“Oh, how charming!” cooed Mrs. Bennet. “A ball at Netherfield—how delightful!”
Elizabeth slid her eyes toward Darcy.
He was watching her.
He had not smiled. He had not frowned. He simply observed her, as if she were some puzzle to be measured and solved and catalogued away.
She lifted her chin.
Darcy turned his attention back to Sir William. “I believe that would beMr. Bingley’sdecision.”
“Indeed it is!” Bingley said. “And I shall make it at once. We shall host a ball in a fortnight. Let us say the nineteenth of November.”
“Oh, no, quite impossible,” her mother protested. “That is the day the vicar’s wife means to host our charity society for tea.”
There were one or two murmurs of assent from the other matrons present. Elizabeth shifted on her feet and slid her gaze back to… oh, no, not Darcy. How odd that her eyes had skipped back there? She cleared her throat and looked instead to Mr. Bingley.
“Good heavens,” the gentleman cried. “Far be it from me to tread on such an important date. Let us put it back one week to the twenty-sixth. There, will that date suit everyone?”
Elizabeth made herself look pleased. She even clapped lightly with the others.
But she could feel the heat in her cheeks. Darcy had not said a word in protest. Which meant he was going to be there. Which meant she would see him again, in full ball attire with punch and hothouse flowers and a string quartet and everything. Which meant…
Elizabeth’s cup had gone cold.
As the guests began to rise and shawls were fetched, Darcy stepped beside her to retrieve Miss Bingley’s wrap.
He leaned in—just slightly.
“I hope you do not mind being stared at again, Miss Bennet,” he murmured.
Elizabeth blinked. “Not at all. I quite enjoy being an object of worship.”
He smiled, sharp and brief. “I suspected as much.”
And then he walked away.
Elizabeth stood perfectly still, her face perfectly blank.
She would write about this later.
Chapter Ten
Darcy had retreated tothe library the moment they returned.
The house was quiet—Bingley had gone off humming, no doubt drafting dance cards in his sleep—and Caroline Bingley’s footsteps had faded toward her rooms after only a single, barbed comment about how “rural society did insist upon so many elbows.”
He sat before the fire, coat still on, one boot braced on the hearth tile, letter unopened on the side table. He knew what it would say. Another delay from the steward. Another set of figures from Ramsgate. Another silence from Georgiana.
He should have gone to London.
That had always been the plan. This final year—his twenty-ninth—was supposed to be his decisive season. Four years to learn his new place in the world, manage his affairs, and one to secure his future. A clean search. A respectable match. The courtship of a future Mrs. Darcy conducted with the dignity his name and station required.
Instead, he had spent the entirety of the Season behind closed doors, managing the chaos left behind by a man who ought to have been in debtor’s prison.
Wickham.
Even now, the name was enough to sour his stomach.
