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And Sarah laughed. Her laugh was not a dainty, melodious tinkling, but a loud, full-bodied roar.

Saye winced. “Very well, you could use some polishing,” he allowed.

“But believe me, you must cease worrying that every little imperfection will be the blemish that drives Prince Charming off to Bedlam. Who cares if the stupid ones fail to notice your, um, fluttering? The right man, if he hasn’t manure for brains, will appreciate everything you are.

If he does not, he simply is not the right man.

” For a moment, a strange look passed across his face, as if he heard his own advice and found the flaw in it. But he quickly recovered.

“As for the wardrobe, that is the easiest matter of all. I shall send Aurelia—my sister—to you. If I am not mistaken, and I never am, you are both built upon similar lines. She has devilish good judgment in style, colour, and fabric, and can advise you in this matter. Simply pay no attention whatsoever to any advice she gives you regarding potential husbands.” He shuddered, just a little.

“Thank you, my lord. This has been a most illuminating evening thus far.”

“Time spent in my company usually is,” he agreed modestly, and proceeded to explain to her, in minute detail, the differences between puce and marron , in English and French.

Sarah’s next dining companion arrived before Saye had quite finished his lecture. “Darcy, meet Miss Benson. Devilish good company.” He turned back to Sarah. “Darcy is practically leg-shackled, but feel free to practise on him. He won’t notice. I bid you good hunting!”

The orangery seemed rather silent, suddenly, without him. “My, he is a presence, is he not?” she said.

Mr Darcy cleared his throat. “That is one way to describe it,” he muttered. “What does he wish you to practise, Miss Benson?”

“Actually, he got it wrong—my name is Bentley. Although, now that I think of it, I believe he remembered it. It may have been a joke.”

“Quite likely,” her solemn dining companion agreed .

“It was a conversation we were having on the breeding rituals of moths, and my ability to attract a mate,” she explained.

Mr Darcy’s brow furrowed. “Ahem. A bit of advice. Whatever Saye advises regarding rituals, you may wish to disregard.”

“Truly? He had some interesting opinions.”

“Let us just say his opinions are often not applicable to others.”

A footman arrived, looking a bit out of breath—the orangery was somewhat of a distance from the kitchens—and brought the pheasant.

Mr Darcy displayed exceedingly fine manners, serving her the choicest bits, but conversation was not nearly so easy as it had been with Lord Saye.

Perhaps that is what Lilly sees in him , she thought.

One would never run out of words with such a man.

But I think he is less harmless than Papa believes.

He wears the skin of Aglais io , but I have never seen a peacock butterfly with a predator’s heart.

“You are betrothed, Mr Darcy?” she finally asked.

The difference in his countenance was almost startling. He beamed brighter than Saye’s diamond stick pin. “Yes. Yes, I am. To Miss Elizabeth Bennet, of Hertfordshire.”

Perhaps I could learn from him , she thought. Despite Saye’s famed success with the ladies, she could not quite imagine him crooking his finger at Lilly and expecting her to come to heel.

“I wonder if you would mind very much telling me how Miss Bennet was able to bring you to the point?” she asked politely. “Was it a case of love at first sight?”

He stuttered a bit. “Oh. Well, not quite. That is, it was not long after I met her that I thought her the most beautiful woman I had ever known. But I did not, perhaps…that is, we were somewhat slower to reach an understanding…”

“Ah,” Sarah said. “So, you both gradually realised that your friendship could be something more?”

He sighed. “She hated me. I made a terrible first impression. There were other…misunderstandings to overcome. It was a long while before I won her hand at last.”

“Oh, that is encouraging,” she said.

“It is?”

“Indeed. I usually make the most awful first impressions. I am always putting my foot in it or finding something amusing that is not meant to be, or asking a question one ought not to ask. I have not learnt to simply keep my mouth shut and say as little as possible.”

“As to that…perhaps saying nothing at all is not wise. At least, to the extent possible, one should try to-to come to know a person, especially a person one wishes to court.”

“But that is just it,” Sarah cried, frustrated. “Once they come to know me, it is all over. Perhaps I should just allow my aunt to arrange a match, after all, and give up on the idea of a more romantic pairing. It is likely all nonsense to believe it could be any different.”

Mr Darcy’s usual stern aspect softened. “As to that, of course you must do as you think best. But in my opinion, true love is worth any sacrifice, any improvement you must make to your character, any change you deem necessary to please someone truly worthy of being pleased. It is also worth waiting for.”

He was, she decided, probably one of the most wonderful men in the kingdom. Such a shame he was taken. Sarah sighed and applied herself to her pheasant.

Sarah had been introduced to Mr Anderson before, and she was no more impressed this time than the last. He was, truthfully, better looking than any she herself expected to attract, though nothing to equal Mr Darcy, with whom she was half in love, and of course, no one could compare with Saye.

It was just that he was so…monochromatic.

Brown hair, brown waistcoat, brown coat, brown boots.

Could he not add a gold thread and a shiny button or two?

Anything to break up the unrelieved…brownness?

She glanced down fondly at her own bright half-boots of plum-coloured leather and knew she could never love a man who did not appreciate a dash of colour in his life .

She could not dismiss him completely, for Georgette did not appear to object to his society, and her friend was something of a connoisseur in that regard. Sarah would be friendly, therefore, but he was of no interest to her romantically.

She thought of giving him a hint or two regarding his attire, but this was another problem with Mr Anderson.

He was socially adept, his manners flawless, but speaking to him was like talking to a wall.

One might throw advice over the top of it, but one would never see it land.

Thankfully, it was merely salad and cheese, so their time together was brief.

Afterwards, he introduced her, politely enough, to Mr Reginald Withers.

Sarah looked at Mr Withers with a great deal of interest, as the first bachelor of the night with possibilities.

She had noticed him before, but only thought of him as one of Saye’s circle—a group of men who were more interested in racing and shooting than matrimony.

But of course, he was from a good family.

A second son, as she recalled, who would probably appreciate her substantial fortune.

Not handsome, but not repulsive, either.

Hair a bit on the thin side, chin a bit on the weak side, but tall, with broad shoulders that spoke well of either physique or tailor.

To her surprise, the meal went rather well.

Mr Withers was no Mr Darcy, but she hit upon the topic of horses, about which he pontificated throughout the course.

He had his own specially considered breeding program, and she thought of questions enough to keep him at it whenever he protested that he’d dominated the conversation long enough.

It was not, precisely, what Mr Darcy recommended—at the end of it, she could safely say he did not know her at all.

But it also meant he knew nothing of her flaws, either, and that was accomplishment enough for one evening.

Besides, she was an excellent listener. Her friends always said so.

Her next dinner partner was late, and she saw that Mr Withers was looking a bit nervously about for him, especially after the footman arrived with the final course.

“Please, feel free to go to your next table,” she smiled.

“I do hate to leave you alone,” he protested. “It has been most pleasant. I cannot imagine what has delayed Fitz.”

“Fitz?” she questioned.

“I beg your pardon. Fitzwilliam, I mean. I thought I heard he was to be next in the orangery. Saye and his ideas.” He shrugged helplessly, smiling, and she found his smile to be quite nice.

“I am sure he will arrive shortly, and you must not disappoint your next partner. There are some plantings in here which I am only too happy to study.”

Once he departed, Sarah hastened towards the foliage—she had not been prevaricating about her desire to examine the antique cinerary urns, the vines, and odiferous plants—and she eagerly strolled amongst the rows, ignoring the long-suffering sighs of Evans, her maid, lagging behind.

A section of young trees in deep beds caught her attention, and she mentally catalogued the different varieties, intrigued by the ones she could not identify. And then she saw it.

It closely resembled a Melolontha praegrandis —a variety of cockchafer, an enormous beetle that feasted upon leaves.

It was far too early for them! However, it was much warmer in the orangery all year round.

They burrowed in the ground and spent most of their lives—years, even—as grubs in the soil.

Perhaps the presence of this one was a fluke, but if there was an infestation, the gardeners must remove them from the soil while they were still in their larvae state.

It was vital that she capture this one as proof of their existence in the hallowed territory of the orangery, lest the gardeners disbelieve her.

Richard Fitzwilliam was most severely displeased.

Finding himself sharing a meal, alone (or nearly so) with Elizabeth Bennet had promised to be the highlight of the party.

He knew she was Darcy’s future wife. There was nothing to be done about that.

However, he could at least bask in the beauty of her presence, enjoy her scintillating company.

And, if his own dazzling wit made her wish, at least briefly, that she could have made a different decision…

well, was that so awful? It was, after all, the only comfort afforded a man who had ceded the field, knowing that he, unlike Darcy, could not marry where he liked.

Instead, he had made a fool of himself in front of the one woman he least wanted to appear foolish before, had angered Darcy—for no good reason, it was to be noted—and then had to hurry to change his ruined clothing, making him late for his final course of the evening.

Not that he cared, particularly, for Miss Bentley—whoever she was, for he had missed seeing her arrival—but it was ill-mannered to be so tardy, and his pride had taken enough of a beating this evening.

But when he finally arrived at the orangery, there was only an empty table.

“She’s in the trees, sir,” a footman explained.

He strode to the far side of the orangery where rows of trees formed a pretty little forest, but he saw no one.

“Mistress, please, come down from there!” hissed a voice from within the plantings. He turned sharply towards it, and spotted a maid, wringing her hands, while her foolish mistress—precariously perched upon a stone urn—was climbing the bloody tree!

His dress boots were not designed for speed, but he ran as fast as he could to reach her—the tree she was attempting to climb was far too fragile to support her weight !

Two things happened at once. She called, “Got you!” and grabbed for something, and her feet—clad in the most ridiculous purple shoes he had ever seen—slipped, and she began toppling.

There was not time enough to catch her; he could only serve as a sort of cushion to break her fall.

Down she went, knocking the breath from his body and his head to the pavers.

For a moment, he could only wheeze, unable to breathe or speak, but then a weight was lifted from him, and finally, he gasped in a breath.

“I say,” came her voice. It was a surprisingly pretty voice coming from the Satan’s spawn it belonged to. “Are you hurt?”

He opened his eyes. It was the cat lady! He never forgot a face—especially when fastened to a body such as hers—and though it was dark the last time he had seen her, she was particularly unforgettable. His eyes narrowed. “You!” he accused.

“Oh!” she cried. “The cat colonel!”

Carefully, slowly, he picked himself up, dusting himself off. Without saying a word, he left her—so that he would say none of the words he thought of—and made for the table. He could hear her—silently, mercifully enough—following.

He signalled to the footman to pour; he was in no mood for champagne, but that was the only liquid available.

His dining companion sat across from him and reached for her glass but waved away the footman offering the bottle. Instead, she dropped something into it, turning it upside down on the tabletop.

He nearly let out a shriek. It was the largest, ugliest, most disgusting beetle he had ever seen.

“Get rid of that thing!” he cried.

“You need not fear it. It will not hurt you.”

“I am not afraid of it,” he spoke, low-voiced and dangerous. “I simply do not wish to share a meal with the repulsive pest.” And then his temper, usually kept under good regulation, broke free. “Or you, for that matter.”

She only looked at him, her gaze clear-eyed, showing no sign of hurt or dismay. “Well,” she said contemplatively, “you are certainly no Mr Darcy, either.”

Then she scooped up her glass, the disgusting creature within, and walked away.