Chapter Eight #3
Darcy remained stoic, pretending to listen to Miss Bingley’s inane chatter about the humiliation they suffered simply by attending an assembly such as this.
He did not bother to point out that assemblies in Derbyshire were very similar; he had not been to one since his father was alive, but that was no matter.
They were not in London. She could not reasonably expect the same level of sophistication here, though perhaps she had, given the elegance of her attire.
He was feeling weary, but not from the dance so much as the woman standing next to him.
Miss Bingley levied several insincere compliments and leaned in to put her hand on his arm.
He shifted just a bit forward so that her hand found only air.
Suffering Miss Bingley’s attempts to flatter him was simply the cost of his friendship with her brother, and, given the dearth of many trustworthy friends in his life, it was one he was willing to pay.
He would not, however, encourage her familiarity.
As Miss Bingley prattled away beside him, he considered his earlier conduct with Bingley.
Why the devil had he reacted so strongly?
His mother would have been furious with him for slighting a woman in such a manner, no matter how inferior her station or how that woman had provoked him.
Lady Matlock would still take him to task for such a thing.
He tapped his foot a few times before he forced himself to be still.
To be staring at him so shrewdly! What was she about?
Curious about his income, he presumed. Still, he had not behaved as a gentleman.
He had insulted her. He tossed a quick glance over his shoulder.
She was speaking with two other women but met his glance.
She did not appear distressed. He turned away. She must not have heard him.
Unconsciously, Darcy tugged at his cravat and heard a low wave of female laughter behind him.
There would not have been laughter like this at a London ball, but he could not say he disliked it.
He nearly ran a hand through his hair before he stopped himself.
It was a yet another nervous gesture, hardly proper in company.
He had come to this little country assembly at Bingley’s request, to help him settle into the area, and he had been determined to be civil, perhaps even dance once or twice outside his party.
He had hoped that in this isolated place, just far enough off the Great North Road to be insular, he might have a brief respite from rapacious women, Miss Bingley notwithstanding.
The inadequately hushed conversations about his worth that had met him before he had even stepped inside the room had set his teeth on edge.
He should be used to it. He was used to it.
He despised it.
He had responded poorly, and now even Bingley was cross with him.
Perhaps he could make it up to his friend tonight by opening the port he had brought from his wine cellar.
They had better wait until Hurst retired or they would not drink much of it.
Bingley could never remain angry with a friend for long, a character trait for which Darcy had been thankful on more than one occasion.
In return for Bingley’s happy manners and loyal friendship, he had introduced the younger man to a higher social sphere than he could have managed on his own, increasing his social significance and that of his family.
Charles had taken it with aplomb, but Miss Bingley had become ambitious.
She was after her brother to make a match with a woman in the first circles, and it did not much matter who.
Miss Bingley was clearly uninterested in her brother’s happiness; she was only concerned with her own.
Bingley was a gregarious, open-hearted man, an intelligent man in his own right.
He was often in love, but he had not been fortunate in the women he chose to offer his affections, all of them London beauties, each of them after Bingley’s pocket book and not his heart.
No, Bingley was not made for a marriage of convenience.
In fact, Darcy was certain such a marriage would destroy everything he most admired about his friend.
He stepped back in to the shadows of the far wall to observe the final dances of the evening.
The eldest Miss Bennet had danced every set, between which Bingley had managed to introduce her to Miss Bingley as well as Mr. and Mrs. Hurst. Darcy noted dispassionately that Bingley’s angel was among the most beautiful women he had ever seen.
Whatever the state of his heart, his friend did have excellent taste.
Miss Bennet’s sister, the dark-haired one he had disparaged, was dancing, too.
He watched for a moment. Her movements were graceful, her figure light and pleasing.
Moreover, she wore a small but genuine smile, one he would never see in a London ballroom.
Enchanting. He cursed himself for being an idiot. I should have just danced.