“Very well,” he said. “The applicants.”
“There are nine. I have listed them by order of application.”
She handed him the list.
“Lord Coke. A cotillion.”
“Permitted. He is family adjacent, his character is established, and his mother will be watching.”
“Mr. Langley. A country dance.”
“Recommended. I told you as much in our first session. His principles are sound, although he has the romantic ambition of a footstool.”
“Sir Geoffrey Hale. The quadrille. Although he will have to be replaced.”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“What about Captain Morris?”
“Who is Captain Morris?”
“He applied through Lady Harewood yesterday. A friend of her nephew’s. He dances well, according to Allegra.”
“I will make inquiries.”
“Or perhaps one of the weeping Arthurs?” She raised an eyebrow. “Although I should not like my gloves to be sprinkled.”
“Then we leave the Arthurs to shed tears in their cups.”
They worked through the list with a rhythm that recalled the first suitor review—his assessments, her responses, the banterthat was neither purely professional nor personal but charged and surprisingly agreeable.
“And the supper set,” Elizabeth said, finally reaching the prized set of the evening, the most public pairing.
The gentleman who danced it escorted the lady to supper, sat beside her, served her plate, and made a statement to the entire assembly that required no words.
“Lord Coke has applied for it,” Elizabeth said. “Through your esteemed aunt, Lady Matlock. She, no doubt, believes you cannot be impartial to his application.”
“Notwithstanding my aunt’s wishes, Lord Coke cannot have the supper dance.”
“On what grounds? You approved his cotillion.”
“A cotillion and the supper dance are not equivalent. The supper dance carries an implication of particular attachment, and Lord Coke’s attachment, however Lady Matlock may wish to characterize it, is not established.”
“Then who shall have it? The list is shrinking, Mr. Darcy. You have eliminated the weeping Arthurs, deferred Captain Morris, and now removed Lord Coke from the most significant dance of the evening. At this rate, I shall be dancing the supper waltz with the butler.”
“As Lady Sophia’s proxy,” he said, and his voice was steady because steadiness was the only thing he could control, “I must retain the supper dance until all applicants have been properly assessed. The safest course is for me to hold it as a temporary arrangement.”
“Mr. Darcy.” Her voice was even and clear, edged with danger. “Do you wish to dance the supper dance with me, or do you wish to prevent anyone else from doing so?”
The room was very quiet. Through the wall, he could hear Georgiana and Mary beginning a scale. Nettle was asleep on the rug between them, her torn ear twitching. The morninglight from the garden window fell across Elizabeth’s face, her ink-stained fingers, and the curl at her neck, and the question hung in the air like a note struck on a piano, resonant and unanswerable.
“I wish to ensure,” he said, “that whoever dances the supper dance with you is worthy of the privilege.”
“And you have not identified such a man.”
“I have not.”
“Including yourself?”
