Page 21 of The Slipper Scandal
No one laughed. Not aloud.
But as Elizabeth lifted her own fork and looked up, she saw it plainly: the subtle shift of shoulders, the raising of wineglasses with just a touch more flourish, the quick, sidelong glances not at Darcy’s empty chair—but at her.
***
Darcy strode down the corridor with as much dignity as a man wearing a full plate of trout in béchamel could muster. His jaw was clenched so tightly he could hear the grinding of his teeth. Of all the humiliations he had suffered in his life—and there had been precious few, he was proud to say—this ranked near the top.
Darcy had entered the dining room prepared. He had been measured and resolute, with every element of his strategy laid out like troops in formation. But within minutes, Elizabeth Bennet had scattered his composure. She had contradicted a titled lady with poise, challenged him on military strategy with startling acuity and intentional misdirection, and somehow, reduced his plans to wine-stained trousers and cream-soaked . . . everything. He had simply not accounted for her being this quick, this bold, this maddeningly impossible. By the time he was escorted from the room, he realised he had not courted her at all. She had taken the field, and he had not even known the battle had begun.
He had not thought Miss Bennet actually hated him. Mr. Abernathy had not thought so either. Had they both been wrong?
"This way, sir," murmured the butler. The man led him to a small, well-appointed chamber with a washstand and mirror. "I shall send for Mr. Abernathy's valet directly. Please make yourself comfortable."
Comfortable. What an absurd suggestion. Darcy gazed down at his ruined evening attire with profound displeasure. His waistcoat was beyond salvation. And his trousers. Good God, his clothing was a disaster.
He removed his coat and laid it carefully across a nearby chair, then examined himself in the glass. There were a few drops of the sauce on the side of his neck above his cravat, though the cravat itself seemed to have escaped untouched. Using his handkerchief, he wiped the evidence away with vigorous strokes, as though he might erase not just the sauce but the entire episode.
A knock at the door heralded the arrival of not one but three servants, each bearing cloths, bowls of water, and expressions of studied neutrality.
"Mrs. Abernathy's compliments, sir," said the most senior of them. "We are to assist you."
Darcy nodded curtly. "Very well."
What followed was a flurry of activity that reminded him uncomfortably of being a child under the ministrations of his nurse. Cloths were dampened, applied, and whisked away. His waistcoat was removed and dabbed at with frantic efficiency. One footman knelt to address the worst of the damage to his trousers.
Darcy put a stop to that immediately.
"I do not believe," he said through gritted teeth, "that all of this is necessary. I am perfectly capable of—"
"Begging your pardon," interrupted a new voice from the doorway, "but I believe I am best equipped to handle this situation."
The newcomer was a slender, grey-haired man of perhaps sixty, with the impeccable posture and faintly disapproving air of a career valet. He surveyed the scene with a single, comprehensive glance.
"You may leave us," he told the other servants with quiet authority.
They departed with visible relief, closing the door behind them.
"Hastings, at your service, Mr. Darcy." The valet approached with the confidence of a battlefield surgeon. "If you would remove your trousers, I shall see what can be done."
Darcy hesitated, but only briefly.
"I must apologise for the state of them," he said stiffly as he removed the offending garments.
Hastings received them with no change in expression. "It is hardly the first culinary catastrophe I have witnessed, sir. Mr. Abernathy once returned from a dinner at Sir George Kendrick’s house with an entire bowl of lobster bisque down the front of him. Sir George himself knocked it from the servant’s hands into the air with an extravagant gesture."
Despite his foul mood, Darcy felt a reluctant smile tug at his lips. "That must have been memorable."
"Indeed, sir. Most memorable." Hastings set to work with a small arsenal of cloths, brushes, and what appeared to be a solution of some kind. "I understand this was a similar accident?"
Darcy frowned. Miss Elizabeth Bennet's face flashed in his mind. Those dark, intelligent eyes had been at first apologetic and then dancing with mischief as she turned so suddenly, so deliberately. The incident with the trout, at least, had been no accident.
"Yes and no," he said. "My intended has a rather lively temperament."
Hastings made a noncommittal sound as he worked. Under his skilled hands, the worst of the damage was rapidly disappearing. "I have observed Miss Bennet on several occasions, sir. A most spirited, kind young lady."
"Spirited," Darcy repeated, testing the word. "Yes, I suppose that is one way to describe her."
In truth, there were many words he might use for Elizabeth Bennet, not all of them flattering. Stubborn. Wilful. Maddening. But she was also intriguing. He had neither expected nor wanted this engagement, but he had not taken the escape Mr. Abernathy had so graciously offered him. He had wanted to know more of her.
