Miss Bingley noticed. She always did. “How fortunate we are,” she said sweetly, “to have such quiet evenings now. One does tire of constant visiting. Do you not agree, Charles?”
Bingley blinked. “I—well, I enjoy company. Particularly agreeable company.”
“Ah, yes.” Miss Bingley’s smile sharpened. “Miss Bennet is certainlyagreeable. Sweet-tempered, gentle. No one could deny her beauty.”
Darcy’s fork paused midair.
“But,” Miss Bingley continued smoothly, “one must consider more than prettiness when speaking of lasting attachments.”
Bingley frowned. “Caroline—”
“She is a dear girl,” Miss Bingley pressed on, undeterred. “Truly. Yet even the most exquisite appearance cannot compensate for deficiencies elsewhere. Low connections, for example. Or a disposition that is pleasant, but…indifferent.”
“Indifferent?” Bingley echoed.
“Yes.” Miss Bingley dabbed her lips. “She is always polite, always composed. She never seeks you out. Never betrays preference. I would think a gentleman as attentive as yourself might expectsomeencouragement.”
Darcy felt a tightening in his chest that had nothing to do with the wine. Hearing his own words repeated by Miss Bingley soured his stomach.
I overstepped when I spoke to Bingley,he thought. And he knew it.
Bingley straightened. “Jane is reserved. That is not indifference.”
“Is it not?” Miss Bingley tilted her head. “Who better to know a lady’s mind than another lady, Charles? We are trained to observe such things.”
Trained to manipulate them,Darcy corrected inwardly.
Mrs. Hurst murmured her agreement, her tone lazy but supportive. “I have noticed the same. Miss Bennet is pleasant, but she gives no indication of feeling one way or another.”
Bingley’s color rose. “She enjoys my company. We speak at length.”
“And she speaks at length witheveryone,” Miss Bingley replied gently. “That is my point.”
Darcy set down his cutlery with more force than intended. The table fell momentarily silent.
Miss Bingley turned to him at last, her eyes bright. “Do you not agree, Mr. Darcy? You are so very observant.”
I am tired,he thought.Tired of this petty war waged beneath a veneer of civility.
“I think,” Darcy said, “that Miss Bennet’s manners are consistent with good breeding. Reserve is not a fault.” He spoke without thinking, unsure if he actually agreed or just wished to contradict Miss Bingley.
Miss Bingley laughed lightly. “Spoken like a gentleman unused to subtlety.”
His jaw tightened.
Bingley seized upon Darcy’s support with visible relief. “Exactly! Jane is modest. She would never push herself forward.”
“Modesty is admirable,” Miss Bingley allowed. “But affection must be evident if it is to be trusted.”
Darcy glanced at his friend. Bingley looked torn—hope warring with doubt, confidence undermined by persistent insinuation.
She means to wound him,Darcy realized.Not for his own good—but for her purposes.That knowledge stirred something sharp and unpleasant within him.
He pushed back his chair slightly, seeking distance from the conversation, if not the table itself.
“I believe,” Darcy said coolly, “that a lady’s worth cannot be fully measured by how visibly she advertises her feelings.”
Miss Bingley smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. “You are very gallant.”
