He did not care for the effect.
He especially did not care that he had noticed.
She did not look his way. Of course not. That would have meantsomething. And Elizabeth Bennet was far too clever to give anything away she did not wish him to see. Which only made him want to see more.
Her attention was fixed on the far side of the ballroom, her expression still thoughtful—still faintly entertained—as her gaze moved past the musicians, the doors, the faces.
Not searching. Not expectant.
Just… waiting.
And that made it worse. If she were scanning the room for Wickham, at least then her loyalties would be visible, predictable. Instead, she looked content to let the evening come to her—as if she already knew its outcome and was only indulging its delays.
Where was Wickham?
The question had not left his mind for days. The night seemed perfectly arranged to test his composure: Wickham should have appeared by now, all flashing teeth and polished lies, just in time to steal Elizabeth’s attention before Darcy could finish convincing himself he did not care.
But he had not appeared. Denny had mentioned “militia business.” Darcy was inclined to believe nothing that passed through that particular channel.
Darcy had braced for it. Wickham's arrival should have been the match. The explosion. Instead—nothing. And that silence was its own kind of threat. Because Wickham never vanished. He waited. He chose his moments. He studied the board.
And Elizabeth had always been too generous with her trust.
Perhaps Wickham had thought better of coming, employing discretion for once in his life. Perhaps he had slipped away, knowing what would come if Darcy finally snapped.
Perhaps he had finally run out of luck.
And yet, half the women in the room were already whispering about his absence. “So handsome,” one said behind her fan. “So gallant,” said another. “I do hope he is well.”
Darcy resisted the urge to find something glass and hurl it into the fireplace.
Caroline Bingley appeared beside him with the timing and accuracy of a trained hawk. Her gown was flame-colored—did she own another shade?—and she was already speaking before he looked at her.
“You must dance the first with me, of course,” Miss Bingley said, appearing at his elbow with an effortless smile. “As hostess, I cannot lead the set alone. And Charles is already besotted—he has promised his to Miss Bennet.”
Darcy only nodded.
She waited half a breath, then added lightly, “Unless you mean to offend half the room by refusing? I should hate to see such a promising evening begin in scandal.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. She met it with impeccable serenity.
And that was that.
She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. Her perfume coiled too close. Her grip feathered against his sleeve with all the delicacy of possession. And Darcy, mute like always, stood beside her like a statue—one carved out of spite and dressed for dinner.
“Do try to enjoy yourself,” she said sweetly as the music began. “And remember—if the young ladies grow tiresome, you may always rely on me for conversation that does not require translation.”
Darcy looked across the room as he was verily dragged away.
Elizabeth was laughing at something her sister had whispered, her posture relaxed, her eyes lit with the kind of ease that did not belong in a room like this. She had not looked at him once.
He stepped onto the floor with Miss Bingley on his arm, every line of his posture perfect, every word unspoken.
And all he could think was that he was dancing with the wrong woman.
Chapter Fourteen
Elizabeth had never foundcandlelight so irritating.
