Elizabeth looked up, feigning innocence. "Merely observing. It is a skill every good satirist must hone."
Charlotte chuckled. “Well, your observations seem to be in high demand tonight.”
Elizabeth snapped her journal shut and tucked it neatly into her reticule. “Perhaps. But I doubt they will fetch much—unless I begin naming names.”
“I imagine half the room suspects you already have.”
Elizabeth scoffed—but her cheeks betrayed her with a sudden warmth. “Nonsense. I am always vague.”
“Are you?” Charlotte arched one brow. “I doubt that. You like accuracy too well.”
“One can still be ‘vaguely accurate,’” Elizabeth insisted.
“Indeed. Miss Markham believes you are composing poetry.”
Elizabeth made a face. “Then she deserves whatever verse I assign her.”
Charlotte laughed. “I hope it rhymes with ‘ambition.’”
Elizabeth sipped her tea, fighting a smile. “It could.”
Charlotte opened her mouth to reply—but paused as a harried young woman appeared at her elbow, eyes wide. “Miss Lucas? Maria has torn her hem again. She says she will not leave the retiring room until you come help her.”
Charlotte sighed. “Third gown this season, and it is only November.”
“Go,” Elizabeth said, waving her off with a grin. “Save her from sartorial ruin.”
Charlotte gave a helpless shrug and vanished after her sister.
Elizabeth turned back to the tea table, where the silver service steamed politely, and poured herself another half-cup.
Elizabeth had just taken another sip of tea when Miss Bingley approached, her manner all warmth and her eyes quite otherwise.
"Miss Eliza," she said with the smile of a woman preparing to serve compliments like fruit on a toothpick. “How fortunate to find you in repose. Louisa and I have been positivelybesideourselves. We wagered—quietly, of course—on which young lady Mr. Darcy might favor with the supper set. I must admit, I lost a great deal of pride on your behalf.”
Elizabeth sipped more of her tea. “Did you? You must have too little imagination.”
Miss Bingley laughed. “Not at all! Although, I confess, I was certain he would prefer… someone else.”
Elizabeth smiled. “How generous of you to take such an interest in his affairs. Though I admit, I cannot imagine a more diverting topic for sisters to gamble upon.”
“Oh, nothing beyond sisterly amusement,” she said, retrieving a biscuit with unnecessary finesse. “But one does like to seea gentleman remain consistent in his standards. Otherwise, people might begin to wonder.”
“Indeed,” said Elizabeth, her tone light but her eyes sharp. “When a man’s actions contradict his preferences, it is often not the gentleman who is misjudged.”
Miss Bingley’s lips tightened before softening into another syrupy smile. She reached for the tea service with a sigh, brushing aside a fold of her shawl that had drifted over the table.
“How stifling these rooms become, do they not?” she said airily, lifting the lid of the sugar bowl and peering inside as though she expected it to contain secrets.
Elizabeth offered a noncommittal hum, her attention already returning to her teacup. The table was small, and with two ladies seated close, there was hardly room to move without touching something that was not one’s own.
“Well. I do hope you enjoy the attention this evening has brought you. We cannot all endure such scrutiny with... grace.”
Elizabeth set down her teacup. “It is true. Some thrive under it. Others merely endure.”
There was a pause, just long enough for a flicker of something colder to pass between them. Then Miss Bingley rose, brushing an invisible thread from her skirt.
“Do enjoy the rest of the ball, Miss Bennet. It has already proven most enlightening.” With a final nod, she turned and glided away, the rustle of her gown fading into the noise of the corridor.
