Fine Eyes and Pert Opinions

by Maria Grace

“If he desires it.”

  “Pray do.”

  “Then I shall.” She disappeared and comfort left the room.

  Richard poured brandy for them both. “She is certainly a steady girl. We are fortunate she was among us today. Your poor sister is at sixes and sevens.”

  He threw his head back. “I must—”

  “Miss Bennet and Miss Garland are comforting her. She is in good hands. I did not know you had an aversion to surgeons. Should I find you a proper doctor?”

  “Miss Elizabeth said it is only bruised. I am content to rest on her expertise. Kympton Parish has been well tended under the Bennets. I see no reason to suppose her care toward me would be any less diligent.”

  “It would be better for the estate to have a mistress, you know, not leave the vicar’s family filling that role.” Richard handed him a glass of brandy.

  “You would choose to remind me of this now?”

  “This may be an excellent test of Miss Garland’s suitability. Surely, you would desire a wife who can be sympathetic and even useful to you when you are unwell. Much better to know her disposition toward the indisposed now, is it not?” Richard tossed back a large gulp.

  “You mean I should accept her company in this state? Unable to even rise to greet her properly?”

  “Precisely. If she recoils, then you will, at the very least, know what to expect of her. If she does not, then you might find more than her beauty and her dowry in her favor.”

  “I do not like it.”

  Richard pulled the stool Darcy’s mother had embroidered close and sat near enough for private conversation. “You would rather remain ignorant of your potential partner’s flaws? That does not sound like you, who investigates your business partners so assiduously.”

  “I do not like company when I am unwell.”

  “All the more reason to determine if you can tolerate her under those circumstances.”

  Meddlesome, intrusive—

  “Darce, I do not mean to be cruel. But how long did your father spend on his sick bed before he died? Years, as I recall. It was only after he fell and the surgeon amputated his arm that the end came. While it was a mercy, I know it was traumatic for all of you. God forbid you follow in the lingering illness of your father. But if you should, would you not wish for a wife who would not abandon you at such a time, one who would not shy away from the unpleasantness of the sick room as Anne or Miss Bingley surely would?”

  He groaned. Did Richard’s reasoning have to be so sound? “Very well. After dinner, the house party may withdraw here rather than to the drawing room.”

  What were the chances that this did not prove to be a very bad idea indeed?

  Chapter 8

  Darcy leaned his head back and stifled a groan. Changing garments in the parlor—what a mortifying and painful experience. But Miss Elizabeth had been right as usual: tight knee breeches, a stiff stock and cravat, and a form-fitted coat would have only added to his misery. A second glass of brandy along with the willow bark tea she brought helped him endure her further ministrations: anointing his ankle with pungent ointment and wrapping it to restrict movement.

  He slept most of the afternoon, his brandy-induced dreams hard to recall but disturbing nonetheless. Now, near dinnertime, he lay back, staring at the plaster ceiling work, the dark gold curtains dimming the sunlight enough to create an odd twilight effect far too early in the day for such darkness.

  Odd. He had never really paid attention to the molding between the ceiling and wall, nor the ceiling roses that had hung overhead all his life. Someone must have paid attention to them though—not a cobweb or tuft of dust to be seen on any of it.

  The heavy drapes swayed in a slight breeze that brought soft green scents into the room. Another annoying reminder of why he was here.

  Father had liked Mother’s influences in this parlor, before he had been bed-ridden. The azure walls, especially, often calling them his favorite color. Often, when Darcy had been home on school holiday, Father had invited him into the parlor to read to him from one book or another. Those were rare moments that Father’s drive for perfection could be satisfied. Even when he stumbled or said a word different to what the text contained, Father would just ignore the error and continue listening with pleasure.

  Perhaps that was why he wanted Georgiana to read aloud well.

  He shifted on the firm, royal blue upholstery of the fainting couch. It had never been a particularly comfortable piece of furniture for him, though the ladies seemed to like it well enough. No part of the seat fitted his frame, magnifying his discomfort. Ugh! Just how long would it take until he could make it upstairs to his room and to his bed and proper pillows?

  Richard had offered to have the footmen carry him upstairs in a chair. His desperation would have to be far greater to agree to submit to the indignity his father had suffered. His ankle throbbed in time with his heart beat, his stomach growling a counterpoint. Just how long would this continue?

  Behind him, the door swung open. Carefully, he turned to look over his shoulder. His valet trundled in with a dinner tray, Miss Elizabeth on his heels.

  Her deep rose dinner dress complimented her fine complexion and light, pleasing figure. Utterly unlike Miss Garland, but pretty—definitely pretty. She looked at him as if he were properly garbed and polite. But he was not. He pulled at the lapels of his banyan. How appalling to be so informally attired in company.

  If she noticed his discomfiture, she gave no sign of it. If she could pretend everything was right and proper, perhaps he could—and it might make it all easier.

  The valet brought a small table near Darcy’s seat and arranged the tray.

  “I brought you more willow bark tea. I hope it will make you more comfortable for company this evening.” She handed him the cup from the tray.

  He sipped—much less bitter this time, but still unpleasant. She must have added the ginger and sugar after he complained of the bitterness. He downed the cup in two large gulps and handed it to her. “Thank you.”

  She curtsied and turned away.

  “May I ask another favor of you? I know it is much to ask, but would you consider … no, never mind.” He sighed and braced his forehead in his hand. He was being foolish.

  “You would like company whilst you eat?”

  He glanced up into her penetrating, perceptive gaze. How did she do that?

  “It is no trouble for me to keep you company. Dinner is hardly a meal that should be eaten alone.”

  “It is hardly a meal that one should eat wearing banyan and trousers.”

  She smiled as though she understood how uncomfortable irregularity made him.

  The valet moved an ivory wingchair with pale blue and yellow flowers slightly nearer the fainting couch.

  “Bring a tray for Miss Elizabeth.”

  The valet bowed and disappeared.

  “You have never been a great lover of company, even at mealtimes. You must need to be distracted away from your discomfort.”

  Damn it, she was right. How dare she be so prying, and why was it so comfortable?

  “Your father did the same thing often enough.” She removed the covers from his plates and arranged them in easy reach, whiffs of her light lavender scent punctuating each movement.

  The valet arrived with a second tray.

  “Now you may eat, Mr. Darcy.” Her lips wrinkled in a funny little smirk. “Politeness no longer requires you wait for me.” “

  She busied herself with her tray.

  Odd, she did not watch him. Anne and Miss Bingley always watched him to the point he felt like an exotic creature on display.

  “You look as though you wish for conversation.” She glanced up at him.

  “I believe it is an accepted practice to have some conversation over a meal.”

  She sipped her soup—a creamy vegetable sort of concoction—for a moment. “I notice you have a copy of Shakespeare’s histories on the table. Is it there for the beauty of its binding or for the p
leasure of reading?”

  “My sister would insist on the former—she has no taste for reading. I find it quite ….”

  “You must not say it is enjoyable. Your conscience will plague you if you do. You know it is improper to lie to one who so recently has done you a favor.” One eyebrow arched in an oh-so-knowing lift.

  He snorted softly. “I confess. I do not find Shakespeare’s histories entirely suited to my tastes.”

  “What then do you prefer? His comedies or his tragedies?”

  “His sonnets.” Why had he said that? Anne would abuse him abominably if she knew.

  “I can see why. A man who does not care to perform to strangers might well prefer works that do not demand performance in the way a play does.”

  Where was the teasing wit, the hint of reprimand that should have been in her voice? No, he had not missed it. Her voice and her eyes were soft, so soft and so very fine. Incomparable. He licked his lips and sipped his wine—why had his throat gone so dry?

  “So … so what think you of Sir Alexander’s work?” She blinked and returned to her soup.

  “I have seen none of his other works on stage. But his offering for this house party is,” he shrugged, “not objectionable.”

  “That is faint praise.” There was that eyebrow again. Must she demand truth from him?

  “I can see why his works have gained the level of notoriety they have. The themes are … appealing … to certain groups. He is able to turn a phrase quite cleverly. His use of humor to disarm those who would oppose his views is … astute. There now, is that more to your liking?”

  “It is a more worthy assessment from a man of your caliber.” She dabbed her lips with her napkin. “I do not think you would choose to see his plays performed, though.”

  “You are correct. I would not. But that is a matter of taste. I heard you mention theater critics the other evening. What think you of their assessments?”

  “I have it on great authority that gentlemen do not approve of ladies who suppose their information rivals his. It is, I am told, a very unattractive and undesirable trait, so forgive me if I defer to your opinion.” She bit her lip and avoided his gaze.

  “I would also very much like to deny what you assert, but I cannot. I have seen that sort of nonsense bandied about by individuals—of both sexes, to be sure—who are in possession of very little sense themselves. But it is my belief that men of sense do not want silly wives.”

  “I am not sure all who are at Pemberley now would agree with you.”

  “Consider Miss Garland. What say you of her?”

  “She is certainly not silly.” Her voice tensed.

  “Would you consider her well-informed?”

  “On matters that interest her, she is very well-informed. However, a great deal of wealth, a connection to title, and staggering beauty goes a long way in making a lady acceptable in many circles, no matter what her level of information.”

  Darcy raised his wineglass toward her. “I suppose you have a point.”

  “She has so many great virtues it is difficult to imagine any gentleman bothering to dwell upon a small vice like intelligence. Those of us not so well-favored do not have that luxury.”

  Unfortunately, she was correct. “What is your opinion of Miss Garland?”

  Miss Elizabeth peered at him, an odd, almost sad glint in her eyes. “I cannot fully make her out. Though she is outspoken, she is not unkind, and she has taken to Miss Darcy very well. She seems at home in the country, though London pleases her as well.”

  “You speak in facts, not opinions.” He leaned toward her. Pray she would be honest.

  “She is certainly praiseworthy. I would like to know her character better, though.”

  Noise—this house party approaching—filtered in from the corridor. She rose and took the trays to the chest near the doorway.

  And now he would never hear her opinion.

  Georgiana rushed to his side. “Oh, Brother, I have been worried about you!” She grabbed his hand and clutched it to her shoulder.

  “As you see, I am well. I shall be fine.”

  She sniffled. “I am so sorry.”

  Pray do not cry! “Stop, do not take the blame on yourself. It was an accident.”

  “Indeed, it was, Darcy.” Garland came up behind Georgiana. “Frightfully sorry for it, too, you must know.”

  “I did not know you had it in you,” Richard clapped Garland’s shoulder, “to muster such force with your mallet.”

  “I dare say it was my dear sister who drove me to it. She declared me incapable, and I had to prove her wrong.” Garland looked over his shoulder.

  “And look what your bravado brought you!” Miss Garland shouldered her way past him. “Have you no thought as to how very tragic this might have been?” She sat in the chair Miss Elizabeth had occupied minutes before, her face a portrait of concern.

  “You really should consider the stage, for you have a decided flare for the dramatic.” Garland harrumphed.

  “I am afraid she is quite correct.” Richard chewed his lower lip. “Men die of broken bones. You would not want that upon your conscience.”

  Georgiana blanched and swayed against the fainting couch.

  Darcy slid back lest she fall upon his injured limb. Dear God, that hurt. “I am fine. There is naught but inconvenience here.”

  “Why do you not invite the Bennet sisters to play and sing?” Richard’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Before Miss Bingley begins another concerto.”

  Georgiana giggled. Garland offered his arm and escorted her away, Richard on their heels and Miss Elizabeth lost in the rest of the company.

  “You look reasonably spry for one who has suffered such an injury.” Miss Garland smiled just a mite too much. “One might even wonder if it is merely an excuse to show off your fine banyan and your neck without a cravat.” Her gaze lingered over him until he twitched. How could she be so impertinent and so intriguingly delightful all at once?

  “Had this been intentional, madam, I would have found a way that did not relegate me to a fainting couch,” he grumbled under his breath.

  “I suppose you are correct.” She turned her ear toward the little pianoforte in the far corner of the room and cocked her head. Such graceful lines from her neck to her shoulder. “Miss Bennet plays nicely, and her sister has a sweet voice.”

  “They are pleasant to listen to.” When had Miss Elizabeth begun to sing?

  “They are nothing to your sister, I assure you. Miss Darcy has a rare talent.”

  “Truly?” His gaze landed on Georgiana who stood near the musicians, brows furrowed in concentration, fingers moving as though she were playing with them. “I have never considered it so. She has such a difficult time learning anything. I worry about her.”

  “Surely not. She is one of the cleverest girls I have had the pleasure of knowing.”

  “Do not seek to flatter me or my family. Whilst I am pleased you do not think my sister a simpleton, I do not take kindly to your efforts to exaggerate her accomplishments.”

  She sat up very straight, blue eyes chill as ice. “And I do not appreciate your insinuation that I am prone to idle flattery. Not of anyone or in any situation. Whilst she may be no scholar, Miss Darcy is an exceptionally quick learner. I read her lines to her today—Alexander’s hand is dreadful and often I am the only one who can decipher it—and she had the entire scene committed to memory the second time through. On the pianoforte, she plays pieces perfectly after hearing them only once. I would call that remarkable. It is a shame that you do not agree.”

  Were they talking about the same girl? “I am astonished, truly astonished. All her school masters have held quite a different opinion. They have deemed her everything from dull to lazy to quite willful, but never clever.”

  “That explains her mean opinion of herself. It is a shame, for she is far more accomplished than she or you believe her to be. At least Miss Elizabeth has proven an ally in my efforts to convince her of her o
wn merit. That will be crucial before she has her come-out in London. A girl without self-confidence is often thrown to the wolves among the ton.”

  The crest of Darcy’s ears burned. “It is good of you to take such an interest in her.”

  “She is a delightful young woman. I am pleased to consider her a friend.” She turned toward Georgiana.

  The firelight did marvelous things for Miss Garland’s profile. Smooth, creamy skin formed into perfectly composed features, sloping into generous soft curves. The lace at her neckline only emphasized the plunging décolletage. A silk-stockinged ankle peeked from her hems, encouraging him to wonder at all that lay beyond.

  She cast a sidelong glance at him and raised an eyebrow.

  Botheration! He had been staring, and she had noticed. Where had his manners gone? How could he be such a brute?

  Her eyelid twitched. Had she just winked? The turn of her lips surely suggested so. Great heavens!

  “Do not be alarmed, sir, I do not take offense. I am quite accustomed to being stared at.” The barest hint of a dimple creased her cheek.

  “I was …”

  “Of course, you were. Do not bother with prevarications. They only insult my intelligence. I am entirely aware of my propensity to gather stares and what they mean.” Her voice, her bearing were so composed, with no hint of umbrage.

  “I am intrigued. You must explain.” He leaned back slightly and permitted himself to look directly into her sparkling eyes.

  “People like to gawk at oddities. They gape at anyone unusual or extreme.”

  “You do not suggest I find you an oddity?”

  “No, perhaps not. The notion is too extreme, but you definitely find me a curiosity.” She matched his posture. “Not unlike a performer in a traveling circus.”

  He gasped. “Among the giants and the deformed?”

  “Am I not the tallest woman you have ever encountered?”

  “I will grant you that.”

  “How very good of you. As to deformity—is it all not some sort of continuum really, with the most hideous occupying one end,” she extended her open left hand, “and the most beautiful the other?” She opened her right hand