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Authors: Pamela Aidan
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help but put into her eyes. His confusion increased as she stepped to one side and peered around him, a slight frown creasing what he was forced to concede was a lovely brow. “If you would please excuse me, Mr. Darcy, there is something that needs my immediate attention.”
“Certainly, Miss Bennet,” he managed to say, if only to her back, as she hurried away. Taken somewhat aback by this treatment, Darcy first thought that she was continuing to pay him out his punishment for his ill-considered words on both of their last meetings and that her seeming avoidance of himself was part of her game. But as he watched her engaged in soothing the flutterings of her mother and “having a word” with a younger sister, he saw that her abrupt leave-taking had some legitimacy and that his suspicion was unfounded.
At dinner Darcy experienced some regret that he was not strictly within Elizabeth Bennet’s sphere of polite interchange, being seated across the table and two chairs down; but he was close enough to witness her easy and engaging manner with those fortunate enough to share her end of the table. With grudging admiration, he could not help but note her delightful way of teasing gruff, old Major ——— into good humor on the one hand and, later, assuring a shy, young country dandy that the knot of his neckcloth was “bang up to the mark” on the other. Whether she was exchanging wit or listening in sympathy, he marked the uncommon intelligence displayed in her beautiful, dark eyes and wondered that he had dismissed her so thoughtlessly at the assembly.
His opinion sought on a matter by a fellow guest to his other side, Darcy was a few moments before he could return his attention down the table. It happened that the conversation around Elizabeth Bennet had ebbed, affording her an opportunity to partake of some refreshment. She extended a slender, dimpled arm and grasped the stem of the wineglass between delicately formed fingers. Darcy watched, inexplicably fascinated, as with unconscious grace she slowly brought it to her lips. She sipped the wine, ever so slightly, and gently returned the glass to its place. As she released it and returned her hand to her lap, Darcy released the breath he had not realized that he had been holding. He quickly averted his eyes before she could notice his inappropriate behavior, directing them instead to his own glass of wine. His pulse somewhat elevated, his grip on his glass was not as sure as hers had been, and the wine sloshed dangerously in the bowl as he raised it.
What is the matter with you?
he scolded himself, then swallowed the contents without tasting anything.
The squire pushed back his chair from the dinner table and suggested, with a broad wink, that the gentlemen might enjoy a bit of something that his business agent had acquired for those of discriminating taste. It awaited them in his card room; would they be pleased to accompany him? Darcy rose along with the other gentlemen, at the same time anxious and loath to leave for reasons he preferred not to explore.
After accepting his glass of very illegal French brandy, he turned to discover himself being observed by an older man on whose countenance there played a look of interest. At Darcy’s involuntary stiffening, the look transformed into one of bemusement, and Darcy received, to his astonishment, a salute from the man. In puzzlement, he returned the salute, lifting his glass in like manner, and tipped a few drops down his throat. The brandy was excellent, and Darcy closed his eyes momentarily, the better to appreciate its warming glow. When he opened them, he beheld the beaming face of his host.
“Mr. Darcy, I venture to claim that even you have not often partaken of such a fine example of the distiller’s art!” The squire barely paused for Darcy’s assent before continuing, “I only wish that we could get American tobacco as easily as French brandy.”
“We could, if it were British tobacco again,”
“Certainly, Miss Bennet,” he managed to say, if only to her back, as she hurried away. Taken somewhat aback by this treatment, Darcy first thought that she was continuing to pay him out his punishment for his ill-considered words on both of their last meetings and that her seeming avoidance of himself was part of her game. But as he watched her engaged in soothing the flutterings of her mother and “having a word” with a younger sister, he saw that her abrupt leave-taking had some legitimacy and that his suspicion was unfounded.
At dinner Darcy experienced some regret that he was not strictly within Elizabeth Bennet’s sphere of polite interchange, being seated across the table and two chairs down; but he was close enough to witness her easy and engaging manner with those fortunate enough to share her end of the table. With grudging admiration, he could not help but note her delightful way of teasing gruff, old Major ——— into good humor on the one hand and, later, assuring a shy, young country dandy that the knot of his neckcloth was “bang up to the mark” on the other. Whether she was exchanging wit or listening in sympathy, he marked the uncommon intelligence displayed in her beautiful, dark eyes and wondered that he had dismissed her so thoughtlessly at the assembly.
His opinion sought on a matter by a fellow guest to his other side, Darcy was a few moments before he could return his attention down the table. It happened that the conversation around Elizabeth Bennet had ebbed, affording her an opportunity to partake of some refreshment. She extended a slender, dimpled arm and grasped the stem of the wineglass between delicately formed fingers. Darcy watched, inexplicably fascinated, as with unconscious grace she slowly brought it to her lips. She sipped the wine, ever so slightly, and gently returned the glass to its place. As she released it and returned her hand to her lap, Darcy released the breath he had not realized that he had been holding. He quickly averted his eyes before she could notice his inappropriate behavior, directing them instead to his own glass of wine. His pulse somewhat elevated, his grip on his glass was not as sure as hers had been, and the wine sloshed dangerously in the bowl as he raised it.
What is the matter with you?
he scolded himself, then swallowed the contents without tasting anything.
The squire pushed back his chair from the dinner table and suggested, with a broad wink, that the gentlemen might enjoy a bit of something that his business agent had acquired for those of discriminating taste. It awaited them in his card room; would they be pleased to accompany him? Darcy rose along with the other gentlemen, at the same time anxious and loath to leave for reasons he preferred not to explore.
After accepting his glass of very illegal French brandy, he turned to discover himself being observed by an older man on whose countenance there played a look of interest. At Darcy’s involuntary stiffening, the look transformed into one of bemusement, and Darcy received, to his astonishment, a salute from the man. In puzzlement, he returned the salute, lifting his glass in like manner, and tipped a few drops down his throat. The brandy was excellent, and Darcy closed his eyes momentarily, the better to appreciate its warming glow. When he opened them, he beheld the beaming face of his host.
“Mr. Darcy, I venture to claim that even you have not often partaken of such a fine example of the distiller’s art!” The squire barely paused for Darcy’s assent before continuing, “I only wish that we could get American tobacco as easily as French brandy.”
“We could, if it were British tobacco again,”
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