Page 74 of The Longbourn Bloodline

“I will hand her the keys and rejoice in her high spirits.”

Mr. Bennet regarded him through a veil of pipe smoke, the fire’s crackle and Cleo’s purr weaving a quiet duet. It was as close to agreement as possible, tinged with grief on one side and anticipation on the other.

“You said the roads go both ways,” Mr. Bennet said.

“Yes. She will come home whenever she wishes, as often as she wishes. I will bring her myself, or she will travel with her own horses and carriage with her maids, and if she wishes to spend a month at Longbourn in the spring and another in the autumn, the household at Pemberley will arrange itself accordingly.”

“Even during the London season?”

“I would happily forgo every London season for the rest of my natural life if Elizabeth preferred to be in Hertfordshire.”

Mr. Bennet removed his pipe and pointed the stem at Darcy. “Now I know you are in love. Only a besotted man would surrender the London season without a fight.” The amusement was back—genuine now, warm beneath the irony. “My wife will be devastated, of course. She has plans for Elizabeth’s London season that involve a quantity of silk sufficient to outfit a frigate.”

“Then I would say your wife and family may proceed, as I still intend, as their third cousin, to make the introductions. However, Elizabeth and I may prefer to stay home in our library, to which you, sir, will also be welcome… along with this cat.” Darcy lifted Cleo from his lap and brushed off the hairs.

“Well then, I shall not detain you longer.” Mr. Bennet rose from his chair. “You have my blessing, sir, and my daughter. Try not to let Mrs. Bennet in on this until Elizabeth has accepted, as she and my younger daughters will hound you, hoping to get a proverb or homily in, or inquire about inviting officers to the wedding breakfast, or chase you with a yardstick.”

“A yardstick? Whatever for?”

“Why, Kitty will insist you walk with it in your back, and Lydia will proclaim that only she is tall enough to marry you.” Mr. Bennet chuckled dryly. “May I suggest walking to the northern boundary, as the lady will be quite concerned about a certain tree torn up by its roots, and it is a good deal too far for Mrs. Bennet’s company of nerves.”

Outside, a horse whinnied—probably his own, growing impatient at the hitching post. Mr. Bennet glanced out the window. “I believe Elizabeth and Jane are in the garden, attempting to avoid another seven hours of wedding breakfast menu queries.”

Darcy shook Mr. Bennet’s hand, then straightened his cravat—the same knot, precise and irreproachable—and turned toward the door. Behind him, Mr. Bennet’s voice followed, mild and amused and carrying the weight of everything he had not said.

“Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy paused at the threshold.

“She is the best of them, you know. The very best of all of them.” His voice was quiet now, stripped of wit, and it was the most honest thing Thomas Bennet had ever said to him. “Be worthy of her.”

“I intend to spend my life attempting it, sir.”

“Good.” The irony returned, gentle as a well-worn coat. “Because if you fail, I shall send the cat after you, and Cleo, I must warn you, is far less forgiving than I am.”

The chuckle followed Darcy out of the library and down the passage, and he carried it with him into the cold, clear morning like a gift he had not known he needed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

HOME FROM ABOVE

Elizabeth watched for the cat, and sure enough, after about a quarter of an hour, maybe more, she observed Cleo emerge from the garden door, her tail held high with the supreme air of a creature privy to gentlemanly business. She and Jane exchanged glances across the bare winter rosebushes while her heart tried to keep its measure behind her ribs.

Her father would not reject Darcy in a quarter of an hour. His wit would not allow it—not with his particular brand of interrogation, which typically involved at least three literary allusions, two pipe lightings, and one devastating observation that made the recipient question their entire existence.

Which meant Darcy kept her father to the main issue at hand, the question of whether he would allow Elizabeth to make her own decision, and Elizabeth knew her father well enough to know he would have injected obstacles to test Darcy’s mettle.

“He is coming out,” Jane said quietly, her hand finding Elizabeth’s arm.

“And I have been admiring the frost for fifteen minutes,” Elizabeth remarked, her gaze drifting, with studied nonchalance, toward the side door. Darcy’s coat was his finest, dark against the pale stone, and he approached with a purposefulness that stopped just short of haste—his stride long, his expression resolute, his eyes fixed upon her with a gravity Bingley would never have attempted.

“Go,” Jane said softly. “It is well.”

And so Elizabeth took her steps steadily. She would not run, like she had when his carriage had driven up. Her mother and sisters would be watching from the upper landing, and her father from the library. Cleo had already scaled the garden wall, off on her own errands, not at all concerned that Elizabeth’s heart fluttered like a fledgling teetering at the edge of a nest.

And then she saw his mouth curve—that slight, devastating curve which meant he would proceed—and she hastily scrambled with her skirt, or her hair, gloves, or cloak, her hands not knowing which to smooth and tuck.

He was upon her before she had even arranged her wool hat, that grin giving him an insouciant air.