14. The Art of Being Hunted #2
Charles Bingley bowed in greeting, his ginger hair catching the candlelight. “Miss Bennet,” he said. “Miss Elizabeth, and Mr. Darcy.”
He took his seat, beaming so radiantly at Jane that Elizabeth half-expected the wax candles to dim by comparison. Jane’s flush deepened by a single, delicate shade, as all attention, other than Bingley’s, turned toward the performers.
Mary sat at the Broadwood, her twilight-lavender gown transforming her from the overlooked third daughter into someone who belonged. Beside her, Georgiana’s hands trembled, but Mary’s were steady as she placed them on the keys.
“Your sister looks well,” Elizabeth said.
“And yours appears to be thoroughly conquering the grand pianoforte.”
“Mary has been steeling herself since arriving in London,” Elizabeth said, catching her sister’s eye across the sea of silk and giving her a firm, encouraging nod. “Her courage exceeds her abilities and her desire to be noticed.”
Darcy nodded, but made no comment on his own sister’s meekness.
The allegro began, and the room fell into an expectant hush. It was a delicate, dangerous conversation between two girls who had discovered a shared language. Mary’s left hand carried the bass line with the weight of steady rock, while Georgiana’s right danced above it like sea spray.
It was magnificent. Elizabeth was swept up in the music, wishing—just for a moment—that her parents could see Mary now, triumphant and unassailable.
And then, a sour note chimed, loud and resonant. Mary’s fingers stumbled in the middle of a rapid, descending passage.
Elizabeth’s breath caught, glancing at Darcy, expecting to see a stern frown at the public mistake.
But his face was intent, as if holding his breath as Mary flexed her fingers and recovered the counterpoint.
Georgiana, meanwhile, had skillfully provided the cover by ornamenting the melody, but Darcy’s relief was clearly for Mary, as a small, private smile touched his lips—a nod of respect—when Mary boldly resumed the bass line.
When the final chord resonated and died, Darcy did not offer the polite, gloved pat of a Mayfair gentleman. He rose slightly from his seat, his applause loud, fierce, and entirely unconcerned with drawing-room decorum. A brilliant, unguarded smile beamed across his face.
The young ladies stood, curtsying as they accepted their accolades. But when Mary looked up and realized that the formidable Mr. Darcy was applauding her with the raw, unmasked pride of an elder brother, her glow brightened until she looked positively beautiful.
Elizabeth turned to Darcy, only to find him already looking at her.
For one suspended heartbeat, the crowded salon, the whispering matrons, and the pianoforte vanished entirely.
There was only a shared glance—a silent, breathless recognition that there was no longer any distinction between his sister and hers.
Jane touched Elizabeth’s arm in acknowledgment, and the moment passed. They sat through the rest of the performances, with Mary and Georgiana joining them in the chairs beside them.
The applause was still ringing as the musicale broke for refreshments. Mary and Georgiana were immediately together, chattering about the music they might choose next, and of course, Bingley gallantly escorted Jane to the lemonade table.
Elizabeth rose to follow her sisters, but the path to the refreshments was instantly blocked by a severe-looking matron bristling with diamonds and a terrifying air of dynastic authority.
Beside her stood a young man in the exaggerated silks of the London fashion, his hooded, heavy eyes tracking Jane’s retreating figure with predatory interest.
Elizabeth’s fists clenched. She recognized that look from the militia officers in Meryton—hungry, predatory—but had not expected to find it so shamelessly displayed by a man in silk stockings. Then again, bad character was not confined to muddy boots.
The imposing matron’s gaze snapped from Jane to Elizabeth before landing on Mr. Darcy, her fan snapping shut with a sound like a pistol shot.
“Nephew,” the lady commanded. “You are remarkably light on your duties this evening. Pray present your cousin to Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Darcy’s shoulder blades tightened beneath his blue coat, and his expression hardened into formality, nodding to the matron whom he addressed as “Lady Matlock.”
Turning to Elizabeth, he said, “Miss Bennet, may I present my aunt, Lady Matlock, and my cousin, Lord Coke?”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. These were Darcy’s relations? Behaving like barkeeps at an inn? She managed a graceful curtsy, determined not to let her surprise show.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” Lady Matlock’s voice was a summons. “What an accomplished sister you have. Such feeling! Such delicacy! Augustus, did you not find Miss Mary’s performance exceptional?”
“Exceptional,” Coke agreed. He smelled of spirits and expensive tobacco. Instead of looking at her eyes or over her shoulder, his hungry gaze was fixed in the vicinity of her bosom.
“And Miss Darcy, of course, was lovely,” Lady Matlock added, a sharp nod to Darcy that acknowledged his presence without slowing her pace. “But your sister, Miss Bennet—who instructs her? She must have the finest master in London.”
“Mary instructs herself, Lady Matlock. She always has, although we are in the process of engaging a master.”
“Self-taught! Augustus, dear, is that not extraordinary?”
“Extraordinary,” Coke echoed, his eyes now making a sweep of Elizabeth’s waist down to her slippers.
“You must bring her to Matlock House. I hold a small musical evening every third Wednesday. Nothing elaborate, just intimate company, superior refreshments. Augustus is extremely fond of music, are you not, my dear?”
“Passionately,” Augustus said, gazing at Elizabeth as if she were a refreshment table laden with superior lobster patties.
Elizabeth caught Darcy’s eye. His face was all composure, but the set of his shoulders betrayed him.
He was watching his aunt parade her son with the same relentless energy Mrs. Bennet had once reserved for Jane.
Elizabeth swallowed her mortification and prayed Darcy would not mention the resemblance.
“You are very kind, Lady Matlock,” Elizabeth said. “I shall convey your invitation to Mary. She will be honored.”
“And you must come as well, naturally. Both Bennet sisters. All three! The more the merrier.” Lady Matlock beamed with the warmth of a woman who had just secured three potential targets for the price of one invitation. “Fitzwilliam, you will bring them, of course. As Lady Sophia’s deputy.”
“Of course,” Darcy said with the same intonation as a funeral director. “Aunt Matlock, I shall give your regards to Lady Sophia.”
Nodding absently, Lady Matlock announced that she spotted a duke’s granddaughter and blessedly swept away her son, whose hooded eyes roved from side to side so aimlessly that Elizabeth worried he had lost all his sheep.
She turned to Darcy, her eyebrows raised in a silent plea. Must we endure this?
“Lord Coke is Colonel Fitzwilliam’s elder brother,” Darcy noted, his voice tight. “You recall the Colonel from Rosings.”
“The Colonel’s brother?” She couldn’t hide the disbelief. “He lacks every ounce of his brother’s graciousness. I recall the Colonel very well. He was by far the most agreeable conversationalist I encountered in Kent.”
“The Colonel, being the second son, would naturally develop a sense of decorum not required by the heir,” Darcy admitted. “I would not advise welcoming Lord Coke’s attentions, Miss Elizabeth, although my position requires me to return Lady Matlock’s calls and attend her events.”
“I see… family obligations preclude you from your guardian duties.”
“It is not like that at all.” Darcy’s voice held suppressed anger. “You are, perhaps, aware that having a fortune makes it terribly difficult to distinguish what is performative from genuine attachment.”
“A problem you’ve no doubt encountered.” Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. “Tell me, Mr. Darcy, when you met my family in Meryton, did you believe I performed for your ten thousand a year?”
Darcy looked down at her, his dark eyes arresting her with a sudden, intense focus that made the salon chatter fade to a distant hum.
“Never,” he said, the word low and entirely unvarnished.
“You did everything in your power to provoke me, Miss Elizabeth, and absolutely nothing to please me. I could never accuse you of a performance.” He stepped a fraction closer, his jaw tightening as he looked in her eyes.
“My error was not in doubting your sincerity. My error was in believing that you would eventually… that you might?—”
He cut himself off, turning away from her, leaving Elizabeth unsure of whether he was about to apologize—before reminding herself forcefully that aristocrats like Darcy had no need to apologize when stating the facts of their societal differences.
His error was believing she had so little pride that she would accept his fortune in lieu of his good opinion of her person.
Her breath hitched at the thought, so she turned eagerly to a pair of mothers and their highborn sons, who claimed acquaintance.
“Miss Bennet! What an unexpected delight,” a loud, brassy voice interjected, shattering the fragile glass of their privacy.
A plump dowager in a towering turban of amber crepe wedged herself between them, dragging a young man who looked as though he had spent his entire morning in a stable and rather regretted his current presence in a parlor.
“Lady Wharton,” Darcy said, his tone instantly freezing into a defensive block.
“Mr. Darcy! Excellent, excellent. Miss Bennet, you must allow me to present my son, Sir George. He has just returned from Newmarket. George, do tell Miss Bennet about your new filly. The one by the Eclipse bloodline.”