Rotting Teeth and Lacey Parasols: The Perfumed Elegance of Bath
Mr Darcy stretched his long legs out in front of him, languidly, his legs muscular and shapely under white hose, the tip of his boot gently touching my toe, well the toe of my silk slipper ... twice. Twice. Was it deliberate? Was he flirting with me? Or was his fidgeting a return of the lice, or perhaps that groin rash his butler once mentioned? My breath came quick and fast. I looked across at that handsome, brooding face, at that dark brow, and then he smiled ... a bright, no a dark ... actually it was a fetid, rotten-toothed smile. Hang on! Miss Austen, excuse me, what's going on?