Miss Bingley and the Hursts joined them shortly. After what seemed an interminable time, the first carriages could be heard on the drive. Bingley and his family left to form a receiving line, and Darcy went to the ballroom.
The room was already alight with candles, the polished floor reflecting their glow in soft brilliance. Music stands were arranged with precision; flowers adorned the corners, lending the space a faint, pleasant fragrance.
He positioned himself where he could see the entrance of the room but was largely hidden from sight. He did not wish to make small talk with the locals. No, he would keep to himself, only fulfilling his duty to his hostess before claiming a set with the entrancing Miss Elizabeth.
From here, he would see her first. He would note the fall of her gown, the tilt of her head, the spark in her eye before anyone else could intrude. And then—just once—he would allow himself the indulgence he had so resolutely denied.
After tonight, he would leave.
Miss Elizabeth danced the first with a local gentleman—Arthur Long, if he recalled the name correctly. Darcy stood against the wall, glowering as she bestowed her smiles upon someone unworthy. He noted every tilt of her head, every quick flash of amusement, each light laugh offered freely to another man. It was intolerable to watch her ease, her warmth, directedelsewhere—particularly toward one whose chief merit appeared to be proximity.
Darcy danced the second with Miss Bingley and the third with Mrs. Hurst before he finally approached the object of his affections.
Affections? No, Darcy, that is not appropriate. Do not entertain the thought.
The word lodged stubbornly in his mind, regardless. He had not invited it, yet there it was, insistent and undeniable. He came to Miss Elizabeth’s side and bowed curtly, schooling his expression into something approaching neutrality.
“May I have the honor of the next set?”
She agreed without hesitation, her ready acceptance striking him with equal measures of relief and alarm.
Have I raised her expectations?He thought not. No, Darcy had been very careful to avoid such entanglements. He had offered nothing that could be construed as encouragement—no assurances, no declarations, no undue attentions.Her eagerness says otherwise,his heart reasoned.The honorable thing would be to extend an offer.He dismissed the idea entirely, pushing it aside with practiced severity.
Their set began well. He did not speak, content to gaze at her fair features. The candlelight softened her complexion, caught in the delicate curve of her cheek, the intelligent brightness of her eyes. He found himself attuned to the smallest details—the rise and fall of her breath, the graceful certainty of her steps, the faint scent of roses that followed her movements.
After some moments of silence, Elizabeth pressed him for conversation. He fumbled for something—anything—to say but could barely form a coherent thought. His usual command of language deserted him entirely.
“Do you spend the festive season in Town?” she asked him when her other prompts received one-word replies.
“Sometimes. I prefer to be in Derbyshire, though I shall spend the holiday in Kent this year.”
She perked up, interested. “I have heard it is a beautiful county.”
“Yes, it is. I look forward to time with my family.”
“Then you will be a merry party.” There was something about how her eyes sparkled that said she was teasing him. “As it happens, my uncle’s heir resides in Kent, very near to your aunt at Rosings Park.”
He frowned. “How do you know that?”
Elizabeth laughed. “He mentioned it in his last letter to Mr. Bennet. His praises were…effusive.”
Darcy did not know what to think. The coincidence unsettled him, and her tone suggested more than mere happenstance. He had the distinct impression that Elizabeth meant to needle him—to provoke a reaction, or perhaps to measure one.Was she pressing for more information about his family and connections?
Instead of gratifying her curiosity, he changed the subject, his voice carefully controlled. “You mentioned that your mother was a Bennet. I assumed your father was Mr. Bennet’s brother, and that you shared that surname.”And Brisby cannot seem to locate your christening in the local registers.
“I use the name Bennet while I am in Hertfordshire. It is a way to honor my late mother and simplifies things for my relations.”
The movements of the dance separated them, and Darcy struggled to come up with a way to ask her surname politely and without seeming overly curious. The question pressed at him, urgent and ill-timed. Before he could voice it when they joined hands again, she changed the subject.
“You have a sister, Mr. Darcy?”
Surprised, he responded instantly. “Yes. Georgiana is sixteen.”
“And you are close?”
He immediately grew suspicious. Others had attempted to use a connection to his sister to gain his favor, to pry their way into his confidence. The reflex was swift and unkind. “Georgiana is not yet out,” he snapped unthinkingly.
“I merely sought a thread of conversation we might both enjoy. Forgive me.”
