stabbed a sausage on my plate viciously and hoped that Darcy would get here soon.
After breakfast we managed to end up back in the sitting room. Seriously, Regency teenage girls must have had the most boring and unvaried lives ever. I was suddenly sorry for all of the times I’d claimed I was bored when I was fifteen. I’d had at least a hundred more options every day then it seemed Georgiana did. I was pleased to see, however, that the row of roses that I had embroidered yesterday had stayed filled in.
Mrs. Younge kept up a steady stream of chatter, mostly vaguely encouraging things about how fortunate Georgiana was to have secured the admiration of such a handsome man as George Wickham. I had to fight against a sudden urge to laugh hysterically. My shoulders shook with barely suppressed giggles. It had just occurred to me that the happy couple would have been George and Georgiana Wickham if the elopement had been allowed to go off. Too funny! I’d only read this book a hundred times and hadn’t ever caught it. Probably because I’d never been quite this close to the situation before.
Luckily, Mrs. Younge didn’t seem to notice my gasping for air as I silently laughed myself silly over these stupidest of things. I’m pretty sure she would have thought I was losing it. I’m not entirely sure that I wasn’t losing it. Why, out of all the bad things represented by a union between Georgiana and Wickham, did the fact that they basically shared a first name seem the worst of the lot? ‘Cause I’m obviously crazy. I took a moment to revisit the “Kelsey is insane and in an asylum” theory. It wasn’t without merit.
My self-examination was cut short by the sound of a carriage pulling up outside. I sat up straighter in excitement, looking expectantly toward the door of the sitting room.
A perplexed look, followed quickly by a look of concern, skated across Mrs. Younge’s face. I had a swift feeling of satisfaction that she was about to get it—and get it bad—before I returned to my excited anticipation. This was it! I was going to see Fitzwilliam Darcy ! In the flesh! I could barely stand it.
The front door opened. The sound of an authoritative male voice came from the front entryway—a question, and the sound of the butler answering. Footsteps coming toward the sitting room...
And then I was face to face with Mr. Darcy.
I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting. I, of course, had a favorite on-screen Mr. Darcy. As I’d blurted to Mark a few days ago, Colin Firth from the 1995 BBC mini-series was my Mr. Darcy of choice. There are those who prefer Matthew Macfadyen, and he was admittedly hot, but his forehead always distracted me a bit. I totally respect the Macfadyen camp, but there was something about the brooding smolder that Firth had perfected that made him the Darcy of my dreams. So, I guess I had kind of expected Mr. Darcy to really look like that.
And he didn’t look unlike Colin Firth...or really unlike Matthew Macfadyen. They all shared enough characteristics that if I was a police detective putting together a lineup of tall, hot, dark-haired Regency dudes I would have included all of them.
If it was possible, the real Mr. Darcy was even hotter than Colin Firth’s portrayal of him. He wasn’t shooting smoldering glances about the room at the moment—why would he? As far as he knew he was just visiting his little sister, the world had yet to come down about his ears—but I bet if he did he’d leave Firth and Macfadyen in the dust.
Darcy was tall and broad shouldered and fit-looking. He filled out a pair of breeches rather decently. His hair was very dark, almost black, and a bit mussed as he had just recently taken off his hat. He had incredible cheekbones, deep set hazel eyes, a straight nose, and full, wide mouth and the most amazing dimple in his chin. It was the cleft chin that did me in. If this Mr. Darcy had walked into a room full of women in the twenty-first century, there would
After breakfast we managed to end up back in the sitting room. Seriously, Regency teenage girls must have had the most boring and unvaried lives ever. I was suddenly sorry for all of the times I’d claimed I was bored when I was fifteen. I’d had at least a hundred more options every day then it seemed Georgiana did. I was pleased to see, however, that the row of roses that I had embroidered yesterday had stayed filled in.
Mrs. Younge kept up a steady stream of chatter, mostly vaguely encouraging things about how fortunate Georgiana was to have secured the admiration of such a handsome man as George Wickham. I had to fight against a sudden urge to laugh hysterically. My shoulders shook with barely suppressed giggles. It had just occurred to me that the happy couple would have been George and Georgiana Wickham if the elopement had been allowed to go off. Too funny! I’d only read this book a hundred times and hadn’t ever caught it. Probably because I’d never been quite this close to the situation before.
Luckily, Mrs. Younge didn’t seem to notice my gasping for air as I silently laughed myself silly over these stupidest of things. I’m pretty sure she would have thought I was losing it. I’m not entirely sure that I wasn’t losing it. Why, out of all the bad things represented by a union between Georgiana and Wickham, did the fact that they basically shared a first name seem the worst of the lot? ‘Cause I’m obviously crazy. I took a moment to revisit the “Kelsey is insane and in an asylum” theory. It wasn’t without merit.
My self-examination was cut short by the sound of a carriage pulling up outside. I sat up straighter in excitement, looking expectantly toward the door of the sitting room.
A perplexed look, followed quickly by a look of concern, skated across Mrs. Younge’s face. I had a swift feeling of satisfaction that she was about to get it—and get it bad—before I returned to my excited anticipation. This was it! I was going to see Fitzwilliam Darcy ! In the flesh! I could barely stand it.
The front door opened. The sound of an authoritative male voice came from the front entryway—a question, and the sound of the butler answering. Footsteps coming toward the sitting room...
And then I was face to face with Mr. Darcy.
I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting. I, of course, had a favorite on-screen Mr. Darcy. As I’d blurted to Mark a few days ago, Colin Firth from the 1995 BBC mini-series was my Mr. Darcy of choice. There are those who prefer Matthew Macfadyen, and he was admittedly hot, but his forehead always distracted me a bit. I totally respect the Macfadyen camp, but there was something about the brooding smolder that Firth had perfected that made him the Darcy of my dreams. So, I guess I had kind of expected Mr. Darcy to really look like that.
And he didn’t look unlike Colin Firth...or really unlike Matthew Macfadyen. They all shared enough characteristics that if I was a police detective putting together a lineup of tall, hot, dark-haired Regency dudes I would have included all of them.
If it was possible, the real Mr. Darcy was even hotter than Colin Firth’s portrayal of him. He wasn’t shooting smoldering glances about the room at the moment—why would he? As far as he knew he was just visiting his little sister, the world had yet to come down about his ears—but I bet if he did he’d leave Firth and Macfadyen in the dust.
Darcy was tall and broad shouldered and fit-looking. He filled out a pair of breeches rather decently. His hair was very dark, almost black, and a bit mussed as he had just recently taken off his hat. He had incredible cheekbones, deep set hazel eyes, a straight nose, and full, wide mouth and the most amazing dimple in his chin. It was the cleft chin that did me in. If this Mr. Darcy had walked into a room full of women in the twenty-first century, there would
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