He crossed one foot over the other and kept staring at the fire.
“I suppose there is always Miss Gray,” she continued airily. “Quite pretty. Excellent dowry. And you would not believe her embroidery. So delicate. So… quiet.”
“I find silence overrated in company.”
“Do you?” Miss Bingley asked, with more interest than the remark deserved. “How curious. I was under the impression you preferred women who knew when to remain still.”
Darcy looked up from the fire. “You are under several impressions.”
Her smile wavered before reasserting itself. “Indeed. One can hardly be blamed. Your preferences are so rarely stated aloud.”
“Because they are not up for discussion.”
Miss Bingley tilted her head. “So mysterious. No wonder the local girls are all aflutter.”
He raised a single brow and turned his gaze back to the fire.
“It must be flattering. The attention. “Even Miss Eliza Bennet seems rather determinednotto look your way, but she is forever standing somewhere you cannot help but see her.”
Darcy did not reply.
But the image arrived anyway—clear, unbidden. Elizabeth by the garden wall at Lucas Lodge, head tilted, lashes low, a crooked smile curving like she knew exactly how visible she had made herself. He had looked away first.
Heat prickled behind his collar. He shifted his stance—too quickly, too sharply—like the memory had caught some nerve he could not name.
He blinked, slow and hard, and stared at the fire.
“She has her charms,” Miss Bingley allowed. “Though I suspect they are more appealing in moderation.”
“You would know best, I am sure.”
The jab hit; there was a faint intake of breath.
“Still,” she continued, too brightly, “it must be difficult—so many prospective matches at once. You have known MissBennet for years, have you not? Since before… well. Since beforeothersbegan to notice her.”
He did not answer.
“Affection is such a tricky thing to manage,” she added, “especially when it has been long-established. A gentleman might confuse it for something more serious. Something foolish.”
Darcy rose.
The chair made no sound, but the motion cut clean.
“If you will excuse me,” he said, voice low but final, “I have letters to write. And no interest in discussing Miss Bennet’s charms. Moderate or otherwise.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Bennet household hadentered what Mrs. Bennet called “preparation day” and what Elizabeth privately considered “battle readiness with embroidery.”
Lydia had claimed the full-length mirror in the front hall and refused to relinquish it. Kitty was testing different arrangements of her fringe with the solemnity of a coronation. Mary had set up a music stand in the parlor and begun practicing quadrille harmonies on the pianoforte with missionary determination.
Mrs. Bennet presided over it all like a general in ribbons, surrounded by swatches, pins, and anxious sighs. “Jane, darling, do stand still. That shade of blue may look heavenly in candlelight, but we must be sure. Hill! Bring the candle! No, not that one. The wax drips.”
Jane, who had not moved, looked mildly amused. “It is the same dress I wore last month, Mama.”
“Yes, and I thought it too pale then, but no one listens to me,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Besides, you did not dance then, not properly. This time is different.”
“Because this time Mr. Bingley is hosting,” Kitty said knowingly.
