The supper set was traditionally slower—designed for cooling limbs and warming conversation. When the time approached, he had fully intended to select one of his many failed prospects: Miss Lattimer, Miss Goulding, even Miss Eugenie, with her disconcerting laugh and over-watered eyelashes. But as his last set was ending, and the music queued, he had found himself moving—almost against reason—toward the only woman in the room who made silence impossible.
At least Elizabeth would not giggle. And she would not try to impress him with compliments about her embroidery. And she would not—he was reasonably confident—attempt to corner him into a marriage proposal before the first course of supper.
She took his hand with only the faintest lift of her brows.
He had danced with other women tonight. He had nodded, spoken, even smiled. But none of them had looked at him like this—like she was already halfway through annotating his expression. And blast it, he almost liked that she could.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said with a gravity that could not be trusted, “how glad I am to be the chosen recipient of your mostelusiveattention.”
“The pleasure is mine,” he replied, and nearly believed it.
They turned, hands parted and bodies realigned with the dancers around them. The room was warm, voices rising in the chatter of spent energy. When she came back to his side, her tone had already shifted.
“So,” she said lightly, “how have your hunting excursions fared of late?”
His eyes narrowed. “Uneventful.”
“No game?”
“Nothing worth calling a prize, no.”
“Such a pity! I hear they abound in these parts. The woods near Meryton are positively brimming with eligible fowl. One wonders how you have failed to bring anything home.”
Their fingers touched again—briefly—and they turned.
“I choose my targets carefully,” he said.
“Ah,” she murmured. “Perhaps that is the trouble. Pheasants tend to flee when the hunter looms quite so sternly.”
“I had not realized my countenance was the issue.”
“Oh, it is not the only issue.”
They met again. A turn. A pause. Elizabeth’s lips curved—barely—and she nodded toward the side of the room.
“I believe Miss Latimer is still available for the last set of the evening,” she said. “Or was, five minutes ago. Perhaps if you move quickly—”
“She has poor footing,” he said.
“Miss Brereton?”
“Unsteady hands.”
“Miss Goulding?”
“She tried to discuss her aunt’s rheumatism.”
“Scandalous,” she whispered.
He turned her again. Her hand slid against his palm—firm, assured—and for one irrational second, he thought she wore no gloves at all. Of course she did. His mind was simply misbehaving. The music swelled behind them.
“You give up too easily, Mr. Darcy,” she said as they crossed paths again. “A hunter who brings home no dinner does not eat.”
“I do not recall inviting Miss Elizabeth Bennet to assess my hunting habits.”
“You did not. But I have taken the liberty.”
“I see.”
