They approached the refreshment table together, and Darcy selected a glass of punch and handed it to her.
Elizabeth accepted the glass, offering a small smile. “I must admit, I did not expect to enjoy myself tonight.”
“I can hardly credit that statement. You always seem to enjoy yourself in company.”
“And you do not.”
He swallowed and raised a brow. “You intend to change my mind, Miss Elizabeth? Or are you merely being contrary for the sake of provoking a debate, as you seem fond of doing?”
She permitted her smile to widen. “I leave you to discern that on your own. Meanwhile, I shall perhaps observe that balls are generally predictable affairs.”
“Predictable in what sense?” Darcy asked.
“Oh, the usual,” Elizabeth said lightly. “Too many people in too small a space, far too many opinions on matters of little importance, and always the same assortment of characters—gossips, dancers, and those who merely endure it.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly, considering her words. “And which are you?”
Elizabeth smiled wryly. “I suppose I fall somewhere between the last two.”
“That would explain why you often find yourself at the center of attention, yet never entirely content with it.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Why, Mr. Darcy, you would teach me to doubt my own feelings!”
“I am correct, am I not? Tell me that you do not immediately seek to deflect the focus of others from yourself and toward one of your sisters when you feel the sun shines a little too warmly on you?”
She laughed. “I think what you call deflection is the natural result of having one sister, at least, who can outshine the sun.”
He raised his glass toward her. “There, you are doing it again.”
Elizabeth sipped her wine and shook her head. “And you, Mr. Darcy? Where do you place yourself in my little cast of characters?” She made a mock pout. “For surely, I did not takeyou for a gossip, but you seem perfectly content to blather nonsense at the moment.”
Darcy’s mouth curved, and he twirled the stem of the glass in his hand. “I endure it,” he said simply, though there was a flicker of something wry in his eyes. “Balls are necessary obligations, nothing more.”
“And yet here you are, obliging yourself to fetch punch for me,” Elizabeth teased, tilting her head slightly. “Surely that is not merely obligation?”
Darcy met her gaze evenly, his expression calm but unreadable. “It is civility.”
“Ah,” Elizabeth said, feigning disappointment. “Civility. How very dull.”
To her surprise, he smiled—a real, unguarded smile that transformed his normally severe features. “Perhaps civility need not always be dull.”
“I suppose it depends on the company,” she said softly, meeting his eyes briefly before glancing away.
Darcy inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her words without further comment. For a moment, the conversation lapsed into silence, but it was a comfortable silence, one that needed no urgent filling.
“I should join my friends,” Elizabeth said at last, though she found herself reluctant to leave. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. For the punch.”
“You are welcome, Miss Elizabeth.”
“The Boulanger,” Elizabeth remarkedas they stepped into line, her hand resting lightly in Darcy’s. “Aninteresting choice for a supper set, is it not? Lively enough to keep everyone awake, yet formal enough to remind us all of propriety.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly, his grip steady but precise as they moved into place. “It serves its purpose. A balance between energy and decorum.”
Elizabeth smiled, as though she had anticipated such an answer. She glanced away, scanning the crowded ballroom as if assessing her surroundings, but Darcy noticed the faint curve of amusement lingering at the corners of her mouth. It was a look he had grown familiar with—Elizabeth Bennet, perpetually entertained by the world around her, and often at his expense.
Around them, couples moved into place, preparing for the opening steps. The buzz of conversation filled the air, punctuated by the occasional rustle of skirts and clink of glassware from the supper room beyond. Darcy noted the eyes of several guests drifting their way, some curious, some speculative.
He forced himself to focus on the rhythm of the music, the precision of the steps. And yet, even as the first notes sounded, and the people around them began to move into his sphere, his attention remained anchored to Elizabeth. She moved with a willowy sort of seduction, each step light and sure, and though he maintained the proper distance between them, he could not help but be acutely aware of her—of the warmth of her fingers in his, of the delicate rustle of her gown as it swirled around her feet.
