“I shall rush to inspect their ankles.”
“You are not fooling anyone.”
“On the contrary—I believe I am fooling nearly everyone. Except you, of course. You were always annoyingly perceptive.”
Charlotte smiled. “It is one of the few qualities no one has ever tried to marry me for.”
Elizabeth snorted. “Their loss, I assure you.”
Charlotte shook her head and drifted back to where her younger sisters were retying hair ribbons and whispering about the musicians. Elizabeth remained seated, her journal now tucked beside her, but her pencil still in hand, twirling between her fingers with practiced disinterest.
Across the room, Miss Lavinia Goulding was swept through a long-wise turn with so much flourished enthusiasm that she lost her footing mid-turn and had to cling to her partner like a cat to a curtain. Two young men near the hearth were discussing cavalry commissions in voices better suited to battlefield orders than polite society. Somewhere near the card room, her mother’s laughter rose above the crowd—triumphant, prolonged, and just a hair too loud to be comforting.
Elizabeth was perfectly content. Entirely. Unshakably.
She reached for her journal again.
Pink gown attempted a twirl and nearly took out a footman. Recovery unclear.
Green gown has been adjusting her gloves for twenty minutes. They are either enchanted or too tight.
4 is whispering scandal to 5. 5 is repeating it at full volume.
A certain saint is still nodding politely to a man who believes pheasant hunting is a conversation topic.
A matron related to me just asked someone’s cousin about his income. I have lost track of which cousin.
Orange gown is smiling as if it hurts. It may. I shall inquire as soon as I find my shoe, for it seems to have slipped off my foot. I cannot decide if I am more annoyed or relieved.
She had just begun debating whether one could fake a twisted ankle to justify leaving early, when a flicker of movement caught her eye.
Another gentleman—Mr. Howarth, cheerful and recently sunburned from an overlong hunting excursion—was cutting across the room toward her with the clear, inevitable gait of a man about to request a dance. He had spent part of the evening engaged in a heated discussion about partridge with Sir William Lucas, and part of it staring hopefully at whichever young lady happened to be seated nearest the musicians.
Elizabeth sat up a little straighter. Smoothed her skirt. Prepared the clever little line she had rehearsed for the occasion—something lightly charming, not overly eager, just enough wit to suggest that she was entirely unbothered by having been ignored for most of the night.
And then—
“Miss Elizabeth.”
The voice did not belong to Mr. Howarth.
It was lower. Less amiable. And unmistakable.
She turned, and there he was.
Mr. Darcy stood at her side, his coat immaculate, his face composed to the precise degree of formality that suggested he might be thinking—or feeling—absolutely anything.
“May I have the honor of the supper set?”
Her mouth opened. Thesupper set?The words tumbled out too quickly, too brightly.
“I would be delighted.”
She froze. That had not been for him. That had been meant for Mr. Howarth—cheerful, sunburnt, safely unimportant Mr. Howarth.
It was too eager. Too prepared. Too obviously rehearsed.
Darcy inclined his head in acknowledgment—clipped, polite, maddening—and walked away without another word.
