“Exuberance!” Mrs. Bennet laughed, her fan fluttering. “Well, it is a credit to his taste, then. Though I daresay he must have sought your advice for such details. Gentlemen rarely have an eye for these things.”
Elizabeth clenched her hands tighter, praying the earth might open and swallow her whole. Charlotte, devil take her, had been distant and quiet all evening, talking with Jane at the edge of the room. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Lady Lucas’s polite smile tighten, though she said nothing, her gaze lingering on Lydia, who had now moved to the far corner, examining a collection of small silver boxes with far too much interest. Caroline’s gaze followed her, a faint sneer tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“Lizzy,” Jane whispered from the seat beside her, “perhaps you should—”
But Elizabeth was already rising. “Lydia,” she called, her voice firmer now, “I am certain you will find the view from here just as impressive.”
Lydia turned, a pout forming on her lips. “You are no fun, Lizzy. No one minds.”
Elizabeth’s gaze flicked to Caroline, who was now watching the exchange with the air of a cat observing cornered mice. Sir William’s booming laugh punctuated the tension from acrossthe room, though Elizabeth barely noticed. “I mind,” she said firmly, stepping closer. “Come sit with me for a moment.”
Lydia groaned but obeyed, plopping onto the settee with all the grace of a child denied sweets. Elizabeth sat beside her, smoothing her skirts and forcing her expression into one of calm. It was not difficult to see the disdain in Caroline’s posture, the slight angle of her chin as she turned to whisper something to her sister. Louisa laughed quietly, the sound just loud enough to carry. Lady Barrow’s fan fluttered again, though this time it seemed more to conceal a smile than cool her face.
Elizabeth’s jaw clenched. She could not deny the truth of it—her mother’s gushing, Lydia’s impulsiveness, the loud and ungraceful way they filled the room—it was all painfully out of place in a setting like this. But she hated, hated, the way Caroline wielded her disdain as though it were a weapon. As though the Bennets’ flaws were a source of her personal amusement.
“Miss Eliza, you must tell me—do you find the countryside offers much in the way of… refined society?”
Her mother—dash it all—overheard the remark Caroline had directed at Elizabeth and responded herself. “But of course! We dine with four and twenty families! Some of whom you see here, so I should say ‘refined,’ indeed!”
Elizabeth closed her eyes faintly and held her breath at Miss Bingley’s poorly concealed amusement. She gritted her teeth and added, “I suppose that depends on your definition of ‘refinement.’ I find the variety of the countryside keeps one quite sharp. It is difficult to fall into dullness when there is always something—or someone—to keep you on your toes.”
Caroline’s lips pressed together, but she said nothing. Instead, she turned to her sister, murmuring something Elizabeth did not catch, though the faint smirk that followed spoke volumes.
The sound of the gentlemen’s approach was a welcome reprieve. Lydia sprang to her feet at the sight of Mr. Bingleyentering the room, and Mrs. Bennet was quick to follow, engaging him in animated conversation as though he were the answer to all her prayers. And Jane’s blush warmed her cheeks as Mr. Bingley came to stand rather casually beside her chair.
Darcy entered last, his dark eyes scanning the room briefly before settling, as they so often did, on her. Elizabeth felt her spine stiffen under his gaze, but she refused to look away. If Caroline wished to play at superiority, Elizabeth would not indulge her further by ceding ground.
Darcy entered the drawingroom, letting his gaze sweep over its occupants with the practiced ease of someone who could both observe and remain unseen. Mrs. Bennet was holding court near the fireplace, speaking to Mrs. Hurst while her youngest daughter hovered nearby, her laughter loud enough to bounce off the walls. Miss Jane Bennet stood slightly apart, serene as ever, though Darcy thought he detected the faintest hint of tension in her posture.
And then there was Elizabeth Bennet.
She was seated near the far settee, her expression calm but her eyes alert, as though bracing herself for a storm. Darcy’s gaze lingered on her for half a beat longer than it should have, drawn by the quiet resolve in her posture. She was, he realized with some unease, the only member of her family who seemed entirely aware of how they were being perceived.
“Do come and sit, Mr. Darcy,” Caroline said, her voice lilting as she gestured to the chair nearest her own. “The evening has been most entertaining--, though I daresay we could use a bit of your… ahem… decorum to settle our spirits after the meal.”
Darcy inclined his head and took the seat, and then he took up a book that was resting on the table beside him. He had no intention of indulging Caroline tonight—not when she had spent the better part of the evening making Elizabeth Bennet her target. Her attempts had been as transparent as they were tiresome.
“Mr. Darcy,” Caroline began, her tone honeyed but brittle at the edges, “I was just about to observe to Miss Eliza how charming it must be to grow up in the countryside. Such an inspiring setting for simpler pursuits, I imagine—needlework, flower arranging... perhaps a bit of poetry?”
Elizabeth’s lips curved into a faint smile, though Darcy, from his place near the fire, caught the glint of challenge in her eyes. “Indeed, Miss Bingley. The countryside is a wonderful muse for those with the creativity to appreciate it. Though I confess, I find poetry to be a pursuit fraught with danger.”
“Danger?” Caroline laughed. “What could be dangerous about poetry, of all things? It is the purest expression of love.”
“Oh, I think nothing is more certain to extinguish affection than bad poetry. A single, overwrought verse can do what no rival ever could.”
Darcy’s gaze flicked up from his book, though he kept his expression neutral. He filed away her words with silent amusement.
“Surely you exaggerate,” Caroline said. “Poetry is timeless, an art that moves even the most unfeeling hearts.”
Elizabeth’s brows lifted, her smile sharpening. “Is that why it is so often the refuge of the rejected? A poor sonnet scribbled in haste, with rhyme as its only merit, is a surefire way to drive love out the door.”
Caroline opened her mouth, but Elizabeth was not finished. “Do you not agree, Mr. Darcy?” she asked, turning her gaze tohim with mock innocence. “Surely, as a man of letters, you must have encountered your share of poetic catastrophes.”
Darcy, caught off guard, lowered his book. “I suppose I have seen examples where the effort outweighed the effect.”
“How graciously put,” Elizabeth said, inclining her head toward him. “Though I suspect you are merely too kind to share your honest opinion.”
“Mr. Darcy is always kind,” Caroline interjected quickly. “Particularly when others mistake their efforts for accomplishments.”
