He simply sat beside her and said, “May I guess something about you, Miss Bennet?”
She arched a brow. “Only if I may mock your guess afterward.”
“Accepted.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “You are the observer in the family.”
She blinked. “How adroit.”
“I have only been here ten minutes,” he went on, “and yet I suspect you could draw my character in five.”
Elizabeth smiled slowly. “Only five?”
“Well, three, but I am trying to be generous to my own poor self. No man likes to think he can be sketched in fewer minutes than he has fingers.”
She tilted her head. “And what gave me away? My silence? My notebook?”
“No.” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping so only she could hear. “Your patience.”
That startled a laugh out of her. She was the least patient person she knew!
Before she could answer, Lydia dropped something breakable in the corner and shouted a breathless apology. Captain Denny gallantly dove to retrieve it, nearly knocking over a footstool in the process, which only made Kitty laugh harder. Mrs. Bennet declared she was certain it had been ugly anyway, and Mary cleared her throat with the grim determination of someone about to recite moral philosophy over the sound of a collapsing side table.
Elizabeth reached for her pencil again.
Note to self:
The acoustics of chaos favor the loud and the dull.
Wickham: handsomer than necessary, cleverer than advisable.
Possibly dangerous.
Or simply well-trained in flattery, like any good predator.
She had just tucked the pencil back under her thumb when Wickham turned slightly toward her again—same smile, same tone, as though no sugar dish had ever shattered.
“But I interrupted myself,” Wickham said, turning slightly toward her again. “I had just accused you of being the most observant person in the room.”
Elizabeth tapped her pencil once against the edge of her chair. “And I was about to defend myself with a deeply unconvincing protest of modesty.”
“I am relieved to have spared us both.”
“Then I am relieved that you at least recognize your own arrogance.”
He grinned. “It is not arrogance if one is correct.”
Before she could respond—before she could even sharpen her tone—Mrs. Bennet’s voice cut across the room. “Oh! The Netherfield ball! Mr. Wickham, you must promise you will attend. Lydia has already made a list of who she intends to dance with, and you are near the top.”
“Second,” Lydia said brightly.
“Second?” said Captain Denny, looking wounded.
“You talk too much,” Lydia said.
“I have never been so insulted,” Denny declared. “Miss Bennet, defend me.”
Elizabeth turned back to Wickham instead. “I had not realized you would be joining us.”
“Would you be terribly disappointed if I did not?”
