Perfect.
I gave a small, tight smile. “They are certainly… lively.”
Her brow lifted in response, the corner of her mouth twitching as though she were trying very hard not to laugh. “Indeed,” she murmured. “I suppose one could call it lively. Though you do not appear to be enjoying it overmuch.”
“I assure you,” I replied, keeping my voice flat, “I am tolerating it with perfect equanimity.”
That seemed to amuse her even more. Her eyes danced with something I could only interpret as triumph, as though she had expected exactly that answer. “Well, I am pleased to hear it. I should hate to think you find our company wanting.”
“Miss Elizabeth,” I said stiffly, “you should not presume my thoughts.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Darcy.”
There was a brief, awkward silence before Bingley cleared his throat. Apparently, this conversation was not going as he had envisioned.
“Well, Darcy,” he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder with a force that nearly made me wince, “I shall leave you to it, then. Miss Elizabeth, I hope you’ll save me a dance later.”
She smiled at him, genuinely this time. “Of course, Mr. Bingley.”
And then he was gone, leaving me alone with her, standing awkwardly by the refreshment table as the conversation—and my discomfort—lingered in the air.
Miss Elizabeth’s smile faded slightly as she glanced toward the dancers. I should have taken the opportunity to excuse myself,but curse it all, I couldn’t think of another place in the room to stand that would not be worse.
“Do you not dance, Mr. Darcy?” she asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
I blinked, caught off guard by the question. “I do,” I answered curtly, “though I find it more agreeable in certain settings.”
Her lips quirked. “Certain settings?”
I gestured vaguely toward the crowded dance floor, where couples were stumbling through the movements with varying degrees of success. “A room less crowded. More… select company.”
Her eyes narrowed, and I immediately regretted my words.
“I see,” she said slowly. “Then I suppose you find our company here somewhat lacking in refinement.”
“That is not what I meant,” I said quickly, though the damage was done. She knew exactly what I meant. Of course, she did.
“No?” she asked, her voice light but her gaze sharp. “Then what did you mean, Mr. Darcy?”
I had no answer that would satisfy her. So, I did what any sensible man would do in such a situation. “Miss Elizabeth,” I said, bowing stiffly, “if you will excuse me.”
I didn’t wait for her reply.
Elizabeth
Isuppose it wouldhave been too much to hope that Mr. Darcy might find some excuse to leave early.
I had noticed him, of course. How could I not? He loomed near the back of the room, his expression inscrutable but distinctly unwelcoming. His eyes scanned the assembly as though he were cataloging every last one of us—and finding us all thoroughly beneath his notice. He stood apart from the merriment, barely engaging with those around him, though all evening, Mr. Bingley had been attempting, with almost painful determination, to pull him into the fold.
It wasn’t working.
I turned away from the sight of Mr. Darcy, letting my attention drift back to the more pleasant scene unfolding before me. Mr. Bingley was dancing with Jane, and she looked beautiful—flushed and smiling, though I could see the tension in her posture whenever Lydia’s giggles rose above the music. My youngest sister had already made quite the spectacle of herself this evening—laughing too loudly, flirting too boldly—and Jane was doing her best to ignore it.
I felt my own face heating at the memory of Mama’s remarks earlier. She had practically thrown Jane at Mr. Bingley, as if that would secure him for more than just a dance. It was mortifying, and Jane, bless her, had simply smiled through it all.
Mr. Darcy’s disapproval had been written all over his face. He hadn’t said a word, but I’d caught him watching us, his brow slightly furrowed, his gaze drifting over my family as if weighing each of us in turn. I supposed he found us lacking. I couldn’t fault him for that entirely. The way Lydia was carrying on—and Mama, for that matter—I could hardly deny we were putting on quite the performance.
Still, Mr. Darcy’s quiet disdain rankled. He seemed to think himself above the room. Above us. Above everything.
