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“This is a surprise. You have enjoyed the activity in the past.” Mr. Bingley gestured to Mr. Darcy. “As for my friend here, he may shut himself in his room that evening if he so chooses.”

“While I appreciate your sister’s concern”—Mr. Darcy adjusted the book in his lap—“I should not want you to alter your plans on my behalf.”

“That is exceedingly magnanimous of you.” Miss Bingley pressed her palms together. “Rest assured, I shall designate a room for gentlemen such as yourself who prefer cards to dancing.”

With a jerk, Mr. Hurst roused from his slumber and sat upright. “What was that? Did someone suggest cards? I am ready to play.”

“No, no. Never mind it.” Mrs. Hurst went to her husband and patted his shoulder.

Mr. Darcy tapped his fingers upon his book. “Lest you believe otherwise, Miss Bingley, I am not adverse to a ball. Since I neglected to dance with any local ladies at the Meryton assembly, I should take the opportunity to rectify my faux pas.”

My stars, he sounded almost noble. Would he ask me to dance again? For a moment, a whimsical reverie in which I partnered with him in a quadrille engrossed me. I regained my composure in time to avoid ruining my row of neat stitches.

“Upon my word, Darcy, that is good to hear.” Mr. Bingley beamed at his friend.

“Indeed, this is welcome intelligence.” Miss Bingley’s sight shifted between Mr. Darcy and her brother. “Now that I am assured of Mr. Darcy’s contentment with the scheme, I am delighted to plan a ball.” With the matter decided, Miss Bingley made a show of perusing the poetry volume she had dispensed with earlier.

Notwithstanding the possibility of standing up with Mr. Darcy, I could expect nothing more from a man of his rank than a harmless flirtation; he would one day wed a lady with a revered name and a sizable dowry. For some reason, this bit of self-counsel eroded my energy, and I fought to maintain my erect posture.

Saturday, 16 November

Netherfield Park

Darcy

Wickham, the last man on earth I should choose to encounter, would soon reside in the neighbourhood.

I folded the letter from my coachman David. This past July, I had tasked him with the periodic investigation of Wickham’s whereabouts and activities; I intended to be forewarned should he plan another depraved scheme. According to my trusted servant, Wickham had accepted a commission in the militia and would report to Colonel Forster’s regiment at Meryton next week. What sort of havoc would he create as a militia officer?

A soft set of treads disrupted the solitude of the library, and I fixed upon the newcomer: she of the winsome figure graced by a dainty gait and of the sparkling hazel eyes bordered by bountiful lashes, further enhanced by an expressive pair of brows. By Jove, no one else could tangle me with her presence alone. Her singular demeanour, both fiery and ladylike, added to her fascination and lent a new brilliance to the room.

I stood and tucked David’s correspondence in the front pages of The Life of Lord Nelson, second volume. “Miss Elizabeth.”

She spared me a brief look—“Mr. Darcy.”—and continued to the paltry selection of volumes on the single occupied shelf. Once she made her selection and settled in a nearby chair, I resumed my seat. Vestiges of her floral aroma laved the air surrounding me, and I fought the inclination to stretch towards her.

My earlier determination that she could not make me a suitable wife due to her unfortunate connexions and the propensity to breach decorum evinced by certain members of her family had wavered these past few days with each successive exposure to her particular charms.

Elizabeth—as my mind persisted in calling her—had exhibited an admirable degree of confidence and grace in her subtle reprimand of me the other evening. Few people have ever confronted me as she did. She placed a glaring light upon an uncomfortable truth: in the years since my father’s death, I had cultivated a cold indifference to those outside my social circle that he would have been disappointed to witness. I should take care to do better in future.

Due to my earlier distraction at her entrance, I neglected to save my page; thus, I opened the book at random with the intent to read. Despite my best attempts, I made no progress—the printed words may as well have been in Turkish. She absorbed me, and I fought an internal tussle of inner commentary: Overlook her, and for goodness sake, do not speak to her; to read in silence is natural and just when in a library. Yet it is rude to not make any attempt at a pleasantry, is it not?

Blast, my resolve to pay her no mind collapsed at the first justification. Of course, after having apologized to her for my past boorishness, I should not want to compound my prior missteps, and I could at least ask after Miss Jane Bennet. I shifted towards her. “May I inquire after your sister? I hope her health continues to improve.”

Her bewitching irises rose from the book to behold me. “Yes, thank you. She is well enough to return home, so my father is sending his carriage for us this afternoon.”

She is leaving today. Thank goodness, for if I continued to be exposed to her charms for much longer, I might find myself in real danger. “I am glad she has recovered.”

A pert grin enlivened her countenance. “The timing of our departure is fortuitous, for I may have already strained the limit of Miss Bingley’s patience.”

Elizabeth’s penchant for treating that lady’s thinly veiled hostility with grace and levity earned my admiration. Nevertheless, devoid of a politic reply to her remark, I should do well to change the subject. “It is clear you are devoted to your elder sister.”

“Yes. Although I have affection for everyone in my family, she, above all others, is a true confidant.” Her eyebrows inched upwards. “Do you have a close attachment with your sister?”

An image came to me of Georgiana’s sombre visage the evening before I had left town. A lingering malaise had afflicted my sister since the summer, and my efforts to cheer her had been fruitless. “Our connexion is not familiar in the same way. She is eleven years my junior, so she views me almost as a father figure.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth’s hazel eyes flashed, and flecks of green shone within them—it seemed futile to fight the inclination to use her given name in my thoughts. “I understand you have lost your parents.” Her soft tone soothed me like a celestial caress.

“Yes, my mother died a week after Georgiana’s birth, and our father succumbed to acute angina pectoris five years ago.”