“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He inclined his head, as though her gratitude were unnecessary, and stepped back before the moment could draw notice.
Elizabeth watched him go, unsettled in a manner she could not easily name.
The dance, when it came, was not what Elizabeth had expected.
Mr. Darcy did not attempt brilliance. He did not press conversation where it might not be welcome, nor did he retreat into silence. Instead, he met her where she stood—neither distant nor overly familiar.
“I owe you an apology,” he said at last, as they came together in the set.
Elizabeth’s brows lifted slightly. “Do you?”
“I do. For my conduct in Hertfordshire. I believed myself discerning when I was, in fact, merely proud. It was an error I have had sufficient time to reconsider.”
The admission was so plainly given—without embellishment, without excuse—that she found herself uncertain how to answer.
“You surprise me, sir.”
“I have had cause to be surprised myself.”
There was no self-pity in the statement, only acknowledgment.
Elizabeth studied him more closely. This was not the man she had first met—the one whose reserve had bordered on disdain. There was still restraint in him, certainly, but it no longer felt like judgment.
“London seems to agree with you,” she said lightly.
“I cannot claim the credit. Circumstance has been a more effective tutor than inclination.”
She almost smiled.
As the dance drew them apart once more, Elizabeth realized—with a clarity that unsettled her—that her opinion of Mr. Darcy was no longer fixed.
Elizabeth patiently danced with every gentleman Lady Hertford put forward. Each introduction came with a quiet assessment, each partner with expectations Elizabeth had learned to recognize quickly. Each had said something objectionable—one condescending, another overly familiar, a third too eager to display his political opinions—but she was forced to admit that none of them behaved with anything less than proper behavior. Courtesy, at least, was universal among those Lady Hertford selected, even if compatibility was not.
She partnered with Viscount Winslow for the supper set, and found she enjoyed his conversation very much during the meal. He spoke with intelligence and moderation, neither pressing for admiration nor assuming it, and she relaxed in his company more than she had anticipated. It was almost a relief to converse without calculation, without the sense that every word must be weighed for advantage.
Throughout the entire evening, she was aware of Mr. Darcy lingering nearby. He danced, but she felt his gaze upon her more than once, a steady, unmistakable presence even when she did not look directly at him. Elizabeth could not describe the feeling that arose when she knew he looked upon her. It was thesame intense stare he had utilized in Hertfordshire—searching, assessing, impossible to ignore.
What could he possibly find about me to disapprove of now? She moved in the first circles—could he still believe she was beneath him? The thought stung more than she wished to admit. It was not as though she cared, or so she tried to convince herself. Her awareness of him sharpened her every movement, made her conscious of how she laughed, how she listened, how she stood.
Finally, he came to her side, bowing crisply. The first dance of the set was a moderate pace, making conversation difficult but not impossible. The music carried them forward, steps practiced and familiar, their hands meeting and parting with ritual precision.
“How long has Miss Bennet been with you in London?” he asked.
“Some weeks now. Jane needed a diversion. I was happy to be granted leave to provide it.” She imbued some of her irritation in her tone quite unintentionally and was pleased to see Mr. Darcy’s brow furrow. The reaction felt like a small victory—proof that he was not impervious to her displeasure.
“Has your cousin been unwell?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Nothing time and distance cannot heal. I have great hopes Jane will learn what constant affection is during her stay in town.” Elizabeth looked deliberately at the viscount, who stood on the side of the dance floor glaring at Jane’s current partner. The meaning was unmistakable, and she did not soften it.
Mr. Darcy seemed at a loss for words. For once, he did not immediately recover his composure, and Elizabeth felt an unexpected satisfaction in that silence. She said nothing more as the set continued, relieved that the steps took her away from himfor a time. Distance, even measured in paces, gave her space to breathe.
When they joined hands again, her partner spoke again. “I have never seen my cousin so enamored of a lady. Tell me, what is in the Hertfordshire air that makes its ladies so…desirable.”
His gaze was intense, no longer probing but openly curious, and Elizabeth felt heat pool in her stomach. Her cheeks warmed, and she wondered for the first time if Mr. Darcy’s intense stares were not as disapproving as she thought. The possibility unsettled her far more than certainty would have.
The second dance of the set was fast-paced and left no time for discussion. The music swept them along, demanding breath and attention, and when it ended, Elizabeth was faintly flushed—not merely from exertion. Mr. Darcy returned her to Lady Hertford’s side with careful courtesy.
