Page 31 of The Wager
Elizabeth distinctly heard Viscount Ashton snort and without thought she elbowed him in the arm, similar to what she would have done with Lydia. However, the next volley of conversation from Miss Bingley had him choking back a laugh.
“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well.”
“Thank you, but I always mend my own.”
The viscount stood and held out his hand to Elizabeth.
“Miss Elizabeth, may I beg your company to take a turn about the room? I know you enjoy a good ramble and have not had the chance to engage in that particular exercise since your arrival yesterday.”
“Thank you, Lord Ashton. I will.”
She took his hand and, upon standing, dropped it to loop her arm around his. In perfect unison, they ambled around the perimeter of the drawingroom.
“I apologize, Elizabeth, for practically forcing you to walk with me. I was in grave danger of breaking out with laughter at a certain lady’s antics.”
“To give the lady credit, she is determined.”
Their attention was caught by the raised tone of Miss Bingley. It appeared she was becoming testy with Mr. Darcy’s stoic responses to her inane chatter.
“Tell your sister that I am quite enraptured with her beautiful little designs for a table.”
“Will you give me leave to defer your raptures?” Darcy’s tone was heavy with sarcasm. “At present, I have not room to do them justice.”
“Do you always write such charming long letters to your sister, Mr. Darcy?”
By this time, Ashton and Elizabeth had returned to their starting point and in unspoken agreement resumed their seat on the sofa. The viscount stretched out his legs and leaned back into the couch, his alert gaze resting on Miss Bingley.
“Darcy’s letters are always long,” Ash said, his tone one of teasing. “Whether they are charming or not, is up to the receiver’s determination.”
Miss Bingley opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again as though to speak, only to be stymied by Mr. Darcy engaging his cousin in a surprisingly teasing manner.
“My style of writing is very different from yours, Ashton.”
“Most assuredly. You labor over your letters, sifting through that great brain of yours for every four-syllable word you can squeeze onto the page.”
“Not true,” Darcy replied. “I have been known to slip in a few three-syllable words.”
He then shifted sideways and looked directly at Elizabeth, gifting her with a wink and a smile wide enough to display a set of dimples. Her breath caught in the back of her throat at his light flirtation, carefully shielded from the eagle eye of Miss Bingley. Whatever could he mean?
“Regardless, Miss Darcy will be thrilled to receive your letter,” that lady said in an attempt to regain control of the conversation. “She is everything proper and genteel.”
Unlike others you know, Elizabeth heard muttered under her breath.
“Excuse me, Miss Bingley,” Ashton called out in what Elizabeth thought was an overly loud voice. “I did not catch the last part of what you said. Something about others he might know.”
“I…” Miss Bingley flushed with embarrassment. “That is, I commented on the fact Darcy knows many ladies of good breeding.”
“Yes, I thought that was what you said and you have the proof of that fact before you in this very room.”
Miss Bingley visibly preened at what she thought was a compliment to herself and slid a coy look in the direction of her sister, who had remained completely silent throughout the whole of the evening. The viscount’s next statement deflated her bubble of pride.
“When Darcy and I first saw her, we both commented on how lovely Miss Elizabeth was. A veritable English rose,” Ashton added and grinned at the look of chagrin Elizabeth shot toward him.
“An English rose?” Miss Bingley scoffed. “Such a description aptly describes Miss Hamilton as her complexion is fair, like mine. Miss Eliza spends too much time outside−”
“Miss Elizabeth is like a hyacinth, and her loveliness charms me,” Darcy said, never removing his gaze from Elizabeth. “How was that for three-syllable words, Ash?”
The viscount remained silent and looked first at Darcy before glancing at Elizabeth. She prayed her cheeks were not bright red from embarrassment and wondered if her titled cousin was aware of the burgeoning trend of floriography, and the message Mr. Darcy had parlayed in his brief sentence.
