Hey all!

I know this chapter isn't what a lot of you are waiting for me to post, but it's going to have to do today! I'm super nervous about the next few PL chapters so I'm going to be reading and rereading them until forever if I don't just post something already. Since P&Pol is such a nice little vehicle for my escapism (and feeling waaay more agreeable at the moment), I thought it would be a good way to get back into posting again.

Hope you enjoy it!

xo brynn

CHAPTER SIX

"Darcy grab me another beer will you?"

"And Lizzie needs another margaritaaa!"

Lizzie reclined in her chair and kicked off her sandals, shaking her head at her younger sister. Lydia, still a good three years away from drinking (at least legally), was always the first one to suggest someone was in need of a fresh drink. Lizzie had a sneaking suspicion she knew exactly what happened to the half-empty ones. Part of her wondered why her younger sister even bothered. It wasn't like either of their parents would have minded if she cracked open a drink of her own. Then again, Lydia probably wanted to be caught.

"I definitely do not."

Mrs. Bennet, taking full note of her daughters' conversation and all that was implied by it, seemed to feel the night was in danger of tanking. She took her anxiety out on Lizzie, as was her habit.

"You definitely do too, Lizzie! You've barely said a word all night! Who knew you'd become so dreadfully boring in your… well you know, you're not getting any younger."

"Leave the girl alone, Fran," called Tom Bennet from his defensive position behind the grill. "I'm sure Lizzie will grace us with more than enough of her conversation before the weekend is out." He shot his daughter a wink. "It's against her nature to hold that tongue of hers for much longer."

Lizzie flashed her father a bright smile. "You're wrong, dad. I've taken a vow of silence."

"Ah, and yet how quickly it is broken," Mr. Bennet observed, pulling an assortment of meats from a nearby cooler. When he raised himself back to his full height, he locked eyes with Darcy. "Go on then, young man. Bring my impudent daughter a drink." Nodding to Darcy's near empty glass, he dispatched a quick wink at the younger man. "You're likely to need one too. I think the fireworks are about to start."

When Darcy returned with Lizzie's pre-mixed margarita from a jug in one hand and a heavy pour of surprisingly passable whiskey for himself in the other, he realized that he had entirely forgotten about Charles' request. One look in his friend's direction was all Darcy needed to absolve himself of any guilt he might have felt on that account. Charles was curled up with Jane under a blanket across the lawn, stargazing between quiet whispers and soft pecks.

Charles could fend for himself.

He settled himself in the chair next to Lizzie and held out her glass. As she took it from him, their hands met briefly and he bristled at the contact, somewhat surprised to find her skin warm and soft against his chilled fingers.

Lizzie Bennet was human after all.

"Whiskey, hm?" she smirked. "And to think I had you pegged as a fancy red wine drinker. Tell me, Mr. Darcy, can you tell your aroma from your bouquet?"

"Can you?" he shot back, more than a little unsettled by the sudden, almost playful change in her tone.

Vow of silence indeed.

"There we have it! Two questions answered then," she snorted, her eyes following a fingertip as it lazily traced the rim of her glass. "And yes, Mr. Darcy, I can. I took a wine course for a Sixpoint piece a couple of years back."

She must have been waiting for him to reply, but the twitch of her brow told him the time for his reply had passed before he realized it had arrived.

"I was also surprised that they let me in," she smiled, the barest suggestion of a laugh filling the space between them. "Fortunately, as it turns out, my poor little provincial nose is just as capable of sniffing out a decent Cab Franc as the rest of them." She sighed dramatically before adding, "but even we laypeople must have our amusements."

Darcy frowned. "I'm sorry, that didn't come out how I meant it to."

Not much did around her, apparently.

Lizzie shrugged and stared off in the distance at what looked to Darcy like a blotchy green blur. After a long moment had passed between them, he knew that any further attempts at civil conversation would need to come from him. Unfortunately, little of what he wanted to say to her could be construed as civil and she had made it abundantly clear from her articles that she felt the same.

Still, for some reason, he thought he might actually prefer her insults over the uneasy silence that had started to settle over them. Darcy cleared his throat. Surely there was something he could say that she wouldn't take offense to?

"Your dad seems... interesting," he offered hesitantly.

Right, Darcy, he scolded himself. Because insulting her parents is hardly offensive.

Oddly enough, he seemed to have the right of it. In this instance, at least.

"Yes, he is," she replied with a surprising softness, her eyes smiling on Mr. Bennet as he passed Charles a beer across the lawn. "He's a philosophy professor at U of C."

She turned her face to him, wearing the same fleeting grin which he had found so irritating throughout the day. Was it the light of the fire that seemed to warm her expression, or was it a trick of his imagination?

"We share all sorts of unpopular opinions," she added, returning her attention to the drink in her hands.

Darcy recognized the trap being laid before him, but this time he did not hesitate in replying.

"Such as?"

She laughed—God help him.

"A vow of silence, Mr. Darcy," she smirked. "You won't get anything out of me tonight."

Darcy felt himself flinch and only hoped she hadn't seen it. He had spent most of the day attempting to ignore her, speaking only when spoken to and examining the surrounding foliage at every opportunity.

He wished he could disappear into it.

Given that "Charlie" appeared to have become something of a novelty to the Bennet ladies, he might have done so, if it weren't for the fact that Mr. Bennet seemed to have taken such an eager interest in him. The man had encouraged him into conversation on more than one occasion, asking about everything from his business to books he had read recently. At times, he had the distinct impression that Mr. Bennet—Tom—was attempting to suss him out, which was ridiculous, of course. Aside from Charles' eventual wedding to Jane Bennet, he would likely never see any of them again.

He had felt her eyes on him more than once during his exchanges with her father, which inevitably caused him to lose his train of thought. Did she think he might offend her father somehow? Was she stockpiling information for her next public assassination of his character? What could she possibly have to say regarding his opinion of Roman Honor?

When his conversation became somewhat stilted as a result, Mr. Bennet only smiled.

The old fox. So that's where she gets it.

But she seemed determined to bait him now—maybe there was something to her mother's margarita theory, after all? She certainly hadn't appeared uncomfortable in the slightest, laughing with her family and trading banter and comfortable smiles with "Charlie" all afternoon. He knew that she and Charles must have spent some time together—he was planning on becoming engaged to her sister, obviously—but he found that their familiarity only irritated him further. As for himself, she had barely acknowledged him, except for the few times when he had felt her watching him with eyes full of mischief and misunderstanding.

Mr. Darcy.

If her goal was to agitate him out of his indifference, it was certainly working.

"Will you please stop calling me that?" he announced suddenly, surprising himself. "I'm not some stuffy old headmaster at your school."

She laughed again and he couldn't find it in himself to regret the sound—despite the fact that it was clearly at his expense.

"No," she said through tight lips, her eyes sparkling. "You're definitely not that."

She paused for a moment and he could see the evidence of her fighting back another peel of laughter in the way she bit her bottom lip.

What, exactly, did she find so amusing?

"However," she continued, apparently decided upon baiting him further. "I do have to say I find it interesting that you would imagine usin those roles." She bit her lip again and he might as well have swallowed his tongue. "Itching to teach me a lesson, are you?"

He found he agreed with her. Yes, there were more than a few ways he'd like to discipline Miss Bennet at the moment, but he could hardly tell her that. He was having a hard enough time explaining it to himself.

"In the interest of both of our good words, I'll pretend I didn't hear that," he replied distractedly, taking a sip of his drink.

Why on earth was his mouth so dry?

"How generous of you!" she giggled. "I'd hate to be the cause of any irreparable damage to your self image, so we better change the subject then."

He said nothing, which—evidently—only encouraged her.

"Tell me, what's Mount Olympus like, Mr. Darcy? That fantastic penthouse of yours, I mean," she said, all evidence of her stifled laughter moving from her lips to her eyes. "I read somewhere that you had a sky-deck put in last summer and I can't help but wonder if the air really is better up there, so high above the clouds, the pollution of the city, all the petty noise and inconvenient distractions of the people below."

Darcy took another long drink, unsure if he was trying to consider his response or keep the words from pouring out. Ultimately, he decided to play it safe. She had the home-court advantage, after all. There was no telling what she might do with it.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Her eyes settled on his and, for a brief moment, he felt all the success of avoiding her maneuvers.

He held her stare, refusing to give her the pleasure of looking away. She would look away first or he would remain firmly locked in her sights forever. He had certainly ceded enough this weekend already.

No, he would carry this point.

She would look away first.

He knew she would.

Unfortunately, he seemed destined for disappointment—at least when it came to Elizabeth Bennet.

Matching his steady gaze with her own, she appeared to be contemplating... something, though her expression gave nothing of her inner monologue away. As he preferred not to imagine what she might be thinking of him at the moment, he focused his attention on the way the flames from the fire pit reflected in her fine eyes.

Oh, it's "fine eyes," now, is it? Get a grip, man!

"I'm sure you do," she said quietly, her fine eyes still locked with his. "But you're right. That was a cheap shot."

Another long moment of silence passed between them as Lizzie openly continued her contemplation of whatever she saw fit to disagree with on his person and Darcy stubbornly refused to give anything away.

In fact, if she was going to make some sort of study of him, he might as well return the favor.

He took the opportunity offered by their impromptu stalemate to examine the details of her face. He was happy to find that—under the most intense scrutiny—there was nothing particularly noteworthy in the shape or set of her features. Her eyes were a nice enough shade of light blue—near enough to a glacial ice that he found himself appreciating the joke despite himself. And they were formed well enough, or certainly well enough to be considered expressive. They were, perhaps, a little wide to fit the shape of her face, but not so large that they overwhelmed her. They were brighter in the light of the fire than he had ever seen them, their edges clearly defined by dark beds of thick, curled lashes that rested under her unfortunately flawless brows—which were raised in a sort of challenge even now.

Losing sight of his original purpose, he followed the lines of her face downward, his gaze skirting along the slight lift to the tip of her nose. From there, it was only natural that his eyes would fall upon her soft, elegantly curved mouth.

True, her lips weren't nearly as full as those of the women he usually dated, which he knew they owed more to modern science than any miracle of nature, but while hers lacked the exaggerated plumpness that was fashionable, they were suitably supple and almost excessively alluring, though he was loathe to admit it—even to himself. He particularly enjoyed the way the corners of her mouth twitched upwards when she was enjoying herself but didn't want to show it, like she had been before—but, he suddenly realized, she was not now.

Darcy's brow furrowed and he returned his attention to her eyes where it should have remained. To his great relief, she seemed to grow uncomfortable almost immediately and she turned to face the fire pit. He followed her example and said nothing, suddenly aware of the mixed conversations happening around them once again.

"So," she announced after a moment, in a voice Darcy was glad to find somewhat uneasy. "What should we talk about then, since we can't talk about anything?"

"Why don't we talk about you?" he said rather too casually, rocking the half-melted ice in his glass from side to side. He wasn't sure if he needed another drink to settle his nerves or if pouring any more liquid courage over this evening was the absolute worst idea possible.

He felt her watching him again and took another sip, refusing to play into her game so easily. He would not be intimidated. Not by her.

"After all, I think we've covered most of your opinions on me."

She laughed again and he congratulated himself on feeling nothing.

"Careful, careful, Mr. Darcy," she teased as their eyes met briefly over their respective glasses. "It sounds like you're very close to breaking your own vow."

"Hardly," Darcy smiled. Two could play at that game. "My mother once told me that if I don't have anything nice to say, I shouldn't say anything at all."

If she understood his meaning she played it off well enough with an indifferent shrug.

"Well that accounts for your silence today at least," she said with a slight grin and a roll of her eyes. "Do you always follow your mother's very good advice?"

His face fell. Yes, she understood, all right.

And point Miss Bennet, at that.

Placing his glass on the arm of his adirondack chair, he tapped the lip with his finger. No, he most definitely did not always follow his mother's advice—superlative as it always had been. As much as he had loved his mother, he had tried not to think of her more often than not for as long as he could remember. He had no interest in imagining her opinion on the manner in which he had lived his life in the ten years since her passing, and especially in the five since he and Georgiana had lost their father. And Georgiana—no, he definitely didn't want to think about Georgiana tonight. Thinking about Georgiana would eventually lead to thinking about him, and there was no way in hell—

Lost to his thoughts, Darcy didn't realize that Lizzie was still awaiting his response until she cleared her throat beside him.

"About that," he grunted, closing his eyes. He didn't want to look at her when he said it, but it had to be said all the same. His mother would have demanded it.

"Yes, About that."

"Please allow me to apologize for what... for what you overheard that night at the fundraiser. I was completely out of line."

"Yes, you were," she laughed. His eyes were back on her before he realized he had opened them. There was that teasing smile again, lighting up her face and pulling at the corners of her lips. He was not as fond of it now as he had been earlier.

"So..." He drawled, unsure of how to continue. He hoped she might take the hint and do it for him.

"So?"

Apparently, she would not.

Darcy sipped his drink and attempted an expression of nonchalance that ran contrary to all his inner feelings. Perhaps if he could appear indifferent, he could feel it, too. Unfortunately, his mouth refused to participate in such a farce and before he could think to stop himself he was already saying the words.

"Isn't there anything you want to say?"

Those eyes of hers were practically waltzing now, and Darcy was understandably distressed to find himself spinning in circles.

"I think I already did," she said coolly, her expression suddenly as cold as ice. "You said you were out of line. I agreed with you. I think that about covers it, don't you?"

He was fuming now.

Absolutely, positively, entirely on fire.

Who did this woman think she was? He had apologized, after all, and this she-devil, this hellion, this blasted succubus absolutely refused to offer him any sort of compensation for all of the trouble she had put him through over the past three months? She felt no remorse for the hundreds—no thousands—of messages, letters, and dirty looks he had received from what felt like every woman, and very nearly every man, in the city? He couldn't even take the Metra to work anymore for fear of being recognized—not that he had ever really made a habit of taking public transit before—but he should be able to if he wanted!

And his campaign! Who knew what Lizzie Bennet's little "cat-and-taco blog" could mean for his political career? Despite his work at Darcy Development, he had always planned to follow in his father's footsteps—everyone had planned it! William Darcy, the city finance director; William Darcy, state representative; The Honorable William G. Darcy, United States Senator. The party had even pressed his father to run on the national ticket before the cancer came. The Darcy name meant something, to all of them. His father had always been very clear about that—and William G. Darcy would never have let a publication as inane as the Sixpoint Star put his very reputation at risk.

But times were different now, and Darcy knew it—no matter what Caroline might say. Lizzie Bennet's blog certainly had the potential to ruin every carefully laid plan for his future—and it didn't seem to bother her at all.

"And that's all the reply I should expect?" he seethed, the words practically burning their way up his throat. "Nothing about... You're just going to agree with me?"

Lizzie Bennet had drawn herself up in her chair, her knuckles a thin white line along the length of her glass. Darcy fleetingly worried for her safety if it should burst in her hands. Very fleetingly.

"Were you expecting something else?"

Taking a deep breath to settle his nerves, Darcy found the splotch of orange and plaid he knew must be his friend. It seemed to be moving in his direction, at least as far as he could tell.

Charles, Charles, Charles, he said to himself. Think about Charles.

"I suppose not," he conceded with a shrug. "The fact that you're agreeing with me about anything at all is probably a miracle in itself." He attempted a friendly sort of smile, but he had a feeling that the resulting expression was a failure.

It was.

"That's another lesson from my mother," he grumbled. "Beggars can't be choosers. I'm sure your readers will be blown away."

Lizzie Bennet's expression turned on a dime once again, though this time he appreciated its direction. He tried to keep thinking about Charles, but his attention settled on the familiar twist of her lips. He took a deep breath to steady himself for what was to come. At least he seemed to be learning to anticipate her—some of the time. It was a sort of consolation.

"Are you begging me now, Mr. Darcy?" She teased, eyes wide, mouth open, her voice absolutely dripping with feigned astonishment. A fluttering hand rose to her chest and remained there.

Despite himself, he felt a smile forming. Lizzie Bennet could certainly give Caroline Bingley a run for her money when it came to good, old-fashioned, exaggerated swooning. He cleared his throat, swallowed, and attempted to bring his features under some sort of regulation.

"Hardly."

He was definitely going to need another drink if she kept this up, but he refused to be distracted from his purpose. He stared into the distance, attempting to imagine himself anywhere but sitting beside a campfire smiling at Lizzie Bennet. He would be entirely indifferent to her. He would rise above her petty opinions and irritating asides. He would be home soon—back on his mountaintop, as she called it—and he would feel all the advantages of being removed from her vulgar accusations and sparkling eyes. He was so engaged in this activity that he almost missed the moment when her guard slipped down.

Oh, all right," she said slowly, her voice nearly a whisper.

Darcy watched her from the corner of his eye as she picked her way through her words. She took a deep breath, only the top of her head visible as she spoke into her lap. She was clearly uncomfortable, but he found no great victory in it as he had earlier.

"I guess... well," she stammered. "I may have taken some artistic license with the first article."

She looked up at him then and he was surprised to find that she looked almost… vulnerable. The change in her expression was so abrupt and absolute that he thought she might do better to dedicate herself to science than journalism. Lizzie Bennet was an absolute study in emotion.

He felt the laughter rise up within him and resolved not to fight it. If he felt ridiculous now, he might as well own it. She followed him with her dancing eyes and laughed herself, the awkwardness of the moment broken by their shared and oddly refreshing amusement.

Crossing his legs, he leaned against one bent elbow and raised the other arm—the one holding his glass—in a light toast to her. No words could match the strangeness he felt at the moment and so he did not try to find them. Matching his gesture with a wide smile, she pulled her legs underneath her and sank to her side, her bright eyes meeting his head-on.

She was suddenly so close that he couldn't help himself. Her face, which he had examined so thoroughly earlier, was now less than eight inches or so from his own, and though he might have liked to study her better from this angle—he was lost to much different thoughts now than he had been then.

He had to do it.

There was nothing stopping him.

He leaned forward and wet his lips.

"Just the first?" he breathed, raising a brow of his own. "Seriously?"

The satisfying sound of her full, animated laughter filled the lawn. As Darcy watched her he was only dimly aware of the number of heads turning in their direction.

"Your mother sounds like a very astute woman, Mr. Darcy," she positively beamed at him. "Any more words of wisdom you'd like to share? I seem to remember one about a gift horse?"

Before he could answer, Charles' voice rang out from somewhere behind her. It was just as well, because he had no idea what he meant to say to her. Judging by the odd sense of buoyancy he felt stirring inside, it was probably something she'd take offense to.

Lizzie seemed equally surprised to see Charles standing so near them, and Darcy noticed that the welcoming smile she flashed him did not quite reach her eyes.

"And how are things going over here?" Charles beamed, clapping his hands together. "Jane and I were just saying how nice it is to see the two of you getting along. Jane always said she thought the pair of you you would be a good fit, if not for the… well, you know."

"Things are… fine," Lizzie said in a quiet voice, eyeing Darcy warily. "You've just caught us exchanging proverbs, that's all. Have a seat, Charlie."

The unexpectedly pleasant moment broken, Darcy leaned back against the chair and regarded the fire pit with renewed vigor as Charles settled into the seat on his opposite side.

He allowed his thoughts to wander as Lizzie peppered Charles with questions about the new project he and Jane had been developing—well done there. They had both heard it all before, of course, but they might as well hear it again. If the topic avoided any more of Charles' interest in their own conversation—much less their supposed compatibility, well, it was fine by him. Darcy hadn't taken Jane Bennet for an idiot, but she certainly didn't know her sister half so well as she let on.

A good fit? Hardly. More like a round peg in a square hole. There's a proverb for you, Miss Bennet.

Darcy gazed into the fire as Charles repeated something about a problem he was having with zoning regulations. He had intended to listen, of course, but the soft hum of spring, the draw of the fire, and the nearly empty glass in his hand were all a testament to a sort of comfortable intoxication that had been gradually falling over him for the better part of the last half hour.

He was tired—more than tired. He was drained. It was entirely possible that he had used up all of his remaining energy on the brief tête-à-tête with Lizzie Bennet. After all, he rarely felt as on-guard as he had this evening and never more so than when in her company. Or—maybe Charles was right. Maybe he needed to relax. Maybe he needed to speak more and think less. Maybe he would be happier if he were more like Charles Bingley and less like Mr. Darcy.

Maybe.

Finishing what was left of his drink, he watched as the flames licked and curled and slunk their way up and down the few remaining logs, devouring them in a dance of shadow and light. At this moment, he imagined he knew exactly how they felt.

Warm.

Maybe the second pour of whiskey was a bad idea after all.

It was then that he heard Jane Bennet's clear voice calling from somewhere in the distance. Lizzie and Charles had already started to stir in their seats, so he had some idea of it being a repeated request for their attention.

"Come on, guys!" Her clear voice rang out across the lawn. "The fireworks are starting!"

As the trio rose from their chairs to join the rest of their small party, the sound of Mr. Bennet's voice surprised them all from the place he had long-since claimed on the deck behind them.

"Funny," the gentleman laughed. "I could have sworn the show just ended."

Thanks for reading!