First Dance
“She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.”
~
“Mr Darcy, I apologise for the delay. I am ready for our two sets now.”
Fitzwilliam Darcy startled from his latest bout of brooding and stared at the young lady before him.
He knew full well he had not asked her to dance even one set, let alone two.
In fact, no one had even introduced them.
This was madness! This was extreme impertinence!
This was well and truly insupportable! This was…
this was… come to think of it—this was well played. She had boxed him in thoroughly.
Looking carefully, he recognised her as the sister of Bingley’s latest angel, whom his friend had tried to convince him to dance with, though he could not recall her name.
He owned she was in fact quite handsome when he finally looked at her properly, but her face held a startling mixture of emotions.
She made no attempt to hide them, but she had cleverly placed herself where only he could get a good look.
To everyone else she looked demure, smiling politely, performing the ordinary office of accepting a dance.
Yet her eyes held a well-hidden fury, and a small smirk of triumph played on her lips, though he could not imagine what evoked either emotion.
The insignificant country miss had boxed in the Master of Pemberley, veteran of a decade in the first circles, like a pack of his best hounds with a fox—or perhaps fox and chicken would be a better analogy.
She had chosen the moment, location, and setting perfectly.
Without raising her voice, she made the faux reply where it could be heard by several matrons who were clearly no strangers to gossip.
Both knew there had been no application, but she had left him the unpalatable choice of either dancing with her or calling an apparently popular daughter of a prominent family a liar…
publicly… on the first night of Bingley’s residence in the neighbourhood.
To do so would get him burnt in effigy before the hour was up, and Bingley soon after, so with such a simple little trick, she had forced his hand.
He returned her fury. “Of course, madam. Let us be off.”
She nodded slightly, and the deed was done.
He extended his arm, as if offering it to an old but despised relative. She took it as if handling a snake, and they moved towards the forming set.
~
When the dance started, all pretence at conversation ceased for a time, and she let the matter rest. Her revenge was complete, and the next hour would be at her bidding.
Darcy occasionally stole glances at the young lady.
Her mask remained firmly in place. She did not appear particularly happy to be dancing with him, and her expression of triumph slowly faded as she realised she was punishing herself nearly as much as him; but he detected a look of firm resolution as well.
She would extract the full measure of punishment, even at the expense of her own evening, but what was the offence?
If she was setting her cap, she was using a stratagem beyond him.
If she were offended in some way, why would she wish to dance?
One did not seek to dance with those one disliked. That would be nonsensical.
At length, the dance allowed them a few words nobody else could hear. “I believe we must have some conversation, madam.”
“Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?”
He admitted she might have a point, as his custom was to just get the miserable chore over with as quickly and easily as possible, and rules reduced the thinking required.
He was not fond of the activity unless he was particularly acquainted with his partner; but if she were to get her full measure of revenge, he would not go down without a fight.
“Sometimes,” he said, “one must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for a half-hour together; and yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.”
“Yes, I suppose we must speak a little, but I believe a very little will suffice.”
Surprisingly, he enjoyed her impertinence. She was no wilting flower to be blown away at the first breeze, and yet she did not seem to have the hard edge so common in the first circles. He felt she would collect her due, but no more, though he could not explain why he thought so.
From the corner of his eye, Miss Caroline Bingley watched him dance with an expression both angry and—perhaps proprietary?
Even predatory? He had ignored Bingley’s sister for so long he had not quite noticed her setting traps.
He had no idea why he had been so blind, as she was not the least bit subtle; but he had not been exercising the necessary caution.
He returned his attention to his present partner, still with the mixture of emotions on her face.
“Perhaps we could get by with a minimal discussion—just the essentials. For example, we both know we were not even introduced, so perhaps you could tell me your name.”
There! That should show her he was not a man to be trifled with. He would play society’s games, but he would not be caught out a second time.
She replied, “Of course we have been introduced. I am all astonishment that you do not remember, sir. Perhaps it is the custom in London or Donkyshire to forget introductions within the hour?”
He was not a man to be tempted by such easy bait, so he let the name of his county pass. “Perhaps you could indulge me by refreshing my memory.”
She gave him a calculating look, and somehow managed to perform a curtsey in the middle of the dance without appearing awkward, which was admittedly quite a feat.
“As you well know, I am Miss Tolerable. Your friend is dancing with my sister, Miss Not Handsome Enough. I thought you quite gallant when you told Mr Bingley, ‘As a gentleman, I must give consequence to young ladies who appear to be slighted by other men, but are in fact sitting out to let other ladies have a turn, since not every gentleman present is doing his customary duty.’”
Alarm seized him, and he blushed furiously at the stark assertion that she had heard the remarks he had unwisely let slip from his mouth, and the not even slightly subtle reminder that he had not acted as a gentleman. Darcy nearly stumbled at the next turn; she just smirked in triumph.
She regarded him with mock concern and asked with all sweetness and innocence, “Are you unwell, sir? We may forego the remainder of the dances if you are too fatigued to dance for twenty minutes complete. I will happily alert the other ladies of your indisposition.”
He had to own that fox and chicken was not even the right analogy at that moment—chicken and worm might be better.
She had delivered a well-timed and precisely aimed set-down without uttering a single unkind word that had not originated in his own mouth, leaving his head spinning in mortification.
Nearly in a panic at being caught out with such ungentlemanly conduct, he considered her offer to go off and lick his wounds in private, but resolved to own his behaviour like a man.
Waiting for a moment of privacy, he spoke quietly. “I owe you an apology, madam. I owe you a most sincere apology. Those were definitely not the words of a gentleman—far from it. My sister will be thoroughly appalled when I confess it, and I am quite ashamed of myself. I am most profusely sorry.”
Not so easily put off, she suggested, “I believe that a true gentleman does not even think such uncharitable thoughts, let alone speak them publicly. I am only happy that—by pure happenstance—you said them where nobody but Mr Bingley and I heard. You only missed my mother by half a minute. If you would like a suggestion, you may want to attend more closely to your surroundings next time you say something like that.”
“There will be no next time!”
The music ended at that moment. The young lady, satisfied she was done with her punishment, curtseyed, and started to walk away, forgetting she had forced him into a second set as well.
~
Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley, member of the first circles of society, practically a peer—found himself unaccountably chasing after a country miss at a small-town assembly like an errant schoolboy.
His strides were long enough to catch her up in just a few steps, whereupon he held out his arm.
She glanced at it much like the aforementioned worm, but decided she must finish her own game if she did not wish to be the subject of gossip herself; though a glance at the pack of matrons on the side of the room suggested it was much too late already.
They were clearly already the topic of great discussion; she glanced in the same direction and came to the same conclusion.
They walked towards the refreshment table, and he spoke quietly. “I deserve no such boon, miss, but I do hope you will accept my apology, and my gratitude.”
She regarded him in complete puzzlement. “Gratitude, sir?”
He sighed dejectedly. “Yes, gratitude. Some lessons in life can only be learned the hard way, and this is apparently one. I behaved abominably, and I would appreciate an opportunity to correct your entirely deserved reproach.”
She studied him carefully, attempting to judge his sincerity, and he passed muster. “Very well, I accept your apology.”
“Will you accept my gratitude as well?”
She lost a tiny bit of the fury in her eyes, perhaps reverting slightly towards her normal demeanour. “If I must.”
“I insist.”
With that, she giggled, ill-suited to holding grudges.
Darcy asked politely, “May I presume to offer you refreshments while we await our second set?”
Alarm flickered in her face at the reminder of her own trap, but she had decided to accept his apology and simply nodded.
Darcy left her in the company of one of her friends, a Miss Lucas, after she performed introductions, and went to the refreshment table for punch.
Upon his return with refreshments for both ladies, he found them chatting happily and joined their circle for the remaining few minutes before their second set.