“Natural light.”
Darcy lifted one brow. “The ball begins after sunset.”
Caroline Bingley clicked her tongue. “You see? Charles I told you that already.”
Mrs. Hurst sniffed and deliberately turned her head away from the others.
Darcy returned to the window.
The pieces were shifting again. The clock was ticking louder. And for the first time in weeks, the February deadline no longer seemed like the most urgent thing he had to face.
Not with a wolf prowling the edges of the dance floor.
Not with Elizabeth’s smile caught in its teeth.
Chapter Eleven
The Bennet sitting roomwas never what one might call tranquil.
There was always some minor contest unfolding—Kitty whispering over Lydia, Lydia talking over everyone, Mary reading aloud to no one in particular. And if Mrs. Bennet was not lamenting the state of Jane’s bonnet or the number of unmarried officers in Hertfordshire, she was sighing over both in rotation.
Today, however, the atmosphere carried a distinct charge.
There was a guest.
And not just any guest, but a handsome man in uniform with a ready smile and just enough mystery behind his eyes to make Lydia knock over the sugar dish twice.
Because today, Mr. Wickham had come to call.
He sat near the fire, flanked by admiration on all sides.
Captain Denny had arrived with him and was now holding court beside the pianoforte, regaling Lydia and Kitty with something that required wild gesturing and made neither of them breathe properly for laughing. Wickham, by contrast, had claimed the quieter half of the room. His uniform—less polishedthan Denny’s but worn with a kind of relaxed authority—drew glances all the same. Even Mary had smiled at him. A real smile, tentative and toothy, like a sunbeam forced through clouds.
Elizabeth watched from her corner chair, notebook balanced between her knee and the armrest, pencil moving slowly.
Sociological Study – Day One of the Militia Invasion
Sister 5 has begun speaking exclusively in exclamations.
4 has developed a stammer in Mr. Wickham’s presence.
3 may be experiencing the troubling onset of a sense of humor.
Another "lady" has said the words “good fortune” no fewer than seven times.
Mr. Wickham’s smile has measurable gravitational pull.
She glanced up. He was laughing at something Mrs. Bennet had said—something about the merits of local dancing assemblies. Elizabeth doubted the actual words mattered. He would have laughed if she had told him the price of pickled herring.
She tapped her pencil against her knee.
Wickham was too smooth. That was not a flaw, necessarily—but it was a fact. Every gesture was just a hair too practiced. He looked people in the eyes exactly the right amount. He let silences linger for just the right beat before he spoke. He responded to praise with modesty and to sarcasm with charm.
He was, in short, dangerous.
And yet, Elizabeth found herself smiling, too.
When he turned his attention to her—and eventually he did—he did not offer her some repurposed line about how different she was from her sisters. He did not compliment her eyes or her wit.
