Page 75 of What Change Entails

Elizabeth bent forward with such uncontrollable mirth that tears gathered in her eyes.

Darcy saw her look at him then.

The laughter still remained in her face, but beneath it was surprise. Not ridicule. Not censure. Surprise, and something warmer that he had no right to name.

He held out his hand to Lydia.

“Forgive me.”

Lydia accepted with great dignity for a person seated in mud. “I am injured in my feelings.”

“Your feelings appear resilient.”

“My gown is not.”

“No.”

He pulled her to her feet. Mud clung to one side of her skirt from hip to hem. Lydia inspected the damage with solemn gravity, then pointed at Horace.

“That dog is a villain.”

Horace sat and chewed.

Georgiana reached them, wiping her eyes. “He has always been wicked.”

“You knew this and allowed me to fish near him?”

“I did not know you would hook the dog.”

“I did not hook him. He interfered with destiny.”

Elizabeth joined them at last, still flushed with laughter. “Lydia, you must come inside and change.”

“I shall not be driven from the field by a dog.”

“You have mud in your hair.”

Lydia touched her curls as if betrayed by nature itself. “Horace.”

The dog wagged harder.

Darcy removed the remains of the line from the shrub while Bingley attempted to coax the bait from Horace’s mouth with an offer of bread. Horace rejected this bargain. Mr. Gardiner suggested ham. Horace approved ham instantly.

Miss Bingley remained under the tree.

When Darcy finally gave her his attention, her expression had become smooth and attentive. She had watched more than Lydia’s accident. She had seen Georgiana laughing without fear of correction. She had seen him laughing openly beside Elizabeth Bennet. She had seen Elizabeth regard him as if he were not the man she had once believed.

Miss Bingley’s fan moved in short, controlled strokes.

Darcy’s laughter faded.

He disliked that he allowed it to.

Elizabeth noticed the change. Her own amusement eased, then retreated into something more cautious.

Lydia, fortunately, cared nothing for social undercurrents when covered in mud. “Miss Bingley!” she called across the grass. “You were quite right. Fishing is not genteel.”

Miss Bingley’s fan paused. “I said nothing of the kind.”