Charles Bingley bowed in greeting, his ginger hair catching the candlelight. “Miss Bennet,” he said. “Miss Elizabeth, and Mr. Darcy.”
He took his seat, beaming so radiantly at Jane that Elizabeth half-expected the wax candles to dim by comparison. Jane’s flush deepened by a single, delicate shade, as all attention, other than Bingley’s, turned toward the performers.
Mary sat at the Broadwood, her twilight-lavender gown transforming her from the overlooked third daughter into someone who belonged. Beside her, Georgiana’s hands trembled, but Mary’s were steady as she placed them on the keys.
“Your sister looks well,” Elizabeth said.
“And yours appears to be thoroughly conquering the grand pianoforte.”
“Mary has been steeling herself since arriving in London,” Elizabeth said, catching her sister’s eye across the sea of silk and giving her a firm, encouraging nod. “Her courage exceeds her abilities and her desire to be noticed.”
Darcy nodded, but made no comment on his own sister’s meekness.
Theallegrobegan, and the room fell into an expectant hush. It was a delicate, dangerous conversation between two girls who had discovered a shared language. Mary’s left hand carried the bass line with the weight of steady rock, while Georgiana’s right danced above it like sea spray.
It was magnificent. Elizabeth was swept up in the music, wishing—just for a moment—that her parents could see Mary now, triumphant and unassailable.
And then, a sour note chimed, loud and resonant. Mary’s fingers stumbled in the middle of a rapid, descending passage.
Elizabeth’s breath caught, glancing at Darcy, expecting to see a stern frown at the public mistake.
But his face was intent, as if holding his breath as Mary flexed her fingers and recovered the counterpoint. Georgiana, meanwhile, had skillfully provided the cover by ornamenting the melody, but Darcy’s relief was clearly for Mary, as a small, private smile touched his lips—a nod of respect—when Mary boldly resumed the bass line.
When the final chord resonated and died, Darcy did not offer the polite, gloved pat of a Mayfair gentleman. He rose slightly from his seat, his applause loud, fierce, and entirely unconcerned with drawing-room decorum. A brilliant, unguarded smile beamed across his face.
The young ladies stood, curtsying as they accepted their accolades. But when Mary looked up and realized that the formidable Mr. Darcy was applauding her with the raw, unmasked pride of an elder brother, her glow brightened until she looked positively beautiful.
Elizabeth turned to Darcy, only to find him already looking at her. For one suspended heartbeat, the crowded salon, the whispering matrons, and the pianoforte vanished entirely. There was only a shared glance—a silent, breathless recognition that there was no longer any distinction between his sister and hers.
Jane touched Elizabeth’s arm in acknowledgment, and the moment passed. They sat through the rest of the performances, with Mary and Georgiana joining them in the chairs beside them.
The applause was still ringing as the musicale broke for refreshments. Mary and Georgiana were immediately together, chattering about the music they might choose next, and of course, Bingley gallantly escorted Jane to the lemonade table.
Elizabeth rose to follow her sisters, but the path to the refreshments was instantly blocked by a severe-looking matron bristling with diamonds and a terrifying air of dynastic authority. Beside her stood a young man in the exaggerated silks of the London fashion, his hooded, heavy eyes tracking Jane’s retreating figure with predatory interest.
Elizabeth’s fists clenched. She recognized that look from the militia officers in Meryton—hungry, predatory—but had not expected to find it so shamelessly displayed by a man in silk stockings. Then again, bad character was not confined to muddy boots.
The imposing matron’s gaze snapped from Jane to Elizabeth before landing on Mr. Darcy, her fan snapping shut with a sound like a pistol shot.
“Nephew,” the lady commanded. “You are remarkably light on your duties this evening. Pray present your cousin to Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Darcy’s shoulder blades tightened beneath his blue coat, and his expression hardened into formality, nodding to the matron whom he addressed as “Lady Matlock.”
Turning to Elizabeth, he said, “Miss Bennet, may I present my aunt, Lady Matlock, and my cousin, Lord Coke?”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. These were Darcy’s relations? Behaving like barkeeps at an inn? She managed a graceful curtsy, determined not to let her surprise show.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” Lady Matlock’s voice was a summons. “What an accomplished sister you have. Such feeling! Such delicacy! Augustus, did you not find Miss Mary’s performance exceptional?”
“Exceptional,” Coke agreed. He smelled of spirits and expensive tobacco. Instead of looking at her eyes or over her shoulder, his hungry gaze was fixed in the vicinity of her bosom.
“And Miss Darcy, of course, was lovely,” Lady Matlock added, a sharp nod to Darcy that acknowledged his presence without slowing her pace. “But your sister, Miss Bennet—who instructs her? She must have the finest master in London.”
“Mary instructs herself, Lady Matlock. She always has, although we are in the process of engaging a master.”
“Self-taught! Augustus, dear, is that not extraordinary?”
“Extraordinary,” Coke echoed, his eyes now making a sweep of Elizabeth’s waist down to her slippers.
