Mrs. Hurst arched a brow. “Appropriate? That is high praise indeed.”
“Coming from him, it rather is,” said Bingley.
“You were very quiet this evening, Mr. Darcy,” said Miss Bingley, arching one immaculate brow. “Not your usual lively self.”
Darcy did not look up. “I was not aware that I am usually ‘lively’.”
“Much more so than this evening, I should say. Almost as though you were… distracted.”
“I was not.”
She folded her needlework with unnecessary care. “No? How curious. You stood quite still for several minutes after we arrived.”
Mrs. Hurst chuckled. “Perhaps he was recovering from the fragrance of that punch. I have smelled perfumes that were less potent.”
“Or the musicians,” added Mr. Hurst, eyes closed.
Darcy made no reply.
Miss Bingley’s voice dipped lower. “Though of course it might have been the company. Some conversations do linger longer than they deserve.”
Mr. Bingley glanced up from his glass. “Which company? Surely not Miss Bennet? She said nothing objectionable.”
Miss Bingley flicked her gaze toward the fire. “I was not referring toMissBennet, the elder.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Bingley, frowning faintly. “Then—” He blinked. “You mean… the one you knew before? Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”
There was a pause.
Darcy remained mute. But his jaw was no longer still.
Miss Bingley gave him a knowing smile. “About how to flee Hertfordshire before another charity auction finds you?”
Mr. Hurst, from the corner, offered a drowsy chuckle. “I’d wager a man could go for less this time around.”
Bingley laughed. “Not if Miss Elizabeth was bidding again. Though I suppose the novelty of you has worn off.”
Darcy only scuffed the toe of his boot along the hearth, scooting back the cooling ash. He was watching the flame crawl along a half-burnt log, turning bright and searing at the edges.
Like a certain pair of eyes.
Like a certain woman standing far too easily in the wrong corner of the room.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Sharp-tongued. Keen-eyed. Unapologetically sure of herself in a world that should have made her nervous. And yet she had stood there, trading barbs with him as though she had every right to—and worse, every advantage.
And now his pulse was still behaving as though the argument had never ended.
“Yes, odd story, that,” Mr. Bingley went on. “Fancy that, a charity auction! You must know the lady quite well, then.”
“I do not,” Darcy said flatly. “We are barely acquainted.”
Miss Bingley smiled thinly. “And yet one might almost believe she had unsettled you.”
Darcy’s expression did not flicker. “I am not so easily unsettled.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Hurst, “she did look you directly in the eye. Quite bold.”
