy.”

“I believe I am allowed to admire you, Elizabeth, as part of the conditions.”

“And I am obligated to comment on your brooding,” she replied. “Which you are doing an admirable job of not brooding while hovering.”

The soup course concluded, and Darcy rose to remove the bowls and serve the mutton. This operation went rather better than the soup, though Elizabeth watched him with undisguised amusement as he carved.

“You handle that knife as if you expect it to bite you,” she jested.

“My father believed that a gentleman should be able to carve at his own table.”

“Then he taught you well,” she observed as he deftly placed a cleanly cut slice of mutton on her plate. “Fitzwilliam, I do believe you make both of your parents proud, although between the three of you, I would say your pride alone is sufficient.”

Elizabeth was smiling at him with an expression he could not quite read—amusement, certainly, but something warmer beneath it.

“You are doing well with the serving,” she said.