Chapter 11
A Turn of the Evening
Elizabeth had scarcely rejoined the edge of the room when Charlotte Lucas claimed her.
“You appear quite victorious,” Charlotte observed, amused. “Your sister looked as though she meant to conquer the entire assembly.”
“She nearly did,” Elizabeth replied. “I consider it a mercy that no officer was trampled.”
Charlotte smiled, but her gaze drifted beyond Elizabeth’s shoulder.
“You are about to be engaged again.”
Elizabeth did not need to turn to know who approached. She felt it first – that curious shift in the air, as though attention gathered and stilled.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
She faced him.
There was no stiffness in his bow tonight. No studied reserve. Only composure.
“Mr. Darcy.”
“I hope I do not intrude.”
“No, not at all. How are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Darcy?”
He considered the room before answering. “Enjoyment is not the word I should choose. I am not well suited to crowded rooms.”
“You mean you suffer through it?”
Charlotte snapped her head toward Elizabeth.
But his lips curved faintly. “I know that must sound extraordinary to a person like you.”
“A person like me?”
“One who appears perfectly at ease wherever she stands.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “You credit me with greater confidence than I possess.”
“I do not think so,” he replied quietly. “I am sure your friend agrees with me.”
Charlotte smiled and nodded.
“You engage easily. I do not.”
“And why is that, pray? A gentleman of the world should be practised in such things.”
“I am practised,” he said. “That does not render it natural. I do not converse readily with those to whom I have not been introduced.”
“Indeed? I had not noticed you suffer from that constraint.”
“Then I conceal it better than I suppose.”
There was the faintest challenge in her smile. “Perhaps you choose your company more carefully than you admit.”
“Perhaps,” he said.
The musicians began tuning for the next set.
“Are you engaged for this set?” he asked.
Elizabeth hesitated – not from uncertainty, but from awareness. A dozen eyes were never far away in Hertfordshire.
“I am not,” she said at last.
“Then may I have the honour?”
It was direct. Unembellished. And infinitely preferable to reluctance disguised as obligation.
“You may.”
His relief was so slight it would have escaped a less attentive observer. She did not miss it.
She glanced briefly at Charlotte.
Charlotte’s expression was composed, but her eyes were keen. Go, they seemed to say. You must not retreat now.
Elizabeth turned back.
As he offered his arm, he paused. “And Miss Lucas,” he added, with deliberate courtesy, “if you are unengaged later in the evening, I should be pleased to claim a set.”
Charlotte, though startled, inclined her head with quiet dignity. “You are very obliging, sir.”
Elizabeth looked at him then – not merely with approval, but with a warmth that acknowledged what he had done.
Darcy felt the quiet satisfaction of a man who has chosen well. For such a look, he thought, he might willingly have repeated the kindness a hundred times.
“For a moment there, I thought you meant to refuse me. That would have made three in total.”
Elizabeth met his look calmly as they took their places opposite one another. “On the first two occasions, I had the impression you did not truly wish to dance with me.”
The set began to form; couples moved into line.
“In both cases,” he said, bowing as the figure commenced, “you were mistaken.”
She raised an eyebrow as they advanced and retreated with the line. “Was I?”
“I do not ask where I have no desire to be.”
They passed hands; he felt the light pressure of her fingers before the movement carried them apart again.
“At the Meryton assembly,” she said over her shoulder once they danced together again, “you appeared quite determined not to dance at all.”
For a moment, he considered an apology for his rude comment, but he did not want to embarrass her further. “I was unacquainted,” he replied. “And badly disposed.”
“Badly disposed?” She turned with the figure, skirts sweeping in a controlled arc. “How alarming. But no, no. This will not do. Mr. Darcy, all you had to do was ask Sir William to introduce you to any lady. You just did not want to. Admit it, Mr. Darcy.”
“You are perfectly right,” he indulged her.
They changed partners briefly; he watched her exchange a few words with the gentleman beside her, her smile polite but measured. When the figure restored her to him, her expression altered.
The smile she gave him was not the same. It was unstudied, warmer, and wholly unguarded. For an instant, her eyes met his with a frankness that left no room for irony.
He felt it before he understood it. There was something in that look he had not yet deciphered – approval, perhaps; or something more generous. He found himself, unexpectedly, wishing to know precisely what thought had produced it.
The colour rose swiftly to her cheeks, as though she too recognised the openness of the moment. She lowered her gaze and turned with the next movement of the dance, her composure restored.
As the figure carried Elizabeth from him once more, Darcy became aware of Caroline and her companion stationed with studied indifference along the wall.
He did not mistake the look. Expectation.
He had fulfilled that expectation often enough on previous occasions – standing up where he was placed, complying where compliance was expected. At Meryton, he had danced with Miss Bingley because it was required. It had been duty. Nothing more.
The set returned Elizabeth to him. He took her hand without hesitation and did not so much as glance toward the wall.
If Miss Bingley observed, she might also observe this: he did not dance from management; he did not dance from persuasion. And he would not be directed.
The music swelled; Miss Elizabeth’s step met his with quiet certainty.
Let them look. The choice was his.
This time, he gave his partner a smile that made her forget, for a moment, where she was meant to stand.
They had scarcely completed the next turn when a familiar voice intruded upon the measure.
“My dear sir! My dear Miss Eliza!”
Sir William Lucas had paused at the edge of the set, bowing with expansive courtesy. “Such very superior dancing is rarely witnessed in this neighbourhood. It is evident, Mr. Darcy, that you belong to the first circles – and your fair partner does you the greatest credit.”
Elizabeth’s composure held; Darcy inclined his head with measured civility.
“I shall hope,” Sir William continued, lowering his voice only enough to suggest discretion while ensuring half the room might still overhear, “that we may often be gratified by such an exhibition – particularly when certain very desirable events shall render these meetings even more frequent.”
His eyes travelled meaningfully toward Jane and Bingley before returning, with unmistakable implication, to Darcy and Elizabeth.
Elizabeth felt the colour rise again, though whether from amusement or vexation she could not immediately determine.
Darcy, however, did not start as he once might have done. He had been too long in society to be unacquainted with exuberant speculation. He merely bowed. “You are most obliging, sir.”
Sir William beamed, entirely satisfied with the effect of his own gallantry. “Pray do not allow me to detain you from such bewitching conversation.” He withdrew at last, leaving behind him a wake of smiles and whispers.
For a brief moment, the set faltered in its rhythm.
Elizabeth ventured, quietly, “Sir William’s imagination is… energetic.”
“It is rarely restrained,” Darcy replied evenly.
But though his tone remained composed, there was no irritation in it – only awareness.
The music resumed its authority over them. They took their places once more; the interruption dissolved into movement. And this time, when their eyes met across the narrowing space of the figure, neither looked away.
***
They found themselves momentarily alone near the far end of the room; Bingley gave Darcy one of the glasses in his hands. Bingley was watching the dancers with unconcealed contentment.
“Thank you. You have done very well tonight,” Darcy observed, his tone deliberately neutral.
“In what respect?” Bingley asked, though he knew perfectly well.
“You have made yourself… conspicuous.”
Bingley laughed. “Have I? I hope not offensively so.”
“That remains to be seen.”
Bingley turned to him more fully. “Darcy, she could be the one.”
Darcy did not immediately reply.
“I know what you will say,” Bingley went on quickly. “That I admire her for her beauty. And who could blame me? But it is not that alone. There is something in her manner – her steadiness. She listens. She considers. I like her. I think she likes me, too.”
Darcy studied his friend’s face – open, earnest, entirely unguarded.
“She is not like the London ladies,” Bingley continued, lowering his voice. “They smile, they flatter, but they never quite take me seriously. No matter how much money I possess, I am still a novelty to them. With Miss Bennet, I do not feel so.”
Darcy’s expression softened, though only slightly. “You believe her regard sincere?”
“I do. I do not think she could pretend even if she wanted to.”
“That is essential.”
Bingley hesitated, then added with sudden curiosity, “Why did you not dance with Caroline?”
Darcy’s brows lifted faintly. “Was I expected to?”
“She is quite put out.”
“I imagine she will recover.”
“You have always stood up with her before.”
“At assemblies where our acquaintance was limited,” Darcy replied evenly. “I consider that obligation discharged.”
Bingley’s mouth twitched. “That sounds dangerously like independence.”
“Did you dance with all your London guests this evening?” Darcy returned calmly. “Or did you perhaps secure a second set with Miss Bennet at the earliest opportunity?”
Bingley grinned outright. “I may have made certain arrangements.”
“I thought as much.”
Bingley clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “You are incorrigible.”