Chapter 3 #2
She was reaching for a second figurine, a rather ugly shepherdess undoubtedly purchased for its expense rather than its beauty, when a low voice spoke behind her.
“Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth's pulse jumped. She turned to find Mr. Darcy standing closer than she had expected, his expression careful, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Mr. Darcy.” She kept her voice neutral. “I did not hear you approach.”
“I am told I move quietly.” He paused. “Though I suspect you were absorbed in your examination of Miss Bingley's shepherdess.”
Elizabeth glanced at the figurine. “It is remarkable. I have never seen anything quite like it.”
“That is because sensible people do not purchase such things.”
She blinked. Had Mr. Darcy just made a joke? About his hostess's taste?
His expression remained impassive, but something glinted in his dark eyes, amusement, perhaps, or the ghost of it.
“You appear to have survived Miss Bingley's plans for elegant amusements,” she said, recovering herself.
“Barely.” The word was dry, nearly deadpan.
“Poetry recitations are not among my preferred entertainments I have no objection to poetry itself. It is the recitation that tries my patience.” He paused, something wry flickering at the corner of his mouth.
“Most people are not poets, Miss Elizabeth. And yet they insist on performing as though they were.”
“A harsh judgment.”
“A fair one. There is a difference between reading verse well and inflicting it upon an audience with dramatic sighs and meaningful pauses.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together, fighting a smile. “You have given this considerable thought.”
“I have endured considerable recitations.”
Elizabeth laughed before she could stop herself. The sound rang out too loud in the quiet corner, and she pressed her lips together, aware of Caroline's gaze sharpening across the room.
“I would not have credited you with such subterfuge, Mr. Darcy.”
“One develops survival skills in London society.” He paused, and something in his manner shifted—became less guarded, more earnest. “I find I... do not favor fashionable entertainments exclusively.”
“No?”
“Country gatherings can be—” He hesitated, as though choosing his words with care. “Enjoyable.”
Elizabeth stared at him. Had she heard correctly? Enjoyable, spoken by the man who had dismissed the entire Meryton assembly as beneath his notice?
“That is quite an admission,” she said slowly. “I had understood you found country society lacking in... what was it? Consequence?”
A flush crept up his neck. “I may have judged too quickly.”
“May have?”
“Did.” The word was quiet, almost reluctant. “I did judge too quickly. The company here is—” His gaze held hers. “—more engaging than I expected.”
Before Elizabeth could formulate a reply—before she could even begin to process the unexpected warmth rushing over her skin—Caroline materialized at Mr. Darcy's elbow like a silk-clad apparition.
“Mr. Darcy! You must come and give your opinion on the musical program. Mrs. Hurst and I cannot agree on the proper order of the pieces.”
Darcy's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I am sure your judgment is superior to mine in such matters.”
“Nonsense. You have the most refined ear of anyone present.” Caroline took his arm with proprietary firmness. “Miss Elizabeth will excuse us, I am certain.”
It was not a question.
Elizabeth stepped back, her cheeks warm, her thoughts in disarray. “Of course. Far be it from me to deprive Mrs. Hurst of expert consultation.”
Darcy's eyes met hers with a flash of something that might have been frustration, or apology, or both before Caroline steered him away.
Elizabeth turned back to the shepherdess and tried to remember how to breathe.
Across the room, Lydia's voice rose above the general conversation, bright and heedless as always.
“Lizzy, do you think Mr. Wickham will attend the entertainment? He must—he is the handsomest officer in all of England!”
The room's mood shifted.
Elizabeth felt rather than saw Mr. Darcy stiffen. His posture, already rigid, became something closer to stone. The easy warmth of moments ago vanished as though it had never existed.
“Mr. Wickham is certainly... memorable,” Elizabeth said carefully, watching Mr. Darcy from the corner of her eye.
“He is divine,” Lydia declared. “And so charming. He told me the most fascinating stories about his time in Derbyshire.”
Mr. Darcy's expression had gone sharp, guarded. His jaw was set in a hard line. When he spoke, his voice was clipped.
“Young ladies would do well to look beyond charm when assessing a gentleman's character. A pleasing manner can conceal a great deal.”
Lydia tossed her head. “And a lack of charm speaks no better to a gentleman's character than an abundance of it. At least Mr. Wickham makes an effort to be agreeable.”
The barb landed. Elizabeth saw Mr. Darcy stiffen, saw the flash of something in his eyes—not anger at the insult, but something deeper. Something that looked almost like fear.
For Lydia? For what Wickham might—
But that was absurd. Mr. Darcy barely tolerated the Bennet family. Why should he concern himself with Lydia's discernment?
And yet his reaction gave her pause. The tension in his shoulders did not look like wounded pride.
It looked like pain.
She filed the observation away for later examination and changed the subject with determined brightness.
The tea wound toward its conclusion with the measured inevitability of a clock running down. Jane glowed. Mr. Bingley radiated devotion. Miss Bingley’s smiles did not reach her eyes.
And Mr. Darcy stood apart, watching Elizabeth with an attention he no longer bothered to conceal.
She caught him at it three times. The first time, she pretended not to notice. The second time, she raised an eyebrow in silent challenge. The third time, she simply looked back, and something passed between them, some energy she found impossible to ignore.
The Bennets gathered their things. Mr. Bingley extracted promises of attendance at the upcoming entertainment. Miss Bingley bade them farewell with relief poorly disguised as regret.
At the door, Elizabeth turned for one last glance at the drawing room.
Darcy stood where she had left him, his expression unreadable, his eyes fixed on her face.
She told herself it meant nothing.
The warmth that bloomed in her chest disagreed.
“I suspect,” Elizabeth murmured to Jane as they climbed into the carriage, “that Netherfield has no idea what it has invited upon itself.”
Jane laughed softly. “You speak of Miss Bingley’s plans?”
“I speak of everything.” Elizabeth settled against the cushions and watched the great house recede through the window. “Everything is about to become very complicated indeed.”
And somewhere behind those elegant walls, she knew—without knowing how she knew—that Mr. Darcy was thinking exactly the same thing.