The dance continued, and then he said, “The musicians are better than I expected.”
Elizabeth’s lips twitched. “Indeed? Were you expecting them to play using combs as instruments, with sheet music made from butcher paper?”
He looked at her sidelong. “You are fond of sarcasm?”
“Only when it is warranted.”
“I hope it will not be so tonight.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That depends, Mr. Darcy, on whether you continue to be astonishing, or astonishingly rude.”
He blinked.
Then—very faintly—he smiled.
They circled again, partners switching, and Elizabeth found herself beside Mr. Lucas for a moment, who offered a wink of surprise. Behind him, several of Meryton’s ladies were openly whispering behind their fans, and Mrs. Long was half-turned in her seat, gawking. Miss Bingley, seated between the Hursts, looked as if she had swallowed a lemon.
They were the center of attention.
Of course they were. A gentleman of ten thousand pounds dancing with the second daughter of a country squire. Mr. Darcy of Derbyshire, who had thus far shown himself to be proud, disinterested, and immovable, had not danced once all evening—until now.
Elizabeth turned her attention back to him.
“If I may ask, Mr. Darcy,” she said lightly, “is it charity or curiosity that brought you to the dance floor?”
“I might ask the same of you.”
“Oh, I enjoy dancing, and I would have been quite disappointed to have to forgo the remainder of the evening.”
He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “I do not often dance. But my reasons tonight were neither charitable nor idle.”
“No? Then I am intrigued.”
His mouth curved just slightly. “You need not be. Intrigue is best reserved for mysteries.”
“And you are no mystery, I suppose? A wealthy man who comes to a dance but does not dance, who attends a social but is not sociable, and who looks down on his company in more ways than one?”
“I did not—”
The steps separated them briefly. Elizabeth turned and rejoined hands, her palm brushing his gloved one.
She felt it—that brief contact, warm through linen and kid leather—and was startled by the clarity of her own reaction.
Not flustered. Not quite.
But aware. Sharply aware.
“—intend to cause offense. I simply do not possess the talent my friend does, in conversing easily with those I have never before seen.”
“Ah, but therein lies the rub,” Elizabeth replied. “I do not play the pianoforte as well as I would like, but I have always supposed that to be my own fault because I do not take the trouble of practicing more.”
“I… I see your point.”
As they crossed again, she looked at him closely. He was handsome, certainly. Far too well-formed to be ignored, and his coat fit his frame so precisely it could only have been commissioned from a London tailor. But there was more than elegance in his face now—there was tension.
He was watching her, too.
As was the rest of the room.
