When the woman chose the table beside his, he was torn between amusement and annoyance. Mostly annoyance.
“Whatever the kitchen can spare, so long as it is hot,” she said, glancing at her companion, who was holding a handkerchief to her nose.
Wonderful. He wished they had remained upstairs. The last thing anyone here needed was illness.
Miss Bennet sat quietly, dark curls arranged about her face bobbing gently as she lifted her cup. When she looked up, her eyes, which were a mahogany brown with surprising depth, rested on him for a moment.
The innkeeper bustled forward, bowing under the weight of a tray. “Your breakfast, Princess—”
“Miss Bennet,” she said, in a tone of graceful correction that gave no offence yet allowed no repetition.
The innkeeper blinked, then nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes. Miss Bennet, of course.” He retreated, and Darcy knew that he would certainly return to using the word princess the moment Miss Bennet left the room.
Darcy allowed himself the faintest curve of his mouth. She certainly knew her part: deny the title prettily enough, and the denial itself would serve to strengthen the lie.
She sighed a little before she turned her head towards him. “A singular storm, sir.”
Darcy set down his coffee cup with deliberate care, noting how she had chosen to open with the weather, that most innocuous of subjects, perfectly calculated to invite conversation without appearing forward. How very accomplished of her.
“Indeed, madam,” he replied, his tone level. “Alas, I have not brought my sleigh.”
Her lips turned up in what might have been amusement. “Nor I. A terrible oversight.”
“Especially,” Darcy said, “as it would have allowed us to glide past any unfortunate mishaps on the road, waving cheerfully from a safe distance while others laboured in the snow.”
The companion, a sharp-featured woman, chose this moment to deliver a delicate sneeze. The timing was so precise that Darcy found himself wondering if she had been waiting for his reply.
Miss Bennet’s eyes narrowed, her smile frozen in place. “Indeed, sir. Though I confessIfind little pleasure in such expedient travel.”
“Achoo!”The companion’s sneeze arrived with the precision of a well-aimed cannon shot.
“Bless you, Mrs. Hobart,” Miss Bennet said, reaching for the woman’s arm with evident concern. “Perhaps we ought to—”
“Achoo!Forgive me,” Mrs. Hobart gasped, dabbing at her nose. “The cold, you understand. So very trying.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Most unfortunate. Perhaps you should return to your rooms, for they are evidently a great deal warmer than the rest of the house.”
“The rooms are quite comfortable,” Miss Bennet began, “though I fear there has been some misunderstanding—”
“Achoo!”
“Mrs. Hobart, you really must—”
“Achoo!So sorry,Miss Bennet. The draughts, you know.”
Darcy’s mouth quirked. “Draughts? How curious. I was given to understand that every comfort had been requisitioned for your party’s use.”
Miss Bennet’s colour rose slightly. “Sir, I believe you labour under a misapprehension. We have taken only what was offered, and indeed—”
“Achoo!Oh dear," Mrs. Hobart interrupted, waving her handkerchief with theatrical distress. “The air here is so . . . well. Perhaps weshouldreturn upstairs.”
“Mrs. Hobart!” Miss Bennet’s voice carried a note of mortification. “The gentleman will think—”
“That you consider yourself above sharing the air with others?” Darcy suggested mildly, raising his coffee cup. “Heaven forbid such a notion should arise.”
Miss Bennet’s dark eyesflashed. “Sir, you seem determined to attribute motives to us that do not exist. We have inconvenienced no one knowingly.”
“Knowingly,” Darcy repeated, taking a sip of his coffee. “How carefully qualified. But then, I suppose those of higher ranks need not concern themselves with the comfort of others, even when they are required to sleep upon the floor.”