“You have fallen quiet again, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth remarked as they stepped together. “One might think you are concentrating.”
Darcy met her gaze briefly, then looked past her toward the other dancers. “Is that not expected during a dance?”
“It is expected,” she agreed, tilting her head slightly, “but I find it rather disappointing. Surely a man of your talents could manage both concentration and conversation.”
“And what would you have me say, Miss Bennet?” he asked, his tone as measured as his steps. “Am I to offer witticisms, or merely endure your observations in silence?”
Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with mischief as they parted for the next figure. “Oh, I would not dream of imposing too greatly upon your wit. Perhaps you could recite poetry instead.”
Darcy raised a brow as they turned through the group, his voice carrying over the music. “You mean to mock me, Miss Elizabeth?”
“Oh, no!” she cried innocently. “But you find the exercise a pleasure, and so if I wish to make myself agreeable for the half hour, I can do you the courtesy of listening.”
Darcy arched a brow as they reached the end of their line. “I fear that would be a far greater imposition than silence.”
When they came back together, Elizabeth smiled up at him. “Then I must insist upon it. Surely a man as accomplished as yourself has no shortage of verses to recite.”
“I do not recall boasting of any such accomplishment,” Darcy replied. “But if you insist, I could attempt a line or two.”
“Please do,” Elizabeth said, her smile widening as they turned again.
Darcy took a steadying breath, his mind racing. He had not intended to humor her, but something about the sparkle in her eyes and the way she leaned ever so slightly closer as they moved was impossible to resist.
When they met again in the steps, he said, his tone as serious as if he were quoting Byron himself:
“The moon is high, the night is fair,
Yet I find myself trapped in this despair.”
Elizabeth blinked, then laughed—a bright, genuine sound that drew glances from the nearby dancers. “Trapped in despair, Mr. Darcy? Over a mere dance? How melodramatic of you.”
“Perhaps my muse is too stern,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I shall try again.”
“Please do,” she replied, her tone encouraging, though her laughter still lingered.
As the dance brought them apart again, Darcy’s thoughts turned toward the absurd. He could scarcely believe he was indulging her like this, yet the challenge in her eyes spurred him onward.
When they rejoined, he added, with mock solemnity:
“A ballroom bright, a crowd unkind,
And yet, your sharp wit fills my mind.”
Elizabeth feigned shock, pressing a hand to her chest. “Why, Mr. Darcy, I believe that is almost a compliment.”
“It was not my intention to flatter,” he replied, his voice perfectly dry.
“Ah, but that is what makes it so rare,” she countered, her eyes gleaming.
Darcy held her gaze a moment longer, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the heat of the room. She was unlike anyone he had ever encountered—clever, quick-witted, and entirely unafraid to meet him on equal footing.
“Shall I try again?” he asked as they moved through the next sequence.
“Oh, please do,” Elizabeth said, her tone bordering on delighted.
As they met once more, Darcy leaned in just enough to lower his voice, a glimmer of mischief entering his own expression.
“Though words may falter, steps may fail,
