Page 123 of Colour My World
“You could always tell her.”
Anne snorted, inelegant but expressive. “And rob her of her only remaining pleasure? No, no, that would be too cruel.”
“You are magnanimous, indeed.”
“Yes—yes, I am a saint.”
Darcy inclined his head. “You do not wish to leave Rosings.”
“No, Fitzwilliam, I do not. Rosings is mine. It has always been mine.”
“It turned a profit when you came into your majority.” Darcy considered that. “You allowed your mother to continue her reign.”
Anne lifted a brow. “I allowed her to believe it. She busies herself with correspondence and theatrics.”
She patted his arm. “I sign the ledgers.”
Darcy shook his head. “You are Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s daughter.”
“I am that,” she replied. “And you, Cousin, will wed your Miss Bennet and give me my freedom.”
Darcy glanced away. “It is not so simple.”
“Of course it is.” Anne tapped a thoughtful finger against her lips. “You love her.” Anne’s lips curled. “You do. Do not shy away from the truth.”
Darcy tensed and looked at his shoes. “She is unlike anyone I have ever known.”
Anne hummed. “And your ridiculous flight from the assembly?”
Darcy rubbed a hand across his jaw. “She, her eyes—” He pressed thumb to temple. “She is not unnatural, Anne.”
“I never said she was. Mother’s opinions are not mine. I should like to meet her.”
“You will like her.”
“I know.” Anne released his arm and stretched. “And she will like me.”
“A bold claim.”
“It is not a claim, Cousin. It is a certainty.” She opened her room’s door. “I shall dress for dinner. You would do well to do the same. It would not do to meet the future mistress of Pemberley in disarray.”
And with that, she was gone.
Chapter 44
He stood still as Barty adjusted his cuff for the third time. The evening routine progressed with his man’s usual tyranny over cloth and crease until the house announced itself with a gong fit for Westminster.The brazen toll of forged metal rang through the air.
Darcy blinked.What the deuce? A dinner gong?
Barty froze mid-adjustment, one hand still at his master’s cuff. Without looking up, he murmured, “Perhaps next we shall summon footmen with trumpets and rename the estate Chatsworth South.”
A breath escaped through his nose. “Quite.”
Barty flicked an imaginary speck from the lapel. He unfastened his waistcoat, tightened his cravat, and loosened it again.
Darcy bore it in silence.
“Have you finished sculpting?”
