Beside Elizabeth, Jane stiffened, and Elizabeth saw the quick flush rise to Mr Bingley’s cheeks as his eye was drawn helplessly toward her sister.
“A waltz, Mr Wickham?” Mrs Bennet gasped. “Oh, why, to be sure, I understand they are becoming rather popular, but so scandalous!”
“Nothing of the sort, I assure you!” the gentleman laughed. “Yes, of course, the gentleman holds the lady somewhat closer, but with a fair space between them, and I daresay the steps are far easier to keep pace with than the reel. It is just what a gentleman prefers as a bit of a breather in an evening where there shall be, I fear, more ladies wanting a partner than willing gentlemen to provide one. Now, let us see. Shall we put it just after supper, where we might all ease into the rest of the evening with full bellies and a slower rhythm? Or shall it be just before, when we are all weary and beginning to need the rest?”
“Oh, by all means after,” Mrs Bennet opined.
“I am afraid I shall beg to differ,” Bingley spoke up. “Is not a faster dance just after supper to be preferred? Something like Mr Beveridge’s Maggot to liven everyone up for the rest of the evening. I think I should vastly prefer the slower dance just before supper.” He followed this with a significant look toward Jane.
“Very clever, my friend,” Mr Wickham agreed. “Shall we change the sequence, Mrs Bennet?”
“Well, I…” Mrs Bennet giggled. “Oh, Mr Bennet shall go distracted if he has to dance with me that set! By all means, Mr Wickham. Oh, and I do hope you have not yet got a partner, for my girls are all splendid dancers, especially Lydia.”
Mr Wickham smiled widely, and Elizabeth’s face heated when his open gaze found her. “Oh, I am quite assured of that, Mrs Bennet. On that subject, Miss Elizabeth, I hope you will not be too disappointed if I beg your hand for that set. I know you had your heart set on another.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. “Whatever do you mean, sir?”
“Oh, why I thought the matter was settled between you and Darcy. Yes, I am sure he said something to me about it. Do you not recall, Bingley?”
Mr Bingley had been mouthing something to Jane—obviously, something rather inappropriate, by the red stain that rose on his cheeks when Mr Wickham caught him out—and he started when his friend spoke his name. “What? Darcy? Oh, yes, to be sure. A pity he has to return to London before the grand event.”
Elizabeth felt as if she were a ball being bounced around in the street by a dozen children. “I… what? I do not follow.”
“Why, no matter, Miss Elizabeth,” Mr Wickham assured her. “One of us will see that you are properly engaged for the supper set, shall we not, Bingley? I would not wish for you to be disappointed.”
She could only stare. “Disappointed in… what, precisely?”
“Oh, Lizzy, must you argue with everyone?” Mama huffed in exasperation. “The gentleman is offering to dance with you!”
She shook herself. “Ah, yes. I understand that, but what is this about Mr Darcy?”
“Some business or other,” Mr Wickham replied with a wave of his hand. “Although I am sure he will be terribly disappointed to miss the chance to stand up with you, for I assure you, he was looking forward to it. But you know Darcy! He was never a man to neglect his duties.”
Elizabeth swallowed. “I… I suppose not, Mr Wickham.”
“Of course not. Now, then! We have the supper set and the one just after that settled. What did you propose for the ninth, Mrs Bennet?”
“Well! The quadrille, of course, but if you would prefer the reel…”
“Oh, the reel to be sure,” Mr Wickham said, nodding over the page. “And then the quadrille next…”
Elizabeth set her saucer on the side table and merely leaned back, gripping the sofa cushion and trying to listen to it all. What had just happened? Mama was debating dances with the master of Netherfield, his guest was making mooning faces at a hotly blushing Jane, and Mr Darcy was leaving before any of it took place.
This… this was a very strange ball.
Chapter Twenty
Darcy leaned heavily againstthe desk in his room, the laudanum bottle still open beside him. He had taken a draught earlier, hoping for relief from the relentless pounding in his head. Instead, the room seemed to tilt and sway, the edges of his vision blurring. He rubbed his temples, wishing the pain to subside, but it continued to beat a merciless rhythm in his skull.
Through the haze of his headache and the disorienting effects of the laudanum, he could hear faint voices and laughter from outside. He staggered to the window, needing to focus on something, anything, to distract him from the agony.
Peering through the glass, he saw Elizabeth and Jane Bennet walking in the garden, escorted by Bingley. They moved slowly, admiring the dormant maze and shrubs, their voices drifting up to him in soft, indistinct murmurs. Elizabeth’s presence drew his eye like a lodestone, her graceful movements and animated expressions focusing his attention as nothing else had done.
Darcy’s heart pounded with a different kind of pain now, one that had nothing to do with his physical suffering. His mind, hazy from the laudanum, clung to the sight of Elizabeth like a lifeline. She looked radiant in the afternoon light, her laughter carrying up to him like a soothing balm, cutting through the fog in his head.
His thoughts, usually so sharp and controlled, had been drifting and tangled like a distant echo. But her image wavered before his eyes, a beacon in the blur. His legs felt like jelly, but he pushed away from the window, swaying slightly. His head would be clearer aroundher—somehow. The idea pulsed with his heartbeat, overriding any remaining logic.
He staggered toward the door, each step a battle against the spinning room. His chest tightened in desperation and longing. What could he have been thinking, planning to leave without seeing her again? Impossible. The laudanum blurred the lines betweenreason and impulse, leaving only a raw need to be close to her, to feel her presence steady him.
