“I should hope so, if I can earn my way back into society’s good graces.”
As he walked away with his aunt, he heard Lady Sefton say to her husband, “It is no wonder the boy never smiles. I am nearly undone!” Her declaration amused him greatly—he had no idea his smile was so disarming.
“Private balls are far more enjoyable than public ones, do you not agree, Darcy?” Lady Matlock snapped her fan open and began waving it in front of her face. “Ah, there is Bramley.”
Darcy followed her gaze across the room. Bramley stood with Miss Bennet. Elizabeth and Lady Hertford were with them. His heart leaped. For a moment, he forgot everything else—theeffort, the frustration, the weeks of uncertainty. She was here. And with her, the possibility of answers.
Perhaps he could secure a dance and beg for a moment of her time.
“Lady Matlock, it is a pleasure to see you. Your son has been very attentive to our needs.” Lady Hertford smiled pleasantly at Darcy’s aunt. Her gaze, speculative and discerning, lingered on Darcy for a moment. He wondered what Elizabeth had told her about him.
“I should hope so. I raised Bramley to be a gentleman. If he has been anything less, then I shall know how to act.” The ladies chuckled, and even the viscount joined in.
Darcy returned greetings from the young ladies, his attention divided between courtesy and anticipation, and then turned to Elizabeth.
“Miss de Bourgh, do you have any sets free?” Darcy and his party were not the first to arrive, but surely she had dances left unclaimed.
“One, Mr. Darcy. My sixth is yet unclaimed.” She kept a neutral expression, which Darcy supposed was to hide her feelings from her chaperone. Lady Hertford watched their interactions closely, making Darcy exceedingly uneasy.
Darcy graciously asked if he might claim her sixth, despite feeling rather annoyed that he must wait until after supper to claim her hand.
Still, the promise of that dance—brief though it would be—was enough to steady him. At last, he would have the chance to speak to Elizabeth, to look her in the eye and discover whether the distance between them was born of caution…or of something far more difficult to repair.
Elizabeth had not expected the interval between dances to feel so…crowded.
No sooner had Mr. Darcy withdrawn than another gentleman approached—one she vaguely recalled being introduced to earlier in the evening. His manner was eager to the point of intrusion, his smile too fixed, his compliments too readily offered.
“Miss de Bourgh, I wonder that dances are not entirely claimed. Might I prevail upon you for the next—”
“I am engaged,” she replied, with polite firmness.
“For all the sets?” he pressed, stepping closer than was strictly proper. “Surely one might be persuaded—”
Elizabeth’s composure held, but only just. Lady Hertford was momentarily engaged with Lady Matlock, and Jane had been claimed for the next dance. She found herself, for the first time that evening, without immediate protection.
“That will not be necessary.”
Darcy’s voice, quiet but unmistakable, cut cleanly through the exchange.
He had returned without her noticing. There was no display in his manner, no overt challenge—only a calm certainty that admitted no argument.
“The lady has already informed you she has no free sets,” he continued, his gaze steady upon the gentleman. “You mistake persistence for gallantry.”
The rebuke was mild in tone, but not in effect.
The gentleman flushed, bowed stiffly, and withdrew with a muttered apology.
Darcy turned then, not to claim credit, but simply to ask, “Are you well?”
Elizabeth met his gaze, momentarily disarmed.
“I am, sir. Though I begin to understand that London requires more vigilance than I had anticipated.”
His expression softened—just perceptibly.
“Not vigilance,” he said. “Only the expectation that you will be treated with the respect you are due.”
Something in the way he said it—without presumption, without condescension—struck her more forcibly than the words themselves.
