[ confincd ]

Her stare is unyielding, perhaps, even a little disconcerting in nature, for Lucille had barely bat an eyelid. Forever watching– -observing; just as she would analyse insects’ in their glass prisons. A hobby of hers she’d pursued from her childhood…          

    Lucille’s grasp, though brief, was frigid; like shaking the hand of DEATH itself.
    The woman’s movements were slow, deliberate, as was anything she did.
    With a quirk of her brow she gave a slight incline of her head– -noting his
    fallen gaze. A lack of confidence, perhaps?  Rolling velvet shoulders back
    Lucille straightened her stance, slender hands clasping together before her
    in a tight ball.       

Fitzwilliam Darcy? The name seemed to resonate with her with a stroke of familiarity and taut lips formed a small ‘o’ shape. 

          “Likewise, Mr. Darcy– - tell me, you wouldn’t happen to be the proprietor of
          of Pemberley, would you?”  

    Her apparent recognition was startling. An immediate defence was thrown up – shoulders lifted and stiff beneath his greatcoat and hands fisted at his sides. His mouth turned down in frown and a harsh line drew between his brows with his concern. What else had she heard, he wondered? Gossip in the Ton was notoriously detestable. The truth was often skewed and resembled little of its initial utterance as swept through the grapevine could hardly leave room for anything less.

“ Yes, I am. Have you interest in visiting the estate? It would be best to view it in the summer, but Pemberley is open year round for showings. ”