Chapter 10 #2
“You are dancing with the only handsome woman in the room.”
“Look, there is her sister sitting just behind you,” Bingley replied, motioning toward Elizabeth. “She is very pretty, and I daresay I can ask my partner to introduce you.”
Darcy turned his head slightly. His gaze swept over Elizabeth—once, quickly.
“She is tolerable, I suppose…”
∞∞∞
“She is tolerable, I suppose…”
Darcy stopped.
The words, spoken low and half-meant, caught unpleasantly in his throat. Bingley was already turning toward her again, his smile unwavering, but Darcy felt the weight of what he had just said—and more, the weight of the gaze he had just brushed aside.
He looked again.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet was seated just behind him, a lemonade in her hand, cheeks still pink from dancing. A lock of dark hair had come loose beside her ear, curling against her neck. She was looking down at her drink, her pinks tinging slightly.
Darcy shifted his stance and looked away, discomfited.
He had not meant the phrase cruelly. It was merely habit—social armor, the kind he had worn for years without thinking. He had never danced at public assemblies. He had no intention of doing so tonight. His discomfort with strangers, his distaste for being paraded before them, was nothing new.
And yet—
There was something about her. A lift to her expression. A liveliness to her posture. With her dark hair and green eyes, there was something that struck him as strangely familiar.
Lady Catherine.
He narrowed his eyes.
Dark hair. Green eyes. An expression of contained, proud amusement that suggested she might speak with withering clarity if pressed. It was not Georgiana she reminded him of, nor Anne. No—there was only one other woman he had seen with that same expression, half-defiant and wholly self-contained.
Lady Catherine.
Younger, of course. And lovelier. But the resemblance was undeniable.
It arrested him.
He drew a long breath and heard his own voice speaking—almost before he realized he meant to answer differently.
“Yes, Bingley,” he said quietly, “I would like to be introduced to her.”
Bingley gaped at him. “You would?”
Darcy gave a single nod, his gaze still fixed.
Recovering at once, Bingley grinned. “Come, then! I shall have my partner make you known to her properly. Miss Elizabeth is pretty and light-footed and, I daresay, if she is anything like her sister, very agreeable as well.”
Bingley’s partner was fetched, but she began to perform the introductions, the dark-haired girl gave a tight smile. “Yes, I believe we were introduced by Sir William earlier, though we did not exactly speak.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Then allow me to amend the oversight, Miss Elizabeth. Might I have the honor of this dance?”
There was a beat—half a breath too long—and something unreadable passed behind her eyes.
Then she dipped a curtsy with perfect grace. “You may.”
Darcy offered his hand, and she laid hers upon it, cool and composed.
The moment she touched him, he knew it had been the right decision.
Not because she softened—not yet. But because she did not. She gave no pretense. No flattery. She walked with him to the forming set with the calm assurance of a woman who had nothing to prove and nothing to gain.
It was remarkably liberating.
And, somehow, entirely disconcerting. As they took their places in the line, Darcy became keenly aware of Miss Bingley’s eyes on him from across the room. Her fan had stopped fluttering. Her expression, behind the veil of a smile, was thin and brittle.
He ignored it, and instead he focused his attention on the beguiling woman in front of him.
Miss Elizabeth.
∞∞∞
The violins began again, and the dancers stepped forward. Elizabeth moved with easy confidence, the hem of her worn gown swaying just above the polished floor. Darcy mirrored her steps precisely—his form impeccable, his expression unreadable.
They exchanged no words for the first figure.
Elizabeth had no intention of speaking first. She knew very well he had asked her in the wake of some private decision, perhaps even as a corrective for his earlier remark. But if he imagined her grateful for the condescension, he would be sorely disappointed.
The dance was a lively one, requiring frequent changes of partner and quick footwork. Elizabeth moved through the first figures with practiced ease, speaking briefly with the young Mr. Perry as he passed her in the pattern. But when she came back to Darcy, he remained silent.
At last, she gave in, unable to bear the silence any longer. “Do you speak at all, Mr. Darcy, or do you find conversation as distasteful as country society?”
His gaze flicked toward her. “Not distasteful. Merely… dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“Words, Miss Bennet, have a way of wandering. Especially when spoken in public halls.”
“Ah,” she said. “Then I must suppose your earlier words have wandered quite far indeed.”
He flinched, just slightly.
Elizabeth arched a brow. “But perhaps they have already returned home again, where no one minds their sharpness.”
“I regret them.”
Her eyes widened. His voice was low. His face remained composed. But he had said the words as though they cost him.
“Do you often speak words you regret?” she asked lightly, though something in her chest tightened.
“Not often,” he said. “But I find… I am not at my best in unfamiliar company.”
“That is honest, at least,” she said, allowing herself a small smile. “And here I thought gentlemen of ten thousand a year were never uneasy.”
“Ten thousand pounds does not teach one to dance in a room of strangers.”
“But surely it can buy a better temperament.”
This time, she saw it: the corner of his mouth quirked upward. Almost a smile. Almost.
The dance continued, and then he said, “The musicians are better than I expected.”
Elizabeth’s lips twitched. “Indeed? Were you expecting them to play using combs as instruments, with sheet music made from butcher paper?”
He looked at her sidelong. “You are fond of sarcasm?”
“Only when it is warranted.”
“I hope it will not be so tonight.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That depends, Mr. Darcy, on whether you continue to be astonishing, or astonishingly rude.”
He blinked.
Then—very faintly—he smiled.
They circled again, partners switching, and Elizabeth found herself beside Mr. Lucas for a moment, who offered a wink of surprise.
Behind him, several of Meryton’s ladies were openly whispering behind their fans, and Mrs. Long was half-turned in her seat, gawking.
Miss Bingley, seated between the Hursts, looked as if she had swallowed a lemon.
They were the center of attention.
Of course they were. A gentleman of ten thousand pounds dancing with the second daughter of a country squire. Mr. Darcy of Derbyshire, who had thus far shown himself to be proud, disinterested, and immovable, had not danced once all evening—until now.
Elizabeth turned her attention back to him.
“If I may ask, Mr. Darcy,” she said lightly, “is it charity or curiosity that brought you to the dance floor?”
“I might ask the same of you.”
“Oh, I enjoy dancing, and I would have been quite disappointed to have to forgo the remainder of the evening.”
He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “I do not often dance. But my reasons tonight were neither charitable nor idle.”
“No? Then I am intrigued.”
His mouth curved just slightly. “You need not be. Intrigue is best reserved for mysteries.”
“And you are no mystery, I suppose? A wealthy man who comes to a dance but does not dance, who attends a social but is not sociable, and who looks down on his company in more ways than one?”
“I did not—”
The steps separated them briefly. Elizabeth turned and rejoined hands, her palm brushing his gloved one.
She felt it—that brief contact, warm through linen and kid leather—and was startled by the clarity of her own reaction.
Not flustered. Not quite.
But aware. Sharply aware.
“—intend to cause offense. I simply do not possess the talent my friend does, in conversing easily with those I have never before seen.”
“Ah, but therein lies the rub,” Elizabeth replied. “I do not play the pianoforte as well as I would like, but I have always supposed that to be my own fault because I do not take the trouble of practicing more.”
“I… I see your point.”
As they crossed again, she looked at him closely. He was handsome, certainly. Far too well-formed to be ignored, and his coat fit his frame so precisely it could only have been commissioned from a London tailor. But there was more than elegance in his face now—there was tension.
He was watching her, too.
As was the rest of the room.
Realizing how they must appear to her neighbors, engaged in a serious conversation with a relative stranger on the dance floor, she forced a smile. “How long do you mean to stay at Netherfield?” she asked, in a tone just curious enough to pass for casual.
“Only a few weeks. I am here for Mr. Bingley’s sake.”
“And not for the delights of Meryton society?”
He tilted his head. “The room is certainly… enthusiastic.”
She laughed. “That was almost generous. Shall I make note of it in my diary, perhaps?”
“By all means,” he said gravely. “I am certain it will become a cherished memory.”
His countenance was so severe, she nearly thought him serious. A closer look however, revealed a slight upward tick in the corner of his mouth.
“Well done, you!” she said with delight. “It seems there is hope for you after all.”
Their hands met again. She noticed—though she tried not to—that he held hers a fraction longer than the steps required.
The music turned to its final strains. They circled once more, his boots polished to a mirror shine, her shoes worn nearly through at the heel.
The contrast struck her all at once: how finely made he was, how distant his world from hers, how absurd this entire moment was—and yet how natural it had begun to feel.
The last notes faded.
They stepped apart, bowed and curtsied. Elizabeth’s breath caught—just slightly—as she rose.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice polite but distant once more.
He met her eyes. “It was my pleasure.”
And for the first time all evening, she believed it.