Page 16 of Mr Darcy’s Quizzing Glass

Whatever Miss Bingley’s feelings had been upon her abandonment by the object of her desire and chastisement by her brothers, she now turned her emotions towards Elizabeth.

“We are fortunate in our close acquaintance with Mr Darcy. He is the most discerning gentleman in all of London. He makes no errors in his investments or in how he advises his friends. Am I not right, Charles?” Miss Bingley did not bother glancing at her brother, who nodded warily and looked as if he wished to say something. Elizabeth wished he would; his warm, jovial voice was far more pleasing than that of his sister. But she continued speaking.

“Mr Darcy chooses his invitations wisely, and no ball can be considered a success without his attendance.”

“Even if he does not dance?” Elizabeth said, earning a loud guffaw from the sofa.

“Miss Eliza, you have lived in the country all of your life and what did your mother say, you dine with twenty-four families?” A mean, triumphant smile emerged on the lady’s face. “You have never met anyone of Mr Darcy’s consequence—and yet you mock him! Is it ignorance or incivility? I cannot pretend to understand.”

A slow churning began in Elizabeth’s gut, an anger at herself and mortification that a woman she did not much like was correct in criticising her behaviour. She had been discourteous, and her teasing nature, appreciated at Longbourn and amongst her neighbours, was unsuitable here, with those who considered themselves above her. Why did she poke at Mr Darcy? It was baffling how much he provoked her, even when he said not a word!

Rising, she smiled grimly at Miss Bingley. “It is I who did not understand. I meant no harm. Excuse me, I must peek in on Jane.”

She did her best not to leave as quickly as Mr Darcy had only five minutes earlier, and in focusing on a graceful departure, almost neglected to notice the man himself standing in the corridor.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, as the doors closed behind her. “Were you returning? Or simply listening as your friends defended your character?”

Mr Darcy blinked. Had a man ever blinked more often? Or looked at her so intently?

Have I ever noticed anyone’s eyes as I do his?

After a moment of mutual unease, his eyes softened and he smiled. “I forgot my letter, the one to my sister. It is, as you might imagine, elegantly worded and written in a fine hand.”

If his smile had rendered Mr Darcy uncommonly handsome, his teasing explanation left Elizabeth nearly speechless before she rallied. “Of course, it is the greatest of all letters, bested only by those written by—” Failing to think of any famous letters which she could compare to that of a brother to his sister, she ceded to his superior wit and shrugged. “I am certain your letter is a thing of rare beauty. Um, would you like me to fetch it for you, and save you the sympathies and accolades that will undoubtedly greet you upon your return to the drawing room?”

“I thank you, Miss Elizabeth, but I have courage enough.”

Darcy tossed his letters on the writing table in his chambers. Roiled by unfamiliar feelings, he was disappointed that the thrumming pleasure he had felt in speaking to Miss Elizabeth calmly, without apparently revealing his fascination with her otherworldly glow, had been dulled by the rapturous greeting he had received upon his return to the drawing room to retrieve his letter. Had he conquered Rome or discovered a new country? One might have thought so based on the exclamations of welcome and concern that had come his way.

Perhaps I should have assured them I remain a paragon but am made impetuous and forgetful by the mere presence of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Hurst would have laughed, but he grimaced to think on how such a comment would be met by Bingley and his sisters.

After some effort to remove his jacket, Darcy eased into the room’s most comfortable chair, moving his thoughts decidedly away from his hosts and onto Miss Elizabeth. She had been startled to find him lurking in the hall, but her surprise seemed to grow when he matched her teasing words. Devil take it, he surprised himself by speaking to her in an even tone and parrying her clever wit, without being overwhelmed by her outsized presence.

She does not think me a paragon, nor does she appear intent on impressing me. And yet she had, in the most unsettling way.

The lady did not need to say a word to capture his attention; her light and the vibrancy that transcended it drew his eye, his ears—awakened every sense merely by sitting in a chair, slicing a serving of pheasant, or teasing him about his supposed aversion to dancing.

Teasing? Had he ever seen two women more different in how they flirted? Miss Bingley begs for morsels of cruel gossip and slights her brother in order to flatter me. Miss Elizabeth mocks Miss Bingley on my behalf as she teases me.

It was difficult enough, whiling away weeks in a county where intelligent conversation was rare, and in a house where inanity and insults reigned. Except—and yet especially—when Miss Elizabeth was in the room. She was extraordinary. His eyes had adjusted to the luminous lustre surrounding her; no longer did it startle him, although he certainly remained as unsettled by it as he did by her wit and lively disposition. Even here, in a house where her presence was clearly unwelcomed, she was undimmed.

I have seen her essence without need of the quizzing glass. What can it mean that she, and no one else before her, appears to me in such manner?

If he had not known the peculiar power of the quizzing glass, he might have thought Miss Elizabeth was wrapped in a spell, one meant solely for him. No one else saw her as he did; certainly no one at Netherfield made mention of anything unusual in her appearance, and Miss Bingley was incapable of forgoing the chance to insult or besmirch her.

Had he ever met another lady who sparred with such wit or alluded to Greek myths? No, and certainly he had never spent time in company with one for such a duration without appraising her character with his quizzing glass. Truly, with her, he felt no need to, despite his curiosity for how she might thus appear. It was dangerous, but she fascinated him.

THIRTEEN

During those hours in which he could not seek refuge in his rooms or out of doors, Darcy observed Elizabeth Bennet taking perverse pleasure in doing and saying the opposite of what was anticipated by her hosts. She declined to dance and averred from joining them in cards and conversations. She stated she did not ride, but her complexion was tanned—her nose even had a freckle or two—and rather than exhibit on the pianoforte, she dismissed her own talents. It was not as if she lacked pride or intelligence; Darcy knew she enjoyed dancing and was certain she was more than capable of riding and playing well, and she was damnably clever in her conversation. No, she preferred to frustrate her hosts, using her considerable wit to parry their slights and insults. Even Miss Bingley’s insistence on directing the lady’s preferences at breakfast sparked mild mockery.

“Miss Eliza, sugar is not precious here, as it may be at Longbourn. Please do take what you wish, although, of course, our tea is freshly delivered from town, and needs no improvement from sugar or cream.”

“I find a sprinkle of sweetness improves everything, Miss Bingley, although admittedly some things are simply too sour to enjoy.”

Miss Elizabeth smiled pleasantly at her hostess, whose eyes narrowed as she tried to make out the broader meaning of such a reply. Darcy coughed, trying desperately to contain the laughter he feared might confirm for Miss Bingley that she had been keenly insulted.

That afternoon, all of them confined to the house by a heavy rain, he watched as Miss Elizabeth turned the page of her book, idly, he noticed, as if searching for a passage that might absorb her interest. Or perhaps to deflect Miss Bingley’s persistent jabs.