Toby nodded. “As she should.”
Darcy met his gaze. “Can you blame her?”
Thomas shook his head. “No.”
A brief silence followed.
At last, Toby stepped back. “We must go.”
“Before we are missed,” Thomas added.
They turned, then paused.
“We shall know if you do not apologize,” Toby said.
Darcy raised a brow. “How?”
Thomas’s expression held a trace of satisfaction. “We always know.”
With that, they ran.
Darcy watched them go, their figures diminishing as they descended on the far side of the rise.
He remained where he was for a time, then he rose. Their boldness, their certainty—it was unlike anything he had encountered before. Still, he found he did not resent it.
He mounted his horse.
Turning back toward Netherfield, his thoughts had shifted. There remained something to be done. This time, he did not intend to fail.
The gathering at Lucas Lodge offered Darcy precisely what he required. It provided a chance to apologize to Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
From the moment the Netherfield party entered Sir William’s drawing room, Darcy perceived that the evening would present a challenge. The rooms were not so crowded as the assembly had been, though there was sufficient company to make private conversation difficult.
Sir William received them with every evidence of satisfaction, Lady Lucas with warmth, and Miss Lucas with composed civility. Bingley, as expected, entered into the spirit of the occasion without delay.
Darcy’s attention, however, went elsewhere.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet stood near the pianoforte, speaking with Miss Lucas and another lady whose name he did not recall. Miss Elizabeth wore a gown of pale green, trimmed simply, and the color suited her exceedingly well. Her hair had been arranged with less art than Miss Bingley’s and better effect, the curls about her face softening the lively intelligence of her expression.
Tolerable.
The word returned to him with renewed discomfort.
No. The description had been altogether unjust.
Lovely.
Indeed, she was more than lovely.
She laughed at something Miss Lucas said—not loudly, and never in a manner intended to attract the room’s attention—several people turned toward her with answering smiles. Warmth animated her countenance, intelligence shone in her eyes, and her manner drew others with effortless ease.
Darcy had misjudged more than her beauty. He had called into question the soundness of his own discernment.
“Darcy,” Bingley said at his side, “you look as solemn as a judge. Come, you must enjoy yourself a little.”
“I am perfectly well,” Darcy replied.
In body, at least.
