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Mr. Darcy was the last person she would have expected to encounter in Brighton; she had fully expected never to see him again. Growing hot beneath his scrutiny, she fought the impulse to avert her eyes from the man. What must he think of her?
Baring his soul to her, Mr. Darcy had revealed Mr. Wickham’s responsibility for his sister’s near disgrace. Now he found her on that man’s arm! He must think her the world’s greatest simpleton—or a woman without any moral qualms whatsoever.
Mr. Darcy stared at her as if the rest of the room had ceased to exist; the intensity of his gaze could almost burn a hole in her skull. Noting the sudden unease in the air, Lord Cavendish stepp
ed back and gestured to them awkwardly. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Wyndham and Miss—”
Mr. Darcy stepped forward and bowed. “Bennet,” he finished. “A pleasure, as always.” He did not smile, but his gaze would not leave her face. He had not even acknowledged Mr. Wickham.
“You are acquainted?” The lord seemed a bit surprised that Mr. Darcy would have such low connections.
“Indeed,” Mr. Darcy said smoothly. “Miss Bennet and I encountered each other not long ago when I was visiting my aunt in Kent.” Although he was responding to their host’s question, his words were aimed at Mr. Wickham, who stiffened and frowned at this information.
As an awkward silence settled over the group, Elizabeth felt compelled to address Mr. Darcy. “I did not know you had plans to visit Brighton.”
“I had no such plans in April, but recently I had a sudden urge to enjoy some sea bathing while the water is still warm.”
“Of course.” Elizabeth responded automatically, although she did not believe this explanation. Mr. Darcy was not the sort of man to indulge in any sea bathing, let alone to conceive a sudden desire for it.
Mr. Wickham bestowed on Mr. Darcy a smile that was little more than bared teeth. Lord Cavendish had been observing the trio in bemusement but was then summoned away by his wife. Barely acknowledging their host’s departure, Mr. Darcy regarded Elizabeth steadily. “Miss Bennet, I have not had the pleasure of dancing with you since the Netherfield ball. I see a new set is forming. Would you do me the honor?”
“Uh…er…” How had the English language deserted her in her hour of need?
“See here now, Darcy!” Mr. Wickham exclaimed. “She is engaged to dance with me.”
I am caught between two men who hate each other—and I wish to dance with neither. What a disaster. “We have already danced two sets, Mr. Wickham,” she reminded the officer, who glowered while Mr. Darcy raised a triumphant brow.
“Shall we?” Mr. Darcy gestured to the dance floor.
Elizabeth could think of no suitable reason to decline the offer. She could hardly claim an injured ankle now. “Yes, thank you.”
With a rather grim smile, Mr. Darcy offered his arm, which she took reluctantly. Scowling, Mr. Wickham stalked toward the punch table where Mr. Denny spoke with a few other officers.
As Mr. Darcy drew her toward the dancers, she wondered at his behavior. She had believed she had driven him from her life at Hunsford. Yet here he was, treating her with great amiability. Was his friendliness a ruse so that later he might disparage her want of decorum? No, surely he would not be so petty.
His smile had dropped away, and he viewed her solemnly from under lowered brows. Was he angry at finding her on Mr. Wickham’s arm? Foolish question. Of course, he was—angry and disappointed. Mr. Wickham had blackened Mr. Darcy’s name and nearly ruined his sister.
How could she possible justify her friendliness toward the scoundrel now? He might think she had disregarded his letter—or disbelieved it. She hated that he might think the worst of her. How she longed to explain her behavior, but she had promised the colonel she would tell no one.
Her hands shook, and perspiration dripped down her neck; she could not meet his eyes. Of all the people in England, Mr. Darcy was the one who would least expect her to behave charitably toward Mr. Wickham. For some reason she could not fathom, she found that she did not desire his ill opinion.
The music commenced, but being at the end of the row, they awaited their turn to dance. The muscles in Mr. Darcy’s jaw twitched, as if he wished to speak but feared saying the wrong words. “I was surprised to find you in Mr. Wickham’s company,” he said finally.
Elizabeth lifted her chin. I am on the crown’s business; I cannot allow anyone to intimidate me, she reminded herself. There was no choice but to brazen it out, but the thought of Mr. Darcy’s disappointment made her heartsick. “Oh?”
“Yes, I thought better of your discernment.” The words were uttered without bitterness, yet they struck Elizabeth with the force of arrows shot from a bow.
Hopefully the mortification was not displayed on her face. Now she would be forced to defend the officer’s character while secretly agreeing with Mr. Darcy’s assessment of him. “Mr. Wickham is an amiable companion and an accomplished dancer.”
No. I owe this man no explanations, she reminded herself. She had been deceived about Mr. Wickham’s character, but Mr. Darcy had still been rude and unpleasant in making his offer of marriage. “I see no harm in dancing with him.” She forced herself to raise her eyes and meet his.
Mr. Darcy’s face was white, and he squeezed her hand so tightly it hurt. “He is a blackguard of the first order! He does not deserve your—!” He bit off the last word and turned his head, clearly in the grip of violent emotion.
Elizabeth needed to turn the conversation away from a subject where she was so vulnerable. “If we pass the set discussing Mr. Wickham’s failings, it will be a solemn dance indeed,” she said with a playful tone. “Was that your intention in asking me to dance?”
He blinked. “No, of course not.”
In the next moment the dancing commenced, and they fell silent as they focused on the intricate movements of the piece. When they next came together, Mr. Darcy seemed to have mastered his agitation, regarding her with a more serene countenance. “Are you enjoying Brighton?”
