Suspense & Sensibility

then a third, before deciding upon a sprigged muslin instead. Her friend ordered gauze in silk, cotton, and linen rather than settle upon one. Elizabeth prayed neither would also ask to inspect lace or handkerchiefs.

Kitty occupied herself chiefly by fidgeting, to the point where Elizabeth was required to twice reach out to restrain the swing of her reticule. She then set about an intense scrutiny of every patron remaining between them and the counter, as if assessing how many minutes each might dally over her purchases. When that diversion ceased to amuse, as it did very quickly, her gaze drifted to the window.

'Lizzy! It is Mr. Dashwood — outside, looking through the glass!' She waved. 'Do you think he sees me?'

She begged Georgiana to hold their place so that she might go speak with her fiance, apparently willing to forsake all others on his behalf, but not her position in Grafton’s queue. Georgiana readily consented, and Kitty and Elizabeth stepped out of the claustrophobic shop and into the street.

Mr. Dashwood continued to peer through the window.

'Harry, this is such a pleasant surprise!'

Mr. Dashwood glanced at her with mild curiosity, then wordlessly continued his examination of the linendraper’s display.

Kitty’s face flushed with mortification. Her gaze darted round to see whether anyone else had witnessed the deliberate slight. Unfortunately, two young ladies — they of the sprigged muslin and triple order of gauze — had emerged from the shop just in time to observe the insult. With titters of 'cut direct,' they scampered off to circulate the latest on-dit.

Kitty next looked to Elizabeth. Her eyes beseeched her older sister for guidance. Elizabeth took matters into her own hands.

'Mr. Dashwood, I should think you could spare your fiancee a moment’s attention.'

Harry stared at Elizabeth seemingly without recognition. 'My — ' His gaze ricocheted between Elizabeth and Kitty, before at last coming to rest on the latter. 'Why, of course. Do pardon me, Miss — my dear. I was deliberating so deeply whether I liked those gloves in the window that I was quite insensible to all else.'

His excuse did not fully satisfy Kitty but appeared to mollify her for the present. Elizabeth was rather less disposed toward forgiveness. His weeklong avoidance of Kitty, his manner during his most recent call, this latest rudeness — since securing Kitty’s hand, Mr. Dashwood’s conduct toward her sister had altered in a manner that did not bode well for Kitty’s future happiness.

'Are not your present pair serviceable?' Elizabeth said frostily.

Mr. Dashwood looked less tired than when she last saw him — seemed, in fact, full of youthful pie de vivre straining to burst forth. A fresh haircut showed his eyes to advantage, and they reflected an intensity she’d not observed in him before. He must have caught up on his sleep since the midnight gathering she and Darcy had spied upon. She, on the other hand, was still dragging herself through the day. Given that he was the cause of her present lethargy, she resented him his liveliness.

'I find them a bit tight,' he said. 'Besides, I have just ordered two new coats and half a dozen pairs of pantaloons, and thought new gloves would complement them well.'

'Why stop there? Add shirts and cravats to your order and you will have a trousseau to rival Kitty’s.'

'I have — a dozen of the former, and twice that number of neckcloths.'

Elizabeth wondered at Mr. Dashwood’s sudden wardrobe overhaul but simply added it to the rest of his recent inexplicable behavior. 'We were disappointed by your failure to call yesterday. My sister, especially.'

Kitty finally found her voice. 'Yes, Harry. You had promised.'

'I did? I — well, I suppose it just slipped my mind. I am terribly sorry to have kept such a pretty girl waiting.' He cast her a rakish look. 'If you will favor me with some attention tonight, I’ll make it up to you.'

Elizabeth blinked, taken aback by the suggestive undertone of his statement. Had it been deliberate? Given the accompanying look, she suspected it had. Fortunately, Kitty had not caught it, though Harry continued to regard her with an expression that threatened to make Elizabeth blush.

'You may join us for dinner tonight, Mr. Dashwood,' Elizabeth said quickly, emphasizing the word 'dinner' more heavily than she intended. 'If you are not otherwise engaged.'

'I shall, thank you.' His countenance took on a more appropriate mien. 'Will anyone else be of the party?'

'Only Mr. Darcy and his sister.'

'I look forward to it.'

'Splendid. Come round at the usual time.'

Mr. Dashwood arrived an hour later than anticipated. He acknowledged his host and hostess with an odd blend of unnecessary formality for one who enjoyed such intimate acquaintance with them, and excessive familiarity for a gentleman who had not yet officially joined the family. He offered no excuse for his tardiness, but his jovial mood suggested that a previous engagement with a bottle of spirits might have contributed to the delay.

He greeted Kitty warmly — a little too warmly, in Darcy’s opinion, even for a man affianced. There were limits to what a gentleman ought to say to a lady who was not yet his wife, especially in the hearing of others, and declaring that the sight of her caused him to look forward to their upcoming nuptials with 'rising expectation' was beyond the bounds of decency. The comment, fortunately, escaped the understanding of both Kitty and Georgiana — so far as he could tell — but Elizabeth had immediately changed the subject.

Georgiana then, through no effort of her own, captured his attention. Mr. Dashwood expressed delight at dining with two such beautiful ladies, and enquired why no gentleman attended her this evening.

'I have no particular gentleman I cared to invite,' Georgiana said.

'I’m sure many gentlemen would care for your particulars.'

'Mr. Dashwood!' Darcy’s shock was so great, it almost rendered him speechless. 'I must have misheard what you just said to my sister.'

Kitty looked bewildered by her fiance’s audacity. Georgiana grew flustered and ducked her head to avoid both Mr. Dash-wood’s and Darcy’s gazes.

'Pardon me, Miss Darcy,' Mr. Dashwood said, his expression anything but contrite. 'I am afraid I forgot myself.'

'I trust it will not happen again.' Darcy let the matter drop for now so as not to embarrass the ladies further. But he intended to have a word with Mr. Dashwood in private later in the evening.

Once at the table, Mr. Dashwood entertained them with an anecdote peppered with so much vulgar cant that the ladies could hardly follow it — for which Darcy was grateful, because its subject was as inappropriate as the language in which it was expressed. The more he talked, the quieter everyone else grew.

When a servant approached to refill Harry’s wineglass, Darcy discreetly motioned him away. Elizabeth caught the gesture and met his eyes across the table.

Is he drunk? she mouthed.

Darcy nodded. Inebriation was the only explanation he could conjure for Mr. Dashwood’s extraordinary behavior. Either Harry did not hold his liquor well, or he had consumed a great deal more of it before his arrival than Darcy had originally suspected. Regardless, Darcy now intended to draw the evening to an early close, but tactfully enough to spare Kitty the humiliation of seeing her fiance bounced from the house. As soon as the ladies withdrew, he would pour Harry into his carriage and send him home.

And call upon him bright and early tomorrow morning.

The meal, however, continued longer than Darcy anticipated. Somehow, between all the slang words and mild oaths to which Harry introduced his stunned audience, he also managed to eat more than Darcy had ever before witnessed him consume. Excessive drink evidently made Harry ravenous, as Darcy had sometimes observed in others. Mr. Dash-wood partook of every dish, indulged in second helpings of most, and polished off three lemon ices at the end of the meal.

'You seem very fond of ices, Mr. Dashwood,' Elizabeth observed.

'Exceedingly fond. A shame that they’re so hard to keep in the summer, just when one wants them most. At Wes — my country home, I have a first-rate icehouse that supplies enough ice year-round to keep the cook’s larder as cold as a witch’s tit — '

Or as cold as Elizabeth’s frozen expression.

' — so I can enjoy ices, or just about anything else, whenever I like. But this townhouse I’m saddled with has the most inadequate larder. The ice melts so fast that flavored ices won’t keep at all.' He broke off, suddenly pondering an idea. 'Say, I bet a larder built deeper into the ground — well below the house — would hold the cold