Mr. Bennet allowed himself a small sigh.
It must be nice, he thought, to be young and stupid and in love with the right person. He had never managed to be all three at the same time.
His gaze dropped to his tea. It had long since gone cold.
“Mr. Bennet,” came a honeyed voice beside him.
He turned to find Mrs. Featherstone, the recent widow of a baronet’s younger son, giving him a look that straddled the line between decorous and suggestive. She was in her thirties, fashionably dressed in soft lilac, and entirely too aware of her own appeal.
“You are looking rather pensive this morning,” she said with a practiced tilt of her head. “I do hope the festivities have not fatigued you.”
“Only a little,” he replied, his voice mild. “But that is to be expected. I have always found joy exhausting in large doses.”
She laughed lightly. “Perhaps you simply need better company.”
He inclined his head. “And yet, good company should never overstay its welcome—on either side. You must forgive me, Mrs. Featherstone, if I am a poor conversationalist today.”
Something flickered in her expression—disappointment, perhaps—but she recovered quickly. “Of course, Mr. Bennet. I would not dream of imposing.” She swept off toward the refreshment table with the grace of a woman who had learned how to retreat without appearing rebuffed.
Mr. Bennet resisted the urge to check his pocket watch. It was certainly too early to leave without causing comment… but not so early that he could notthinkabout it.
He stepped away from the crowd and into the small hallway leading to the back of the house. The noise faded just enough for him to savor a moment of quiet.
And then—
A giggle. Muffled. High-pitched. Familiar.
He frowned and followed the sound toward an arched alcove tucked just out of sight behind a curtain.
There, half-obscured in the shadows, were two young figures: Miss Fanny Gardiner and a militia officer whose hand had settled rather possessively around her waist. Her face was turned up toward his with adoration. His expression was one of conquest.
They had not noticed him.
Mr. Bennet stood very still.
He was not shocked, precisely—sixteen-year-old girls and dashing officers were a pairing as old as time—but this wasFanny. His friend’s daughter. A girl he had watched grow up, whose curls he had once gently tugged in jest, who had once fallen asleep on his shoulder during a long sermon.
The officer leaned closer. She giggled again.
Mr. Bennet went to clear his throat, to interrupt their tryst.
But he did not.
Instead, he stepped back, his heel soundless on the carpet.
It was not his place.
She was not his daughter. She was young and foolish and elated by the attention of a handsome man in uniform. It would be a kindness to believe it innocent, a flirtation no more consequential than a dance held too long.
And if it were more than that?
Then it is still not my business.
He returned to the main room with his face composed, and when Miss Gardiner came to offer him a fresh cup of tea—her cheeks flushed and hair slightly mussed—he politely declined.
And later that evening, when the bride and groom departed to cheers and hollers, Mr. Bennet stood beside his friend and said nothing at all.
∞∞∞
