part0010

F itzwilliam arrived with Georgiana exactly on the date and time he said he would. One might think the military would have influenced him toward such precision, but he had been that way all his life. Nearly drove his family to distraction with his punctuality. Perhaps that was why he did it.

Aunt Catherine showed her new guests all the proper attentions and then some. Darcy’s company had lost some of its shine. She was ready for guests who might better fit her needs as an excessively attentive hostess.

Darcy excused himself from the post-dinner drawing room entertainments as early as he could without drawing the ire of either of the de Bourgh women. Fitzwilliam was quick to take advantage of the opportunity, pinching the brandy decanter and a pair of snifters on the way out.

He pulled the door of Darcy’s chambers closed behind him and leaned against the door as though barring it from the enemy. He balanced the snifters in one hand and poured brandy with the other. “That was a rather spectacular retreat. I see you have not lost your touch.”

Darcy took a snifter. “It seems a necessary survival skill.”

They dropped into a pair of wingback chairs near the fireplace. A gentle breeze brought in the scents of the night as they sat in blessed silence for several minutes. Why could the de Bourgh women not appreciate the value of quiet companionship?

“Where is Walker?” Fitzwilliam peered at the bed curtains and other high perches in the room.

“I expect he will be along as soon as he catches wind of the brandy. He appreciates it as much as you do.” He pointed to a small glass on the table.

Fitzwilliam chuckled and filled the glass. “Forgive me, but I still find it odd to see your dragon drink. At least he holds his liquor better than most men.”

“I will let him know you said that.” Darcy raised his glass toward him. “Dare I ask how the journey went?”

Fitzwilliam took a deep draw from his glass. “If you are asking if Georgiana still suffers from sickness in the carriage, yes, most definitely. I have never seen anyone with such a delicate constitution. As if fretting over all of the dragon encounters that she would have at Rosings and her impending introduction to Pemberley were not enough to drive her to distraction.”

Darcy leaned into the chair and stared at the ceiling. “I suppose it was too much to hope she had begun to grow out of her shyness towards dragons.”

“She dreads dragons and is little happier about most people. The dear girl is nearly as bad as you in that regard. Some things, it seems, will never change.”

“Perhaps a Dragon Friend of her own might help cure her of this rubbish?” Darcy bounced steepled hands off his chin.

“What possible Dragon Friend would not drive her to distraction? Even Walker who is more civilized than most men keeps her utterly tongue-tied.”

“So, she has not changed.” Walker landed on the table and harrumphed. He sampled the brandy. “Very nice.”

“Whilst in Meryton, we met several fairy dragons—”

Fitzwilliam snorted. “Those senseless flutter-tufts?”

“They are not all senseless bits.” Walker grumbled.

Fitzwilliam’s eyes grew very wide. “You are the last one I would expect to say such a thing.”

Walker fluttered his wings in something that resembled a shrug.

“It is true. There was fairy dragon in Meryton with the venom to stand up to Walker. It was something, seeing her going beak to beak with him.” Darcy covered his mouth and chuckled.

“April is a rare example of her kind and an excellent influence on the hatchlings. I confess she has forced me to rethink my opinion of her kind.” Walker paced the table as he lectured, wings folded tightly over his back. He could have taught classes at Cambridge with that posture.

“Speaking of hatchlings,” Fitzwilliam leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Do you think you can convince Cait to allow me to try to befriend one of your next clutch?”

Walker took a deep draw from his brandy and tucked his head under his wing.

“That is rather a sore point right now.” Darcy sipped his brandy.

“But I thought—”

“Well then perhaps you should sire her clutch.” Walker snarled. He picked up his brandy glass and upended it, downing the remaining liquid in a single gulp.

Darcy covered his eyes with his hands as Fitzwilliam laughed raucously. Unfortunately, a few of Rowlandson’s more exotic prints flashed through his mind. Probably exactly what Fitzwilliam was thinking of as well. It would be days before he could shake those images from his mind.

“So, Georgiana is not the only one who has not changed.” Fitzwilliam wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

“Hardly.” Walker paced along the table.

“I am not sure who Cait favors more, Aunt Catherine or Anne.” Darcy refilled Walker’s glass.

“When she is not broody, definitely the Lady, but currently, she favors the young one.”

It was not usually a compliment when a dragon refused to refer to one by name.

Except Pemberley’s references to Miss Elizabeth as “Her”—that title was spoken with near reverence.

“Speaking of Anne—” Fitzwilliam reached for his glass.

“I would rather not.”

“One more thing that has not changed.” Fitzwilliam chuckled, then forced his features into a more proper expression.

Not that he succeeded, but at least he made the effort.

“Seriously though, Darce, we really must speak of Anne.”

“I swear, if you tell me I should purchase a special license or even an ordinary one, I shall pitch you out of the window and blame the deed on Walker.”

“I will help. But blame Quincy—he is a much more believable culprit.”

Fitzwilliam threw up his hands as though in surrender. “Far be it from me to do such a thing.” He reached into his jacket and removed a letter affixed with the blue wax seal of the Blue Order. “Father sends you his official greetings.”

“How kind of him. I expect this missive contains his instructions to have the marriage settlements prepared and sent to him for his approval?” Darcy refilled his own glass.

“Though it is tempting to allow you to stew in your own venom, I would not have Walker consider me cruel. That letter does not condemn you. It contains your pardon.”

Darcy sat bolt upright. “My what?”

“You heard me. Pardon, reprieve—if you wish to be dramatic, salvation. It is not merely a letter from your Uncle Matlock, but rather an official notice from the Chancellor of the Blue Order. The marriage clauses have been amended to reflect—how did they put it— ‘the societal changes and customs of men.’ The dragons have made the concession. As long as a proper Keeper is ensured, and the Keeper’s desired marriage does not present a danger of exposure of dragon kind, then an estate dragon cannot enforce or prevent a marriage.”

Darcy cracked the seal and read the letter. All the formal language aside, that was exactly what the letter said.

By Jove! He dragged in breath like a half-drowned man and sprang to his feet. Free—he was indeed free! He paced along the windows.

Fitzwilliam and Walker laughed heartily.

“You should see yourself, Darce—you look nothing so much as a man who has escaped Tyburn’s tree.”

“You would feel quite the same if you faced a marriage that would give you responsibility for two estates and two dragons!”

“You would complain of such wealth?”

“Have you any idea of how much work a major dragon is? Hardly the kind of work one can turn over to servants.”

“Which is exactly why you would invite me to live at Rosings and manage it for you.” Fitzwilliam leaned back and balanced one foot on top of the other.

Darcy rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “Better you should marry Anne and be the proper Keeper here.”

“It is a nice idea to be sure, but as eldest son, you are a much more attractive match.”

“Well, perhaps your fortunes have changed. Once Anne recovers from her disappointment, perhaps your father can press your suit for you.”

“I suppose then I should be on my very best behavior.” Fitzwilliam drained his snifter. “Perhaps if Cait will allow me to befriend—”

“If Darcy does not need to mate at a dragon discretion, then I do not do so at a man’s.” Walker growled and flew out of the window.

“Touchy fellow. I say, the resemblance between you two is utterly uncanny.” Fitzwilliam smirked.

“You know mine is not the only betrothal connected to Rosings Park that will be affected by these changes.”

Fitzwilliam rubbed his hands together. He enjoyed gossip as much as Aunt Catherine. “Indeed, I had no idea. Do tell.”

“The Hunsford vicar, Collins—a dragon-deaf buffoon—has a dragon estate entailed upon him—the estate of the Order’s Historian, Longbourn.”

“The one who assisted you with Pemberley’s recovery?”

“Bennet’s second daughter has a particular gift with dragons. It was she who stayed my hand and insisted that Pemberley could still properly imprint. And she was right. Without her …” Darcy swallowed hard and dragged his fist across his chin.

“And she is her father’s sacrificial lamb to the vicar?”

“The dragon is enamored of her just like Pemberley is, and Walker and every dragon she meets. Longbourn does not wish to let her go. He will be most distressed to learn she is no longer obligated to bow to his demands.”

Fitzwilliam peered at him more closely. “It sounds as though you feel a debt toward her? Perhaps you should wheedle an invitation to Rosings Park for her—and get her away from that dragon of hers.”

“Have you forgotten that the man she does not want to marry is vicar here? I can hardly think it would be an agreeable escape for her.”

“That is a shame. It sounds as though she might be very helpful to Georgiana.”

Darcy stroked his chin. “You have given me an idea.”

Several hours later, Darcy gathered up several papers and tiptoed to Georgiana’s room. He tapped at the door. A soft voice responded.

Georgiana was curled up in a large chair, near the fire, a large blanket wrapped over her—her way of recovering from too much company.

“I am glad you are come.” He pulled a chair close and sat near her.

She peeked above the blanket, eyes in a narrow glare. “I had little choice. You insisted I come.”

“You sound as though I am an ogre.”

“I have heard they are as fond of dragons as you are.” She tucked her head back into the blanket.

He patted the blanket where her shoulder should have been. “I know Old Pemberley frightened you with his tempers, and that he was crotchety in his dotage. But they are not all so difficult.”

“Walker does not like me either.”

“Walker is not particularly personable with anyone.”

She pulled the blankets aside. “Quincy has already been through my trunks and has tried to steal buttons off my gowns! I do not even know the kitchen dragon’s name, but she runs when she sees me—”

“Blanche runs from nearly everyone. She is shy. And as to Quincy, pucks are hoarders. He does that to everyone. I have brought buttons for him. I will give you some. If you offer them to him for good behavior, he will leave your things alone.”

“Little Pemberley is a very affectionate creature.”

“She is a firedrake! How can you call a fire-breathing, fanged, winged monster affectionate?” Georgiana hugged her shoulders and shuddered.

“She is just a baby! Like that puppy you adored.”

“I am sure she would be offended if you compared her to a puppy.”

“She has her own pet dog. I think she would be pleased.”

“She has a dog?” Georgiana’s tone softened.

“An old hound. They are inseparable. They like to chew bones together. She is teething, you know.”

“But is that not a very dangerous time for a baby?” A glimmer of interest—or perhaps sympathy lit her eyes.

“That is what I understand as well. I have some very helpful advice, written for me by the daughter of the Blue Order’s Historian. You might find it helpful to read the observations of a young woman like yourself. She feels very differently about dragons and perhaps if you can see them through her eyes, it would be helpful.” He offered the pages Miss Elizabeth had written.

She took them, suspicion in her eyes.

“I have not told you the full story yet, but Pemberley did not hatch as we expected. Miss Elizabeth was there with her when she hatched. I think Pemberley might not have lived if she had not been there.”

“Do you like her?”

Why did Georgiana have to ask that?

“I think she would be a good friend to you. She said she would be happy to receive letters from you.”

A little frown appeared, and she raised an eyebrow. “And you are not concerned that would be her way to get close to you? You have always been suspicious of young women.”

“I am quite certain she does not think that well of me. One might believe that she preferred dragon company to that of men.”

Georgiana giggled. “Exactly opposite to me.”

“I suppose in a way. Still, will you read what she has written? I have read it and if nothing else, you will enjoy her rather unique sense of humor.”

“It cannot hurt, I imagine.”

Not quite the reaction he was hoping for, but it was better than an outright refusal. Why did young women have to be so utterly perplexing? He excused himself and returned to his own chambers.

It was a shame that Miss Elizabeth could not come to Rosings Park. Pemberley would enjoy her company. He would, too. If anyone could help Georgiana get over her reticence with dragonkind, it was her.

Anne de Bourgh’s voice was just like her mother’s—loud and unmistakable. Particularly early in the day. Especially when she screeched.

Anne’s second outburst, which sounded vaguely like “Uncle Matlock cannot do that to me!” sent Darcy running first for his coat and then for Georgiana’s chambers.

She sat wide-eyed in the window seat, like a mouse waiting for a cat to pounce.

“Gather your pelisse and bonnet and come with me.” He waved her to her feet.

She scrambled for the items and followed him toward the servants’ door.

“I know it is irregular, but if you wish to avoid Anne—” He opened the door and ushered her inside.

Georgiana had probably never seen a servants’ corridor. She was far too meek and obedient to stray into forbidden territory. How scandalized would she be to realize that he knew his way around Rosings by them? That damage would be far easier to repair than what Anne or Aunt Catherine might leave in their wake.

They burst into the bustling kitchen. Cooks and scullery maids stopped and stared. The housekeeper’s zaltys, Blanche, lived up to her name and turned nearly white—more a light grey to match the hearthstones. She coiled and hissed at them.

“Mr. Darcy! Miss Darcy! What … how …” Cook stammered.

“Pack us some bread and cheese, perhaps some apples and cold meat as well.” Darcy nodded sharply.

Best pretend all this was as normal and natural as possible. No doubt the servants had heard the commotion upstairs and could easily figure out his intentions.

“Good day, Blanche.” Darcy tipped his head toward the little snake-type dragon whose color was slowly returning.

She flicked her tongue at them, her bright black eyes scolding. “You should not startle me so.”

“Pray forgive us for surprising you. That was hardly our intention. Georgiana, have you been introduced to Blanche?”

Georgiana colored as one of the undercooks stared at her.

She was far too concerned with what servants thought of her.

“Go back to your businessss. It is dear that he is ssso attentive to the cook’sss cat.” Blanche spoke with the same odd lispy voice most snake-type dragons shared.

The undercook, smiled slightly, shrugged, and returned to chopping carrots.

“I am pleased to meet you.” Blanche reached her head toward Georgiana.

Georgiana backed away slightly.

Blanche flicked her tail, decidedly irritated.

Darcy extended his hand, holding it open until Blanche rubbed it with her cheek. “She means no offense. She is still learning.”

“She is ssstill rude.”

Unfortunately, Blanche was right. But reminding her of it would do nothing to help Georgiana’s confidence, either.

Cook trundled up with a generous basket and sent them on their way.

A quarter of an hour later, they were climbing into a smart little curricle. How fortunate that the weather was so agreeable for a ride out and about the estate.

“Where are we going, Brother?” Georgiana glanced over her shoulder as though she thought someone might be following them.

“Anywhere away from the manor, and until nightfall if we can manage it. Fitzwilliam brought news from the Order that Anne does not like.”

“Does this mean you will not be marrying Anne?”

The horse shook its head and hesitated. A shiver ran down his spine.

“What is that awful sound?” She pressed her hands to her ears.

Cockatrice screeches did that.

A dark, sleek shape swooped down from the trees, a larger one in its wake.

Blasted fool creatures!

Georgiana clapped her hands to her mouth. At least she had the sense to know a scream could agitate the horse as much as those flying nuisances.

He brought the horse under control and helped her out. If the damned creature was going to run away, it was not going to be with his sister in the curricle.

“I have neither asked for nor do I require your advice in hunting. I am neither hungry, nor do I prefer to eat muntjac,” Walker screeched as he landed clumsily in a nearby tree.

“Of course, you do not ask my advice. Males never do, you are all so concerned with your appearances.” Cait perched on a branch near him.

Lovely! A perfect balm to salve Georgiana’s dragon reticence.

“I do not care what you think of me.” Walker extended his wings.

He flew to another tree. “No, I do not. Nor do I care how you hunt. I have managed quite nicely on my own.”

“But wouldn’t it be so much nicer to have a mate to do that with you?” Her voice turned syrupy.

“With those ridiculous tail feathers and foolish ruff, you are entirely ill-equipped to hunt anything.”

She extended her wings and spread her tail feathers. “I had not thought you noticed.”

“You are the vainest creature—”

“Pride is entirely acceptable when there is true superiority involved.” Cait fanned her ruff just a little bit fuller.

“Only in your own mind.”

“Apparently on more than one occasion, you have quite agreed with me.” She fluffed her ruff until it obscured her face entirely.

“Do not remind me of my youthful folly.”

“Your sense of humor has not changed.” She glided to the tree where he was perched, landing on a branch just above him.

He looked up at her. “Arrogant hen.”

“Stubborn cockerel.”

He flew off, and she launched after him.

This was as bad as a ballroom during the London Season!

Darcy clutched his temples. They had been like this the last time they mated: utterly insufferable.

“Must everyone here be so disagreeable?” Georgiana covered her face with her hands.

“I am afraid they are rather like people. There are some who will just never get along. And yet they have this strange affinity for one another.”

“You mean they like to bicker, just like Aunt and Uncle Matlock.”

“I will ask them to stay away from you. There is no reason why you should have to endure their ill-tempers.”

“I wish you could warn Aunt Catherine and Anne away as well.”

He guffawed. “As do I. Perhaps, though, I might introduce someone I think you will find far more agreeable.”

“You are thinking of Pemberley.” Her shoulders slumped, and she pouted, an expression she really should have outgrown by now.

“Yes, I am. She is just a baby and not in possession of the bad habits of the older dragons you know.”

“I do not like babies. They cry and are so messy, and one is never certain of what they want.”

“I will grant you that, but baby dragons are somewhat different. She hatched able to talk, you see.”

“She can talk? I did not realize. The notes you gave me did not mention that.” Her tone softened.

“You have read them?”

“Yes. They were very interesting, and entertaining. Your Miss Bennet writes very well you know. Very personable, almost as though I know her.”

“I am pleased you feel that way. Pemberley is very fond of Miss Elizabeth, and if you feel warmth toward her, then you already have one thing in common.”

“I suppose that would make it easier. I have never had anything in common with a dragon before.”

It might not be much, but it was the first positive thing she had ever said about meeting a dragon.

“Come then. I think it is safe to take the curricle again.”

They climbed in and headed toward the lair.

He stopped the carriage a quarter of a mile from the cavern. The horse would not tolerate getting closer than that to the major dragons. Who could blame it? Pemberley’s first meal was horsemeat.

Dragon musk hung on the breeze. Georgiana hesitated.

He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “It will be well. I promise you.”

She allowed him to lead her to the cavern.

“Rosings! We approach. I bring Georgiana. May we enter?”

“You brought her!” Pemberley bounded out to greet them. Her baby legs and wings still uncoordinated and clumsy, she tripped and landed at Georgiana’s feet.

“I brought my sister to meet you.” Darcy helped Pemberley to her feet. “May I present Georgiana.”

Pemberley cocked her head and squinted, sniffing Georgiana. “Georg ... gor … Gigi?”

Georgiana held out her hand, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “You may call me Gigi if that is easier for you.”

“You not her.” Pemberley slumped, her head hanging nearly to the ground.

“Miss Bennet,” Darcy whispered.

Darcy edged back. Her reaction was unmannerly, but at the same time, very sympathetic to the drakling. Best not correct it now.

“I recently read something she wrote … to my brother … would you like me to tell you about it?”

“Yes, from her.”

“Tell me.” Pemberley laid her head in Georgiana’s lap.

Darcy held his breath and tiptoed away. Somehow it just made sense that Miss Elizabeth would be at the center of such an auspicious beginning.

Rosings waited for him just inside the cavern. The creased brow and half-lidded eyes were not good signs.

“Cowntess, are you well?” He bowed.

“You well know that I am not.” How did she manage an expression so like Aunt Catherine’s? She snuffed hot, acrid breath in his face.

“I have nothing to do with the mandates of the Blue Order.” He edged back a step.

“But you will use them to your ends.”

“There is nothing untoward about that.”

“Except that I must now deal with an angry Keeper. I do not appreciate it when you upset her.” Rosings snorted. A blob of slime landed on his cheek.

He rubbed his handkerchief on his cheek before the slime burned his skin. That handkerchief would be ruined. Best not put it back in his pocket. “I am sure you can manage both of them.”

Rosings glowered and bared her fangs. “Do not forget that I am doing you a favor. I expect—”

“Pray excuse me.” He dashed from the lair. Just as well, that conversation was not going to go well, regardless.

Georgiana waved him over. She sat beside Pemberley, one hand around her sinewy neck.

“What is wrong?” He knelt beside them.

“She is not her,” Pemberley whined.

“No, I am not. We fully agree on the matter.” She stroked Pemberley’s head. “Look at the scales around her feet.”

Darcy examined them. “They do seem a bit rough.”

“Miss Bennet’s pages describe something very like this that she calls ‘scale mites.’”

“Dragons are always itchy.” Darcy scratched Pemberley’s chin.

“Not my chin, my feet!”

“She—that is ‘her’—writes to say that the affected scales should first be scrubbed with vinegar, then anointed with sweet oil mixed with that hot seasoning Cook likes. We should put sachets of wormwood in her nest, too, to keep away the mites.”

“I want do what her says. Please.” Pemberley blinked up at him with huge baleful eyes.

“Of course, of course.” He patted her head.

“May I take care of it? I can ask Cook for what we need. I am sure there is wormwood in the still room. The instructions seem very simple.”

“By all means.” Did she really think that he would object?

“And you tell her my feet itch?” Pemberley nudged Georgiana’s elbow.

“I will write her a letter and tell her anything you wish.”

“And I will take it to the post myself.” Darcy nodded, smiling broadly.

“You will teach me read and make letter for her? Her said you would.” Pemberley leaned into Georgiana hard enough to make her stumble.

She hugged the dragon’s head close. “I will teach you whatever you like.”

“You not her, but you nice. Want my bone now. Meet my dog?” Pemberley waddled off, presumably to find both, Georgiana following after.

What an astonishing transformation.

One more debt he owed a certain Miss Bennet.

Darcy tucked Georgiana’s letter to Miss Elizabeth into his pocket and slipped out of her chambers. He sauntered down the long corridor towards his own chambers. A brief stop for his coat and he would be away to the post office before any would think to notice him gone. Except Georgiana, and she would probably be glad for his temporary absence.

Perhaps he should not have overseen her letter writing so closely. Given her expression, it was probably intrusive and controlling. But if she understood, she could hardly blame him. She might even agree.

It was utterly maddening to have so much to tell someone, so many questions to ask, and be utterly and completely unable to communicate in any way. Suggesting words, and phrases, and the occasional paragraph to Georgiana was the closest he could come to actually writing to Miss Elizabeth himself.

And he had so many things he needed to say.

Miss Elizabeth had brought such great comfort to little Pemberley with her suggestions on teething. Even Rosings was grateful, no longer subjected to the whining and tempers of the suffering drakling. And the treatment for the scale mites! Both dragons were benefiting from the thorough scrubbing and anointing that he and Georgiana had given them.

Of course, he was the one to scrub Rosings. Neither Aunt Catherine nor Anne would never stoop to such personal attentions to anyone, man or dragon.

That seemed to be what set Miss Elizabeth apart from every other Dragon Keeper he had encountered. There seemed to be no limits on what she would do for them, ignoble as it may be. Washing, scrubbing, scratching, petting, listening—no service was too humble for her to offer them. And they uniformly loved her for it. Even crusty Rosings seemed to be developing a soft spot for Miss Elizabeth solely on the basis of Pemberley’s and Walker’s recommendations.

He jumped. Blast and botheration! Why was she not still asleep? It was at least an hour before she usually rose.

He turned slowly, gathering his composure, and bowed from his shoulders. “Good morning, Anne.”

Light from the hall window silhouetted her, making it difficult to see her face. But the swirl of taffeta was unmistakable. No comfortable morning dress for her, no, she was dressed for the marriage mart.

He dragged his hand down his face.

“It is indeed a good morning, I think. Will you accompany me to breakfast?” She reached for his arm.

He edged just out of reach. “Forgive me, but I have already partaken. I am on my way to Hunsford.”

“Hunsford? Whatever for? Surely you could send a servant for you.” She cast about as if looking for one.

“I very much like a morning ride.”

“Then take the gig, or the curricle, or the phaeton, and I shall come with you.”

Darcy turned aside to roll his eyes. “I did not think you liked to be out in the morning air. I seem to recall it disagreeing with your constitution.”

“I am feeling particularly well this morning. I am sure it will agree with me.”

“I intend to visit the post office. You dislike the post master.”

She balanced her hands on her hips. “Why, it sounds as if you do not wish me to accompany you this morning.”

“I am rather accustomed to keeping to myself in the mornings.”

“You will have to get used to my company at some point.” She smiled and batted her eyes. “Do not offer me that stupid look. A married man has to spend some time with his wife.”

“I am in no mood to have this discussion once again. I have entirely enough to manage with little Pemberley. I cannot possibly see to the needs of two dragons and two estates.”

She flicked the idea away. “Hire stewards to attend the land. That is simple enough.”

“What of the dragons? You hardly attend to Rosings’ needs as it is. How do you think you will attend the needs of a drakling?”

“You are spoiling that creature entirely too much. Leave her to Rosings and it will all be well. You see, for our lifetimes, Pemberley will live here with her brood mother. Rosings will care for her, and all is settled.”

“And in what book of dragon lore did you find such a ridiculous plan?” He clutched his temples.

“Book of lore? It is common sense, Darcy. Can you not see?”

“Most certainly not! It is a recipe for disaster—utter and complete disaster.”

“What is more natural than a brood mother taking care of her young? You make this far too complicated. Any reasonably intelligent person—”

“Would realize that they had no idea of what they did not know, especially about a creature as rare, secretive, and dangerous as a firedrake!”

“There you go, prattling on again.”

He took her shoulders in his hands. “Do you know how the firedrake population is kept in check?”

“They only lay eggs once every one hundred years.”

“Even that is not enough. Like most top predators, they also are apt to kill off their young.”

Her eyes bulged, and she gaped.

“Once Pemberley hits her first growth spurt and requires a substantial increase in her feedings, Rosings will see her as a threat. If I do not remove her to her own territory before then, Rosings will likely kill the competition for her prey.”

“Surely you jest.”

“Perhaps you should study your dragon lore and confirm my assertions before you try to call me out for deceit.”

Her brow knit, and her eyes narrowed. A tantrum was imminent. He clenched his teeth.

“How dare you—” She stomped.

He answered in kind, nearly on her toes. “And how dare you think I would allow such an ignorant, selfish girl the care and management of a creature as rare as a baby firedrake.”

She jumped back. “One whose egg you seem to have had stolen right out from under you.”

“You will have to do better than that. I have lived with Mother all my life.” She turned on her heel and stormed away.

He stormed to the morning room where Aunt Catherine still held audience with Fitzwilliam.

Darcy pointed at him, then at the door.

Fitzwilliam jumped to his feet and dashed out. Smart, smart man.

Aunt Catherine planted her hands on the table and rose, eyes blazing. “What is the meaning of this, Darcy? How dare you …”

He stepped forward and glowered. Apparently, he had mastered his father’s expression after all.

She returned to her seat and poured a cup of tea for him. “You look troubled. Why do you not sit down and tell me of it?”

He folded his arms over his chest. “I have had enough. I will tolerate no more.”

“What precisely is that supposed to mean?”

“Georgiana and I, and Fitzwilliam if he chooses, will be leaving today.”

Her head came up sharply. “You cannot leave. Pemberley is far too young to travel all the way to Derbyshire now.”

“I am well aware of that.”

“Then stop with your ridiculous bluffing. I do not appreciate your masculine posturing and bullying.”

“We will take rooms at the Hunsford Inn or perhaps take a town house there.”

She lost color in her face. “You cannot do that! Think of the talk. What will people say, you leaving my home but staying on in Hunsford?”

“Frankly, I do not care. It is not my problem.”

“Gossip is always a problem! You must be concerned with your reputation.”

“You mean your reputation, for which I do not give two shillings.” He snorted.

“You would do this to me?”

“I am doing nothing to you. I am only acting in the best interest of myself and my sister. The situation here is intolerable, and I will have it no longer.” He bounced his fist off the table.

“What is intolerable? You are talking nonsense.”

“Anne still wanders about insisting that I will marry her—an illusion you are obviously supporting, despite the message Fitzwilliam brought from the Blue Order.”

“That nonsense? They offer alternatives, not requirements. They do not stand in the way of your marriage to Anne.” She rolled her eyes, but a light sheen appeared on her upper lip.

“Anne is the most ignorant excuse for a Keeper I have ever encountered. She knows nothing about firedrakes—she actually suggested that she and I take residence here and allow Rosings to raise Pemberley!”

She flicked the idea aside. “She is merely forgetful in her distress. I am sure you rattled the poor dear with all your shouting and stomping. You must remember her delicate constitution.”

“Call off your daughter and your cockatrix. Give Walker and I some peace or I will set my man to packing immediately.” He slapped the table.

Aunt Catherine covered her eyes with her hand and huffed. “I will speak to Cait. It is possible she has been … overzealous in her pursuit. Clearly that has not worked. I will suggest to her that it is time for a different tack.”

“Walker will appreciate that, but what of Anne?”

“You and Anne have been promised since your infancy. It has been the dearest wish of your mother and me that you should unite our two great estates—”

He held up an open hand. “Pray stop. I know the litany. I have heard it since I was ten years old. That does not change my mind.”

“Has Anne even met little Pemberley? You have complained that the drakling is pining for that Bennet girl. Introduce her to Anne. I have every confidence that she will immediately recognize Anne’s superiority and quite forget about Miss Bennet. There has never been a dragon that has not taken to Anne.”

“If they do not take to one another, then you shall instruct Anne to importune me no further on the matter of marriage.”

She stared at him, jaw silently working. Clearly, she wanted another option, but none was forthcoming.

“Or shall I instruct my valet to pack my trunks?”

“Very well. You are as stubborn and unreasonable as your father.”

“I shall take that as a compliment. Good day.” He bowed from his shoulders and sauntered out.

He called for his horse and headed for Hunsford.

How could Aunt Catherine really think it possible that Pemberley would take to Anne as she had to Miss Elizabeth? Any fool could see that was utterly and completely impossible. Anne barely had the time of day for Quincy and flatly ignored Blanche—a creature that lived in the kitchen was far beneath her notice.

Had Miss Elizabeth the opportunity, she would be sitting on the floor in the middle of the small upstairs sitting room, listening to Quincy’s stories of all the guests that had stayed at Rosings. She would insist upon knowing about the dragons, not caring at all about the peers and nobility that had graced the rooms of Rosings Park. She would probably tease out his passion for shiny buttons and find some way to make sure he had new ones to add to his horde. He would introduce her to Blanche, and they would sit together in the kitchen, sipping warm milk and honey while that fairy dragon of hers preened Blanche’s head ridge.

What a mistress she would make to a Dragon Keeping estate. Her lack of fortune might make her seem unworthy, but everything else about her declared her exceptional.