After all, Charlotte Lucas was very plain—some might even say ugly—but being Elizabeth’s best friend made the older girl beautiful in her eyes.
Thinking of her friend caused Elizabeth to raise her head in search of her, but suddenly, her field of vision was blocked by someone.
She looked up… and he was there.
The tall, haughty stranger. Standing directly in front of her.
Mark and Mr. Bingley flanked him like twin pillars, though Bingley looked markedly more nervous.
Mark gave her a slight bow. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he said with too much cheer. “May I present Mr. Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire.” He flicked his eyes to the tall man. “Darcy, my much older sister. Five minutes makes a tremendous difference in wisdom—or so she tells me.”
Mr. Bingley let out a startled chortle. Mr. Darcy, by contrast, stiffened.
Elizabeth lifted her chin and glared up at him, daring him to speak.
“It is a pleasure, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said with a bow.
“Is it?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
The man winced, and his voice was quiet—thought a bit formal—as he said, “I owe you an apology,” he said. “I spoke out of turn, and I regret that you heard my unjust words.”
She raised a single brow. “Do you regret saying it, or simply that I overheard?”
Bingley coughed into his fist.
Mark said mildly, “Now, now, Lizzy. You know that some of us prefer the corners to the dance floor.”
Darcy latched on to the lifeline like a man at sea. “Precisely. I had no intention of dancing this evening. It has been… a trying few weeks. We only just arrived in the neighborhood, and I was not prepared for the crush. I said what I did only to rid myselfof Bingley, who can be like an overexcited spaniel when he is determined to see everyone in the room well paired.”
“Say now,” cried Bingley, “I resent that remark!”
“More like youresembleit.” Darcy’s mouth quirked slightly, the barest hint of humor glinting through his reserve.
Elizabeth studied him more closely now. He was not just the stone-faced figure she had observed for the last hour. He looked tired. Defensive, perhaps—but not insincere.
The three men watched her. Waiting.
She let them wait a moment longer.
Then she said, “Very well. I will forgive the insult. But I will not forgive you for refusing to dance in a room with far too few gentlemen and more ladies than can ever hope to be asked. It gives the entire county the impression that its visitors think themselves above the company.”
Darcy grimaced slightly, then inclined his head. “I concede the point.” He took a breath. “May I have the honor of this next dance, Miss Elizabeth?”
“You have put me in an impossible bind, Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice light but edged. “If I accept, I shall force you into an obligation you clearly do not wish, making the experience onerous for the both of us. If I refuse, however, to spare us the loathsome activity, then I must sit out the remainder of the sets. That would be quite tragic, for I do dearly love to dance.”
His mouth opened. Closed.
“So, do I suffer through two dances of a partner who wishes to be elsewhere,” she mused, “or do I gratify your comfort at the expense of my own enjoyment?”
“I…” Darcy looked at her blankly.
She quirked her lips and gave a small, theatrical sigh. “I propose a compromise, Mr. Darcy. I will grant you a reprieve—this time—if you promise not to take offense when I dance with others after refusing you.”
He let out a slow breath. “Agreed.”
She rose just as the music changed. Another gentleman approached to claim her hand, and she turned to the floor with a dazzling smile, skirts swirling around her ankles as she moved into place and began to skip and clap in time with the music.
Behind her, all three men stood watching, and though Mark and Bingley eventually went in search of partners, Darcy’s eyes never left her form for the remainder of the evening.
