“Stubbornness?”
“Lack of imagination.”
Elizabeth tapped the edge of her plate. “Surely that cannot be the whole of it.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “The dowager thought it would be… strategic. Bingley’s natural ability to forge social connections, combined with Hertfordshire’s proximity to London…”
“Ah. That does sound like her.”
“And I had no better ideas.”
She raised her brows. “That may be the most honest thing you have said all evening.”
“It is early yet.”
Elizabeth arched a brow. “So it was by command?”
“By suggestion,” he corrected. “With the usual force.”
That earned the barest curve of her lips. She skewered a bit of carrot and considered the angle of Miss Bingley’s disapproval.
“And now that you are here,” she asked lightly, “do you find it… instructive?”
“Instructive,” he repeated.
“Certainly. I imagine it is useful to test your tolerances.”
“My tolerances?”
“For volume. Impropriety. Turnips. That sort of thing.”
Darcy looked down at his plate. “All… character-building.”
She laughed, soft and low.
The room buzzed around them. Glass clinked, someone laughed too loudly, and the smell of overcooked trout wafted from a distant platter. Elizabeth leaned slightly toward him—not so far as to suggest intimacy, but enough to be heard without effort.
“You should go to London. December approaches,” she said. “Soon you will be out of time.”
He did not look at her.
“I know,” he said quietly.
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you?”
He turned then, just slightly, to face her. His expression was composed—but not neutral. There was something behind it she could not quite name.
Before she could press the point, Lydia burst into laughter over something Captain Carter had said at the card table, loud enough to draw a glance from several guests. Mr. Bennet, without lifting his gaze from his plate, remarked dryly, “Lydia, if you must assess the militia’s anatomy, do wait until pudding. It is better received with custard.”
Darcy went red.
Elizabeth pressed her napkin to her mouth.
“Well,” she said softly, “so much for that.”
They fell quiet for a moment. Darcy returned his attention to his plate. Elizabeth traced the rim of her glass with one fingertip.
Then she spotted something across the table—Wickham, speaking to Mrs. Goulding, gesturing with easy charm.
