Chapter 1 #2
More disturbing still was the intelligence he glimpsed in those remarkable eyes.
This was not the vacant prettiness he had learned to expect from provincial young ladies.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet was clearly thinking, evaluating, and forming judgments about the company with the same critical assessment he was applying to her.
When their eyes met, she offered a slight curtsy that conveyed nothing.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he managed, his voice rougher than intended.
“Mr. Darcy.” Her voice held the faintest hint of irony, as if she had already perceived his reluctance to be introduced and found it amusing rather than offensive.
The warning echoed again in his mind: Never trust a Bennet. But how could this enchanting creature pose any threat to his family’s interests?
“I trust you are enjoying your stay at Netherfield, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Elizabeth asked, her tone suggesting polite interest rather than the breathless enthusiasm he usually encountered.
“It has been… educational,” he replied carefully.
“Indeed? And what particular lessons has Hertfordshire provided?”
The question was innocent enough, but something in her manner suggested she expected more than a conventional response. The silence went on too long, and since she said nothing, he forced himself to reply, “I find myself quite amused by the quality of Hertfordshire society.”
Those intriguing eyes of hers brightened. “I confess I had wondered what might amuse a gentleman of your evident refinement. How fortunate that we poor provincials serve admirably as objects of entertainment.”
The words were perfectly proper, but the sparkle in her eyes suggested she was laughing at him. Darcy felt an unfamiliar stirring of unease. Why was he conversing with this… this Bennet?
But surely, she was a harmless country maiden. He was in no actual danger. Not at all.
The music signaled the beginning of the dancing. Bingley immediately claimed Miss Bennet’s hand with an enthusiasm that made Caroline’s expression sour considerably.
“The first dance is forming,” Miss Elizabeth observed, glancing toward the assembling couples. “I believe Lady Lucas is hoping you might partner her daughter, Charlotte.”
Darcy followed her gaze to where Sir William’s daughter, a plain but pleasant-looking young woman, stood conversing with her mother. The thought of dancing with an unfashionable lady held little appeal, but he recognized his social obligation.
“If you will excuse me,” he said with a slight bow.
Miss Elizabeth inclined her head. “Of course, Mr. Darcy. I would not wish to detain you from your duties.”
The formality of country dancing provided a welcome respite from conversation.
Miss Lucas proved a competent partner who did not attempt to engage him in trivial chatter, for which he was grateful.
As they moved through the patterns of the dance, Darcy’s gaze was drawn to Miss Elizabeth, who danced with a local gentleman of no particular distinction.
She, however, danced with enjoyment. Her movements were graceful and spirited, her face animated as she conversed with her partner.
When the figure of the dance brought her near to where Darcy and Miss Lucas passed, he caught fragments of her conversation—witty observations about the assembly and good-natured teasing that made her partner chuckle.
For the second set, Darcy was obligated to stand up with Mrs. Hurst, who spent the entire dance complaining about the heat, the unrefined company, and the inadequacy of the refreshments.
By the end of their dance, his headache had intensified to the point where even the thought of continuing was painful.
“Darcy!” Bingley appeared at his elbow, his face sweaty and glowing. “I must say, this is a delightful gathering. The people are so friendly, and the dancing is most energetic.”
“Your standards for delight are remarkably low,” Darcy replied, rubbing his temple surreptitiously.
“And yours are impossibly high,” Bingley countered good-naturedly. “Have you noticed Miss Bennet? She is the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld.”
“Which Miss Bennet? There appears to be an abundance of them.”
“The eldest, of course. Miss Jane Bennet.” Bingley’s eyes sought her across the room. “Such gentle manners, such a sweet disposition. And her beauty! Like an angel.”
“She smiles too much,” Darcy observed, though he acknowledged privately that Miss Jane Bennet was indeed a handsome woman.
“How can one smile too much?” Bingley laughed. “Though I must say, her sister Elizabeth is quite striking in a different way. Have you noticed she looks nothing like her siblings? They are fair, while she has those remarkable dark eyes and such spirit in her conversation.”
Darcy stiffened. “I had not noticed.”
“You must have,” Bingley insisted. “She stands out among them like a rose among lilies. Not that lilies aren’t lovely,” he added hastily, “but there is something particularly engaging about Miss Elizabeth. She is simultaneously delicate, graceful, and has an unusual quickness of mind.”
“If you find impertinence engaging, then certainly.”
Bingley looked surprised. “Impertinence? I found her refreshingly direct. I had thought to dance with all the Bennet sisters this evening—it seems only proper as a new neighbor—but I find myself quite reluctant to leave Miss Jane’s side.”
“Your attachment forms with alarming speed,” Darcy remarked dryly.
“When something is right, why delay?” Bingley’s smile was unfailing. “I believe Miss Elizabeth is without a partner for the next set. You should claim her hand, Darcy. I wager her conversation would provide a welcome change from Caroline’s usual topics.”
Without another word, Bingley made a straight line toward Miss Jane Bennet, leaving him stranded as the third set was about to begin. Miss Elizabeth Bennet happened to be passing nearby, momentarily without a partner, and their eyes met.
“Not dancing, Mr. Darcy?” she inquired, pausing before him.
“I am taking a brief respite,” he replied, noting with some irritation that his pulse had quickened at her approach.
“The heat is rather oppressive,” she agreed, her eyes showing genuine sympathy. “Perhaps some fresh air would be beneficial? The garden is quite pleasant in the evening.”
The suggestion was perfectly innocent, yet Darcy felt a flicker of alarm at the thought of being alone with this intriguing woman—this Bennet. “I prefer to remain indoors.”
“As you wish.” She glanced toward where Bingley was once again partnering with her sister Jane. “Your friend seems to be enjoying himself immensely.”
“Bingley enjoys everything immensely,” Darcy observed. “It is his particular talent.”
“A valuable talent indeed. Far better than finding fault with everything one encounters.”
The observation struck too close to his thoughts. “You speak as if we are acquainted, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Are we not becoming so? I know that you are from Derbyshire, that you possess a considerable estate called Pemberley, that you are a particular friend of Mr. Bingley, and that you find country assemblies trying. You, in turn, know that I am the second daughter of five, that my home is Longbourn, and that I occasionally speak with more candor than is strictly proper.”
Her self-assessment made him almost smile despite himself. “Indeed. Though I suspect there is much more to know.”
“I believe this is where you ask me to dance, Mr. Darcy,” she said with breathtaking directness. “The fourth set is forming, and I find myself without a partner.”
The presumption was outrageous. Young ladies of proper breeding waited to be asked; they did not issue instructions to gentlemen on matters of social protocol. Yet something in her manner suggested she was fully aware of the impropriety and was challenging him deliberately.
The prospect of having her full attention for the duration of two dances, of discovering whether her conversation could sustain the promise of her wit, of learning what other surprises lay behind those remarkable eyes—it was powerfully tempting.
But his father’s voice whispered again: Never trust a Bennet.
He straightened, donning the mask of cold politeness that had served him well in countless similar situations. “I fear you mistake my character, Miss Elizabeth. I am not inclined to dance when young ladies are presumptuous.”
The light in her eyes dimmed, but her smile remained steady. “Indeed? How unfortunate. I had thought all gentlemen were required to dance at assemblies, especially when partners were scarce. Perhaps the rules are different for those of superior consequence.”
The observation stung precisely because it was accurate. He was being deliberately discouraging, and they both knew it. Worse, his coldness had wounded her, despite her brave attempt to remain unaffected.
“You appear to know a great deal about the requirements of gentlemen,” he said.
“I know enough to recognize when one considers himself above the company,” she replied, her chin lifting with a pride that reminded him, uncomfortably, of his family’s bearing. There was no mistaking the furrowing of her dark and elegant brows.
Sir William Lucas chose that moment to intervene. “Mr. Darcy, surely you cannot mean to deprive us of the pleasure of seeing you dance with such a charming partner as our dear Elizabeth!”
Darcy felt trapped between Miss Elizabeth’s challenging gaze and Sir William’s expectant smile. The throbbing in his temple intensified, and he found himself speaking with the sort of cutting dismissal he had perfected in London drawing rooms.
“Indeed,” he said coldly. “Miss Elizabeth is tolerable, I suppose, but hardly handsome enough to tempt me. I am in no humor to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.”
The words left his mouth before discretion could intervene. He saw Miss Elizabeth’s face change, the warmth in her eyes replaced by something that looked remarkably like pity. Not anger, as he might have expected, but pity—as if she felt sorry for him rather than herself.
Sir William retreated with obvious embarrassment, and Miss Elizabeth turned away without another word, her shoulders set with quiet dignity.
She had dismissed him as thoroughly as he had dismissed her, and with considerably more grace.