Page 124 of Colour My World
Barty, eyes narrowed, tilted his head. “A little tighter, sir, lest your dinner partner see your pulse.”
“Barty.”
The valet lifted an eyebrow. “Sir?”
Do not play the innocent with me.
He ran his hands over Darcy’s shoulders. “A shame, really,” he tutted. “To see such craftsmanship undone.”
“Do you know something I do not?”
Barty pressed his lips together. “I should not say, sir. But I shall.” Barty adjusted the hem of his coat.
Darcy braced himself. His man was about to spew valet wisdom. In droves…
“The line between restraint and recklessness is but a thread. One must consider the weight of a single step. Some men standat the edge forever, never knowing how it feels to fall. A well-fitted coat hides much, but not all. If a man comes undone, sir, it is rarely the fault of his tailor—”
“Barty.”
Barty smoothed an invisible wrinkle. “Sir?”
“You have always been Loki to my Thor.”
Barty bowed deeply. “And you, sir, have always been predictable. One step, sir. That is all it takes.” He turned towards the door, glanced back, and then he was gone.
* * *
Darcy blinked at the empty doorway. The fire snapped behind him, casting flickering light along the walls. His coat felt too tight, the air too thick.
The urge struck without warning. The Book. On a page he expected to be blank, but, thankfully, was not:
Look at her. With your heart
The ink pressed into the page as though it had been waiting for him. The words did not simply stare back. They demanded.
* * *
Longbourn
Earlier that day, Mrs Bennet received a summons from Netherfield Park. A footman in livery delivered a quarto bearing the de Bourgh’s seal. The note was curt, its civility barely veiled: the Bennet family was invited to dine.
Upon reading it, Mrs Bennet declared herself both delighted and distressed. Delighted at the honour, distressed at the woeful state of her daughters’ wardrobe. There was not a glove among them fit for scrutiny.
She paced the length of the drawing room. “Dinner with LadyCatherine! At Netherfield. Oh, Mr Bennet, we shall be torn to pieces.”
“Then I am glad I’ve never worn anything worth mending,” he replied, not looking up from his paper.
“You are insufferable,” she snapped. “There is not a girl in this house with silk fit to face the mistress of Rosings Park. And Jane’s only decent shoes are missing a button.”
Mr Bennet folded the paper with deliberate care. “My dear, I must urge you to be at ease.”
“At ease?” she echoed.
He stood, crossed to the sideboard, and poured himself a modest glass of wine. “Lady Catherine may hold rank, but we have the advantage.”
Mrs Bennet scoffed. “Which is?”
“She has summoned us to her ground. Which means she plays hostess, not sovereign. It is the weaker position.”
