“On the contrary,” he returned, “you have said a great deal that is worth attending to.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved, though her gaze remained forward. “You are very determined to improve my opinion of you, sir.”
“I had not thought it required improvement.”
She glanced at him then, properly this time, and there was something in her look that held—longer than politeness required.
“No,” she said softly. “Perhaps not.”
Jane Bennet had never disliked a picnic before, though she quickly discovered that she disliked this one very much.
From the moment the first spade struck the earth, she had sensed the tension beneath the laughter—the strain of expectation pressing against every smile.
She had tried, as she always did, to soothe, to listen, and to offer gentle conversation whenever excitement threatened to overtake civility.
It had not been enough.
She watched Bingley carefully as the afternoon unfolded.
His cheerfulness possessed a brittle edge, and his laughter rang a little too loudly.
Each small discovery brought a spark to his eyes that faded almost as quickly as it appeared.
By the time the final guests lingered over the remains of luncheon, his disappointment had become impossible to miss.
Worse still, his attention—once so constant in its focus upon her—no longer rested there.
Instead, it moved with restless calculation, following every report, every rumor, and every suggestion of where the next discovery might lie.
Jane felt the change keenly.
She had been speaking with Colonel Fitzwilliam near the trees when Mr. Bingley approached, his expression darkened.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, his tone sharp. He reached for her hand as he spoke, not waiting for her leave, his grasp tightening just enough to be noticed before he released her again with a laugh that did not quite ring true.
“Yes,” Jane replied honestly, though cautiously, for her conversation was enjoyable. “It has been…interesting.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam excused himself with tact, leaving them alone. She felt the loss almost immediately.
Bingley did not look after him kindly. “You appear very much at ease with him,” he said.
Jane stiffened. “Colonel Fitzwilliam has been most agreeable.”
“So I have observed.” His mouth tightened. “Perhaps you prefer a man who speaks of battles rather than compliments?”
Jane met his gaze steadily. “I prefer a gentleman who speaks with respect.”
The words hung between them.
Bingley flushed. “I meant no offense.”
“Intent does not erase effect,” Jane said gently, though her heart pounded. “You spoke ill of him—it was unkind.”
Bingley looked away. “You have changed.”
Jane’s chest tightened. “No. I have not.”
Silence stretched.
