Elizabeth took another sip of tea, letting the warmth settle behind her smile. The retiring room hummed with low conversation and the occasional rustle of silk, but for one rare and shining moment, she felt perfectly composed. Composed, victorious—and almost, but not quite, gracious.
She had just set her cup down when the door swung open again.
Kitty bustled in, cheeks pink, eyes darting—followed by Jane, whose expression was split somewhere between apology and concern.
Elizabeth sighed inwardly. So much for peace.
"Lizzy," Kitty whispered urgently, "Mary is upset. She started playing the pianoforte in the supper room and wouldn't stop. Now some of the girls are laughing at her."
Jane added, "She is crying behind the ficus plant and she will not come out for me. I am not sure what to say to her."
Elizabeth sighed, setting down her teacup. "Come, let us go find her."
Darcy had just setdown his glass of claret—barely palatable, like everything else this evening—when movement at the edge of the crowd caught his eye.
Wickham again.
Still circulating, still charming, still impossibly at ease in a room where he had no business trespassing. Darcy had lost count of how many ladies Wickham had made laugh already. Half the room seemed to find him delightful.
Darcy did not.
He had stopped looking for a suitable partner two sets ago. There was no one left—no one worth the conversation, let alone the trouble. The only tolerable company in the room was currently surrounded by sisters and suitors and too many eyes.
Elizabeth Bennet was not an option.
And then—
Wickham turned toward the far side of the ballroom and made a direct approach.
To Miss Bingley.
Darcy straightened almost imperceptibly, his gaze narrowing. There was a brief exchange—words he could not hear, but the cadence was familiar. A request. The next dance.
And then, to his astonishment, Miss Bingley nodded.
She smiled.
She accepted.
Darcy did not move. He could not have moved if he wished. He merely watched as Wickham bowed and turned toward the refreshment table, his path carving straight across Darcy’s.
Of course it did.
They collided halfway between the punch bowl and the cluster of palms near the orchestra.
Wickham stopped. Smiled. “Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy’s jaw tensed automatically. His hand brushed against the edge of the punch table, and for one foolish second, he imagined upending the entire bowl into Wickham’s face. “Lieutenant.”
Wickham’s smile widened by a fraction. “Still so formal. I must say, I expected a warmer greeting on such a splendid evening from an old friend.”
Darcy’s gaze narrowed fractionally. “We were never friends.”
“Strange. I could have sworn we once shared Christmases and tutors and far too many sermons from your father.” Wickham clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on the balls of his boots. “But perhaps I misremember.”
“You often do.”
Wickham’s mouth twitched. “Touchy tonight. Must be the air. Or the company.”
