No smirk. No hesitation. No attempt at conversation. Just a swift, silent retreat, leaving her with a flushed face, a misplaced line, and the unpleasant sensation of having somehow been outmaneuvered in a game she had not agreed to play.
She tried not to glare as he crossed the floor. Took the hand of Miss Latimer for the next dance. As if the last thirty seconds had not occurred at all.
Elizabeth stared at her lap.
Then picked up her journal again.
Addendum:
Apparently, I am annoyed.
And I suspect that man practices being insufferable in the mirror.
Miss Latimer's gown was lemon-colored and determined to make a statement. Her laugh had the crisp ring of someone whohad been practicing it since birth. Darcy looked down at her as one might regard an instruction manual written in an unfamiliar dialect.
Well, what did she care, anyway? Surely there was something more interesting to see in the room.
It began with a ripple—subtle at first, like the rustle before a curtain rises. Conversations paused mid-word. A few heads turned. Then a whisper passed from one corner to the next, trailing curiosity in its wake.
Elizabeth looked up from where she sat, half-listening to the music, and followed the attention across the room—just in time to see the figure standing poised at the threshold, perfectly lit by the chandelier above.
Mr. Wickham had arrived.
He was in full uniform, perfectly pressed, with a shine on his boots and a smile already blooming before he had even crossed the threshold. He paused just inside the ballroom, long enough for everyone to notice. Not so long as to appear staged.
It was theatrical in a way Darcy would have despised. Which, Elizabeth suspected, was half the point.
He greeted Mrs. Goulding first, then bowed over Miss Lavinia’s hand in a manner that could have passed for chivalry if one were feeling generous. His eyes passed over the musicians, the refreshments, the dancers—and found her.
Elizabeth did not look away.
He took his time. Another few pleasantries. A compliment to Maria Lucas that made her giggle. Then, at last, he made his way toward Elizabeth with the easy confidence of a man who had never once been denied a warm reception.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, stopping just short of her chair and offering a bow more elegant than necessary. “Am I too late to steal your hand?”
She tilted her head. “Youarelate.”
“But not unrepentant,” he said, smile widening. “I was called away—something tedious and temporary. But I could not miss the evening entirely.”
“Of course not. The punch is exceptional.”
“And the company?”
“Variable.”
He laughed. “You wound me.”
“I doubt that.”
Wickham glanced toward the floor, where Darcy and Miss Latimer had just turned at the end of the line. Elizabeth followed his gaze—just for a moment. Then looked back, all innocence.
He seemed amused. “I see I managed to arrive before the supper set begins. I had feared I missed my chance with the fairest creature in the room.”
“That depends on who the fairest creature in the room is, sir.”
Wickham’s eyebrows rose, just slightly. “Ah. Modesty, Miss Elizabeth? You should not attempt it, for it does not suit your face at all.”
“No?”
