Page 167 of A Question of Character

Wickham said nothing.

Lydia’s fingers twisted together.

Darcy’s pride rose first. Elizabeth saw it, that old severity gathering at the corners of his mouth. Then he looked back at her, and something in him checked.

“I do not know that any good will come of it.”

“Nor do I. But harm has already come of silence.”

He looked toward the bill in Mr. Bennet’s hand. “May I read it?”

Mr. Bennet passed it to him.

Darcy read. His expression betrayed little, but Elizabeth had come to know the small signs of his disturbance: the tightening at his brow, the stillness of his shoulders, the way his thumb pressed once against the paper before he folded it again.

“At the least,” Elizabeth said, “you must admit this deserves inquiry.”

“Yes.”

The answer came reluctantly.

She felt her whole body loosen around a breath she had not known she held.

Darcy looked at Wickham. “I will consider a conversation.”

Lydia made a small sound, quickly swallowed.

Elizabeth stared at him. “You will?”

“I said I would consider it.”

“That is more than I hoped for.”

His eyes sought hers, and for one moment the crowded room might have been empty. There was humility in his face, though grudging and unhappy. It touched her more deeply than a graceful concession would have done.

Before sense could restrain her, Elizabeth rose upon her toes and kissed his cheek.

The room froze.

Darcy froze with it.

Heat rushed into Elizabeth’s face so violently she thought she might expire from it on the spot.

“Oh,” Lydia whispered.

Kitty choked.

Mrs. Bennet made a sound halfway between a gasp and a blessing.

Mr. Bennet said, with intolerable calm, “Well.”

Elizabeth stepped back. “I beg your pardon. That was—”

Darcy’s hand lifted as if he meant to touch his cheek, then stopped halfway and lowered again. His color had risen, but his eyes were very warm.

“Do not,” he said.

“Do not what?”