Free Alone with Mr. Darcy: A Pride & Prejudice Variation by Abigail Reynolds Page A

critical
problems for us, so well that perhaps we forget how important they are. More
important than rules, in any case.”
    “Definitely more important,” agreed
Elizabeth.
    They sat together in companionable silence
for some time until the smell of onions began to permeate the air.
    “Do you suppose your delightful concoction
is ready yet?” Darcy asked.
    She wrinkled her nose at him. “I have no
idea, as you know perfectly well. We shall have to be adventurous and discover
the answer the hard way. Or rather, I shall be adventurous.”
    “I insist the privilege is mine.” He urged
Snowball onto her lap, then wrapped his greatcoat around her before using a
stick to move the kettle away from the fire. “As soon as it cools a bit, that
is.”
    His smile truly was quite devastatingly
attractive. It made her breath catch in her chest. “You are a very brave man,
then.”
    “Either brave or very hungry. The aroma is
good, in any case.”
    “It smells like stewed onions, carrots and
turnips, which is hardly surprising, as that is what it is.”
    “It smells like hot food, which is
something I barely remember at this point.”  He rejoined her under the
greatcoat and took her hand back in his, squeezing it gently. “Not that I am
complaining, mind you. The company has been excellent.”
    “You mean that the company, like the food,
is excellently warm,” she teased.
    “The excellent company keeping me warm is
far superior to the warmest of foods. Now, where is that spoon?”
    “The one which is right in front of you?”
    “Ah, yes, that one. I must be blinded by
the beauty of the excellent company.”
    “Or the smell of hot food has gone to your
head!” Who would have guessed Mr. Darcy had the capacity for banter and light
flirtation?
    He stirred the pot, then drew out a spoonful
and blew on it. Raising it in her direction, he said solemnly, “To blizzards
– may they always bring such companions.”
    Elizabeth choked back a laugh as he sipped
from the spoon. “Your face is a study! You might as well say straight out it is
terrible.”
    He eyed the spoon, then took another sip.
“I would not describe it as terrible. It tastes of onions, carrots and turnips
– but mostly of onions.”
    “I cannot see why. I put in as many
carrots as I did onions. Besides, have you never heard of onion soup?”
    “The mysteries of cooking are far beyond
me, Miss Elizabeth.” He dipped the spoon in the soup again, then held it in
front of her mouth. “Come, it is your turn to give an opinion.”
    With an arch look at him through her
eyelashes, she obediently sipped from the spoon he held, then pursed her lips
as if in thought. “There is a trace of onion flavor, it is true; but I would
have to judge it as passable for my first try. Why, in another day or two, I
shall be as knowledgeable as a French chef!”
    “A trace of onion flavor?” said
Darcy in mock indignation. “A mere trace ?”
    “Admittedly, it is perhaps a rather large trace. But I only put in four onions, although there were a great many more I
could have added. I was successful in my other culinary goal, though.”
    “And what was that?”
    “It is hot, just as I wished it to be
– though I will have to give some credit to your fire for that.”
    “I am striving to improve my skills at
keeping things – and people – warm,” he said.
    “Constant practice is the key to success,
so pray, do continue to keep me warm. And if you object to my fine onion soup,
why, there will be all the more for me.” She attempted to tug the spoon from
his hand.
    He pulled it away from her. “Oh, no, Miss
Elizabeth! I must have my share of your very warm cooking. I will give you
another spoonful, then one for me.”
    “Mr. Darcy, I have not been fed by another
person since I was out of leading strings!”
    “Then it shall be another new experience
for you. We have only one spoon, and it seems I cannot trust you with it.”
    She nearly choked on the next spoonful