“That would be most welcome,” Mrs. Gardiner replied warmly.
Elizabeth said nothing.
“Until tomorrow, then,” Mr. Darcy said quietly, his gaze still fixed on her face. “Good evening, Miss Elizabeth.”
She could barely make herself meet his eyes. “Good evening, Mr. Darcy.”
And then the carriage was moving, carrying her away from his house, his hospitality, his confusing mix of apparent kindness and hidden depravity.
“Well,” Mrs. Gardiner said as they rolled through the darkening streets, “that was a lovely evening. Mr. Darcy is an excellent host.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Gardiner agreed. “A gentleman of true quality.”
Elizabeth turned her face to the window so they would not see the bitterness in her expression.
Quality. Yes. That was one word for it.
Though she could think of several others that fit far better.
THIRTEEN
Bath, September 1812
Darcy
The carriage carrying the Gardiners and the Bennet sisters had barely disappeared from view when Bingley turned to Darcy with barely restrained enthusiasm.
"Did you see how Miss Bennet looked at me when I mentioned the circulating library? She smiled, Darcy. That particular smile she has when she is pleased about something. I am certain she wishes to go."
"I have no doubt," Darcy replied absently, his eyes still fixed on the empty drive.
They returned to the drawing room, where the servants were already clearing away the evidence of the evening. Bingley poured them each a brandy and settled into a chair with the satisfied air of a man whose romantic prospects were secure.
"I think this evening went remarkably well, don't you? Your cook outdid herself with that fish course. And the wine—perfect choice, my friend."
"I am glad you approved."
Bingley took a sip of his brandy, then set the glass down with a thoughtful expression. "Darcy, is something troubling you? You have seemed rather...preoccupied all evening."
Darcy turned from the window. "Have I?"
"You have. And if I may be so bold, you were watching Miss Elizabeth rather intently during dinner. More so than usual, even."
Darcy moved to take the chair opposite Bingley. For a long moment, he said nothing, simply staring into his glass as though it might contain answers.
"She has changed," he said at last.
"Changed? In what way?"
"I do not know precisely. But she is different than she was even a few days ago." Darcy set his glass aside, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "When we walked together last week, she was—warm and civil. Engaged in our conversation. She asked questions, offered observations. There was an ease between us that I had not expected to find after...after everything."
"And tonight?"
"Tonight she could barely look at me. Every response was clipped, perfunctory. When I handed her into the carriage, she pulled away as though my touch burned her." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration he rarely allowed himself. "It was as though all the progress we had made these past weeks had been undone in an instant."
Bingley frowned. "That is strange. I noticed she was quieter than usual, but I assumed she was simply tired. Miss Bennet mentioned her sister has not been sleeping well."
"Perhaps." Darcy did not sound convinced. "But it felt like more than fatigue. It felt like...anger. Or disgust. I cannot be certain which."
