Page 75 of Sweet on Mr Darcy

“I would not dare.” Mr Bennet was impressed.

The third unfortunate matron, who was apparently determined to ignore the reality of her predicament, actually approached Lady Barry. Mrs Alveston had been introduced at the assembly the week before by the Master of Ceremonies, but had ignored Lady Nibsby’s warning about Sir Rupert.

Charlotte nearly stopped breathing in anticipation of Lady Barry’s response. The woman might say anything.

The lady dropped a curtsey. “Lady Barry, how delightful to see you.”

Lady Barry glared at her. “Is it, Mrs Alveston? Is it indeed?”

“Why…yes, of course.” The woman faltered.

“Hmmm…perhaps you should leave my presence and go and seek connections and a husband for your daughter in that disgusting swine that you were warned about.” Lady Barry was merciless. “You will not find her one here. But that hardly matters. It seems you will feed her to any villain for a connection to a title.”

With perfect ease, Lady Barry turned away to speak to Charlotte. Mrs Alveston was left standing in mortification, and under the judgment of all who had heard. Charlotte covered her mouth, wishing to feel sympathy for the lady, but finding none in her heart for such a mother.

As the night drew on, the families in question gathered together, for no one else spoke to them. They were only there because their invitations to the ball were already accepted when their welcome of Sir Rupert became known, and Lady Barry wished to make an example of them. They might not be reviled in society everywhere when they departed Ramsgate, but they were certainly rendered pariahs in the seaside resort now.

Mr and Mrs Bennet enjoyed themselves thoroughly among their Ramsgate acquaintances. Mr Bennet had acquired three rather interesting gentlemen with whom to discuss books, estate matters, and the failings of the prime minister. Charlotte, nearly recovered to her former strength and health after her stay in Ramsgate, was befriended by several matrons who discussed their offspring at length.

Viscount Fitzwilliam had arranged matters such that he was nearly always beside Jane. His attentions were neither excessive nor dramatic, though Jane found herself in an eternal state of blushing from his increasingly deliberate courtesies.

Mary was dancing dutifully with whichever gentlemen presented themselves. She had accepted by now that the gentlemen she had met in Ramsgate were not, in fact, serious candidates for matrimony, in her opinion. Freed from expectation, she was pleasant and willing to be amused, but no more.

Colonel Fitzwilliam sensed this and settled into a cheerful friendship with her. He joined her after she danced with Mr Campden.

“I see you are surviving the evening, Miss Mary,” he said pleasantly.

Mary accepted the glass of lemonade he offered. “It is a pleasant night, do you not agree, Colonel Fitzwilliam?”

“Was Campden a pleasant partner?” he inquired.

“He discussed horses for twenty minutes,” Mary replied with an utterly straight face.

The Colonel winced. “Unforgivable. One should never introduce horseflesh into conversation in a dance, unless one is accompanied by one of the rare ladies who is interested in such things.”

“I should think not.” Mary sipped her lemonade.

He leaned slightly closer. “We should start a courting academy for gentlemen before they are permitted to approach ladies.”

“How practical.” Mary grinned. “I wish Mr Painswick and Mr Lovett had attended such a school before our ill-fated phaeton race.”

“I would gladly support such measures.” Laughter rumbled in the colonel’s chest. “More than half of men would benefit from it.”

Mary was faintly pleased. Colonel Fitzwilliam was one of the few gentlemen who treated her as though her serious nature was interesting rather than strange or tedious.

Priscilla, meanwhile, was in excellent spirits. She danced every set without a single romantic thought in her mind and appeared to consider the entire evening as arranged specifically for her own personal amusement.

Mr Bingley spoke to their hostess, and the second set was Mr Beveridge’s Maggot.

“Miss de Bourgh!” he approached, excitement alight in his eyes. “You must not deny me the pleasure of being the first to lead you to the dance floor!”

“Mr Bingley, I am not ready!” Anne hissed.

“But you are,” he insisted, eyes twinkling. “I am your dance master, I should know.”

“What if I make a mistake?” she feared.

“Miss de Bourgh,” he lowered his voice. “The lady who satisfies her dance partner need suit no other gentleman.”