Page 2 of Mr Darcy Bets on Love

Something in Darcy's chest, something he had kept locked since his father's funeral, turned over like a key in a lock.

He did not decide to move. He simply found that he was moving, across the room, towards Bingley.

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Elizabeth Bennet had said a great many foolish things in her twenty years, but she could not remember ever saying one within arm's reach of its subject.

"He heard every word," she murmured.

Charlotte followed her gaze. "Mr Darcy? Surely not."

"He was behind the pillar, Charlotte. Like a stag in a thicket. And now he is walking towards Mr Bingley, and Mr Bingley is walking towards Jane, and I believe I shall have to pretend to faint."

"You have never fainted in your life."

"Then tonight will be a novelty for everyone."

But she did not faint, because there was no time. Mr Bingley arrived with the air of a man bringing good news, Jane glowing on his arm, and behind them came Mr Darcy, taller at close quarters than she had supposed, and graver, and a great deal handsomer than was reasonable in a man said to be so disagreeable.

"Miss Elizabeth," said Jane, with only the faintest question in her voice, "may I present Mr Darcy of Pemberley, in Derbyshire? Mr Darcy, my sister, Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

Elizabeth rose and curtsied. He bowed. When she straightened, he was looking at her with an expression she could not read at all. It was not offended. It was not amused. It was something steadier than either, as if he were trying to learn her face by heart.

"Miss Elizabeth," he said. His voice was deep and quiet, and she had to lean a little to hear it over the fiddles. "If you are not engaged for the next set, would you do me the honour?"

The matrons behind the pillar, who had certainly heard that, fell into a silence so complete that Elizabeth could hear the candles gutter.

"I am not engaged," she said. "As I believe you know."

Something moved at the corner of his mouth. "I believe I do."

He offered his arm. She took it. It was a very good arm, she noticed, and then told herself sternly not to notice such things about a man who had just overheard her calling him shy to half of Meryton.

They took their places in the line. The music began, a country dance with long pauses in which partners stood facing each other, which was a particular cruelty of the composer, Elizabeth decided, designed for situations exactly like this one. For the first figure he said nothing. For the second he said nothing. By the third she could bear it no longer.

"I suppose," she said, as they came together, "I ought to apologise."

"For what?"

"For discussing your character in your hearing. It was very ill done."

The dance parted them. When it brought them back, he said, "You did not discuss my character. You defended it. I have never had that done by a stranger before. I am not sure I know the correct reply."

"I did not defend it, precisely. I only suggested that it might be less black than it was painted."

"And do you still think so, now that I am standing in front of you?"

She considered him with her head on one side. He bore the inspection without flinching, though she saw a faint colour rise above his cravat.

"I think," she said, "that you are not proud. Or not only proud. I think you do not like to be looked at, and you have been looked at all evening. And I think you would rather be almost anywhere else, except perhaps at this moment."

They turned, hands joined. His fingers tightened on hers, very slightly.

"You are right on every count," he said, low. "Especially the last."

Elizabeth, who always had a reply ready, found that she had none. The dance saved her, carrying her down the line and back, and when they met again she had recovered enough to be impertinent.

"You must have a great deal of practice at being agreeable in private, Mr Darcy, to make up for being so disagreeable in public."