Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
Names blurred with faces as the ladies met person after person.
Heirs to earldoms and large estates, title-bearing bachelors looking for a young bride, matrons and young ladies—the introductions continued until the ball opened.
Elizabeth found herself smiling, inclining her head, offering polite replies while privately struggling to retain even half of what she heard.
By the time the first set formed, Elizabeth’s dances were taken but for one. Jane had not one dance left open.
Elizabeth danced the first with Sir William Barnet, a baronet from Wiltshire.
He was a man of five-and-thirty years, handsome, but boring.
They exchanged amiable conversation, but nothing of depth.
He appeared very interested in her—or rather what her connection to the Crown could bring him.
His questions circled her situation without quite touching it, probing for advantage rather than understanding.
“What are your thoughts on Sir William?” Lady Hertford asked when Elizabeth had returned to her chaperone’s side.
“It is impossible to form a complete opinion over the course of half an hour.”
Lady Hertford tapped Elizabeth’s arm with her fan. “You have some opinions, my dear. Do not hesitate to share them.”
“He is boring. Sir William speaks to me as if I were unintelligent. I despise being denigrated in such a manner.”
“You are anything but unintelligent. No, a condescending man will do you no good. You need a man who you can elevate. Behind the success of every good man is a greater woman—remember that.”
Elizabeth absorbed the words, surprised by the sincerity beneath Lady Hertford’s worldliness.
Lady Hertford greeted Jane next as Viscount Bramley returned her charge.
“Did you enjoy your dance, Miss Bennet?”
Jane’s cheeks went pink as she nodded. “The viscount was very polite and engaging.”
Lady Hertford agreed. “Lady Matlock despairs of him ever marrying. As I said, he is very particular. He will dance, but he generally avoids the more significant sets. Watch—he will not dance the supper set or the final set.”
Elizabeth noted Bramley’s lingering attention, though he stood some distance away now, with interest. There was nothing calculating in it—only focus.
After a moment, he returned and now stood beside Jane, speaking softly.
When her partner came to claim her for the second set, he looked incredibly displeased.
“Lady Hertford.” Lady Matlock approached. “Thank you so much for coming.”
“You are very welcome, Lady Matlock. The arrangements are exquisite. I am pleased to have Elizabeth’s first large society event be your ball. And her cousin, Miss Bennet, is very pleased to join us.” Both young ladies nodded in reply.
“Miss de Bourgh, do you know who I am?” Lady Matlock gazed at Elizabeth.
“I do. I have studied Debrett’s.”
This answer seemed to amuse Lady Matlock, who chuckled. “Then you know your aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, is my husband’s sister.”
“I was aware, though I have never met the lady in my memory.” Aunt Caroline had described Lady Catherine as antagonistic towards Elizabeth’s mother.
“She will be in attendance tonight, though she is late.” Lady Matlock shook her head. “I cannot imagine what keeps her. My nephew, Mr. Darcy will escort her and your cousin, Miss de Bourgh.”
Elizabeth’s mouth crept into a half-smile. “I met Mr. Darcy in Hertfordshire last autumn.”
Lady Matlock beamed. “Oh, that is lovely! I hope he behaved himself.”
Elizabeth could not stop a grimace, and her hostess tut-tutted in response. “Oh, Darcy. Allow me to apologize for whatever offense he caused.” Lady Matlock’s look of delight now turned to trepidation.
“His offenses are his own, your ladyship. I hold only him accountable. Be that as it may, I shall be pleased to have one acquaintance here tonight. I can scarcely keep all the new names and faces straight.”
This seemed to please Lady Matlock, who said she would not mind knowing her and Jane better. She departed with promises to send her card to Lady Hertford.
“Did you note how Viscount Bramley continued speaking to my cousin while his mother plied you with compliments?” said Elizabeth, speaking softly enough so only her chaperone could hear.
Lady Hertford looked amused. “I have never believed in love at first sight, but now I may be forced to amend my opinion.”
“I hope he is gentle with her. Jane is suffering from heartbreak.”
Lady Hertford raised her brows. “Oh? Do tell.”
“I shall disclose the full account later, your ladyship. But it was Mr. Darcy’s friend who courted, then abandoned my cousin without a word last autumn. I brought her here in hopes of helping her heal.”
“I would say your efforts will prove fruitful. Though Miss Bennet’s dowry is modest, her connection to you—and through you, the Crown—will open many doors.” Lady Hertford looked pleased, overall. Elizabeth’s next partner came and whisked her away.
The next dances were more enjoyable than the first, though Elizabeth felt nothing—no hint of attraction—to any one partner.
She laughed when expected, listened attentively, and moved with practiced grace, all the while keenly aware of being assessed.
She supposed affection could grow, and promised herself she would not dismiss any gentleman out of hand unless he proved unworthy.
None are as handsome as Mr. Darcy. Despite his less than polite attitude the night they met, Elizabeth could not deny she had felt a frisson of attraction for the gentleman all those months ago.
His manner had dimmed his physical charms, unfortunately, just as Mr. Bingley’s capriciousness had lessened his amiability.
She put those thoughts from her mind so she could give her full attention to her partner. Such musings could wait until later.
For tonight, it was enough to stand her ground, keep Jane close, and let London see precisely what she wished it to see.
“Hurry, Darcy. We are late as it is.”
That was not his fault. He had waited for his aunt for an hour before she and Anne had finally descended from their chambers, ready to depart.
The delay had been punctuated by sharp instructions and unnecessary alterations, each change made not for Anne’s comfort but for Lady Catherine’s satisfaction.
Lady Catherine had, unfortunately, had the dressing of her daughter.
Anne’s gown was covered in too much lace.
The heavy fabric did not move or drape well, and so Anne looked rather like a stiff column than a lovely, graceful young lady.
The delicate figure Darcy remembered from childhood had been smothered beneath ornament meant to impress rather than flatter.
All Darcy could do was compliment them, however insincerely, and usher them out the door to the carriage. There was no profit in honesty when it would only wound and change nothing.
Matlock House was ablaze with lights. The brilliance spilled into the street, reflecting off polished windows and damp stone.
There were no other carriages in line waiting to deliver their passengers—a sure sign they were more than fashionably late.
Darcy felt a tightening in his chest. He disliked arriving when attention was already fully engaged elsewhere.
Darcy prayed no one noticed their arrival.
They went inside and gave their things to the butler before a footman led them to the ballroom. Music swelled as the doors opened, the sound immediate and inescapable.
It was the middle of a set. Darcy barely glanced in the dancers’ direction, instead bowing curtly to his aunt and cousin before moving away. His attention was already divided, pulled by an unease he could not yet name.
“Darcy!” His cousin, Viscount Bramley, grabbed his coat sleeve and pulled him aside. His face was flushed—not with exertion, but with unmistakable excitement. “Tonight, I have met the lady I shall marry.”
Darcy laughed aloud, the sound sharp with disbelief. “You, Bramley? I thought you a sworn bachelor.”
“I was, until I met my angel. I have spoken with her between sets, and we danced the first. Now, I shall call on her as soon as may be to begin a courtship.”
There was no jest in Bramley’s voice, no exaggeration. Darcy felt the first stirrings of surprise.
“Where is this paragon of perfection?” Darcy raised a brow at his smitten cousin. Bramley was not one to fall in and out of love on a whim. If he said he meant to marry a lady, she must be truly exceptional. Bramley had always valued substance over charm.
Bramley glanced around. “She was just there with her chaperone. Lady Hertford brought her and a cousin.”
“You met Elizabeth de Bourgh?” Darcy looked askance. “She is connected to our family, you know.”
“No, it was not Miss de Bourgh, but her cousin who has bewitched me. Miss Bennet is perfection.” Bramley smiled, a love-struck expression on his face.
“Bennet?”
He became aware, as the evening wore on, of speculation beginning to gather—subtle at first, then more pointed. The ladies’ presence had not gone unnoticed, nor had their reception. A lesser man might have encouraged it, allowed conjecture to rise where it would lend him advantage.
Darcy did not.
When remarks were made within his hearing—careless, probing, or improperly curious—he met them with a composure that discouraged further inquiry.
He offered nothing, confirmed nothing, and by that very restraint preserved what was not his to expose.
Their circumstances, their connections, even their names—these were not his to reveal or to trade upon.
It was not indifference that guided him, but decision.