Page 150 of Colour My World
“That is correct.”
Her brow arched. “And yet here you are.”
“I came to spend the holiday with my sister. And with your leave, your daughter.”
Lady Catherine sniffed, turning towards the fire.
“One does not bar family in December,” he said.
She adjusted the holly in its vase with a flick of her fingers. “Provided you do not speak of radicalism, German composers, or topics better suited for the servants’ hall.”
“I shall strive to keep the peace.”
She did not look at him as she spoke again. “You are still unmarried, I presume.”
“At present.”
“We shall consider it a mercy.” With that, she turned, her skirts sweeping across the Turkish rug as she exited the room, leaving the scent of lavender water and command in her wake.
“A minor triumph,” he said to Sir Lewis. Darcy remained a moment longer, collecting himself beneath the portrait’s gaze. He exited the drawing room. Soft footsteps touched the upper landing. He looked up.
Georgiana stood halfway down the staircase, hands resting on the polished rail. She wore a gown of deep winter green, simple but elegant, and her hair swept back with a pearl comb. The candlelight caught in the curves of her face, older now, more assured. No longer the girl who had waited at windows. For a moment, he saw Lady Anne.
“You came,” she said.
Darcy inclined his head. “Of course.”
Georgiana’s lips curved. “We saved you a place at the table. Aparty of four.”
He allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “A quartet.”
She descended another step. “Your coat is wet. You ought to change before dinner.”
He rubbed a finger at his temple. “I shall.”
She nodded, then looked away briefly, then back, her voice softer. “I am glad you are here.”
Darcy bowed his head. “So am I.”
She studied him, the silence stretching not unkindly. “I had wondered,” she said at last, “whether you would come to Rosings for the festive season.”
“I came for you.”
Her expression did not change, but something within it eased. She stepped down the final stair and stood beside him, her head only just below his shoulder.
“Come,” she said, offering her hand. “You may walk with me to the music room. But you must not speak of politics, or religion, or the weather.”
He took her arm gently. “And if I disobey?”
“Then I shall seat you beside our aunt.”
“What of German composers?” he asked.
Georgiana gripped his arm as she laughed.
* * *
The dining room at Rosings glittered beneath the soft flicker of candlelight. Garland twined around the towering gilt mirror. Silver candlesticks gleamed between crystal glasses and holly-framed place cards written in an uncompromisingly precise hand.
