My email dings with a new message, stirring me from the semi-libidinous reverie. It’s Marley, Pemberley’s manager, confirming today’s final walk-through. They’ve arranged the seating to fit my sketches to give me a feel for how the room will look Saturday.

I can head over right after lunch with Jane. I grab my purse and stroll to Toby’s office on my way out. “I’m off. If you need caffeine, speak now, or you’re going to be translating Italian.”

“Okay,” says Jane. “We’ll see you guys in a few.”

I narrow my eyes at the plural nouns, even as the implication sends a tingle up my spine. Jane proposed we meet Charles for coffee before I go to Pemberley, and it sounds like Charles will have a certain un-temptable friend along. I made a point of not asking after Darcy on principle; internal me may entertain forgiveness, but real me has a little more pride than that.

Jane studiously ignores my look as he returns his phone to his back pocket. “Bennet,” he warns, his voice cool. “Give him a chance. I know he rubbed you the wrong way . . .”

I cross my arms.

He sighs. “Fine. He said a shitty thing and I can’t make it better. But that was over a week ago and you’re being petty.”

I frown. “Petty” is Jane’s word of choice when I’m behaving in a way he considers beneath me. That’s the burden of having a best friend who is a morally superior creature; they always expect you to be better than you actually are. It would be encouraging if I didn’t get called “petty” so often.

“I get to take offense. That was my best material.”

“Hmm.” Jane taps his chin. “Sounds more like your pride than your brain.”

I refuse to acknowledge the truth in the observation.

“Charles mentioned Darcy was with him, not that Darcy planned to stick around. If he does, you’ll have to cope. And it’s not like he meant to insult you. You were the one listening in.”

“How is that supposed to be better?”

“I don’t know,” he says evenly. “I didn’t think it through. They’re a few blocks away. Get the pouting out of your system, maybe look at the nice stationery in the window here, then meet me in front of the cat hospital.” He points across the nearest intersection, where the feline-centric clinic on the corner displays cats available for adoption. “Sound like a plan?”

I keep my head high. “I’m not pouting.”