Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Darcy’s eye caught Miss Elizabeth’s. He had not seen her lurking in the shadows behind them.
Had she been attempting to put herself in his way so he might be unable to refuse to dance with her?
He did not know her well enough to know what was true of her.
It was an uncharitable thought, especially directed at one such as her, but he was peevish.
He looked at the door again, wishing he might depart through it.
He was angry that he had agreed to accompany Bingley to the assembly at all.
Already no fewer than four mothers had come to greet them in a most obvious and distasteful manner, and to urge them to meet their daughters.
It was insupportable. Bingley did not need to acquiesce to all introductions, did he?
When introduced to the striving attendants of this blessed event, Darcy had attempted to fix his face into the least agreeable expression in the hopes of running them off, yet, due to Bingley’s welcoming nature, all that came from his attempts was his looking detestable.
In this moment of extreme irritation, he questioned his choice of friends.
Surely there were other gentlemen who would see the world as he did.
Men who would avoid such gatherings and be less cordial.
He knew there were, but he disliked those men.
Oh, the irony of desiring to avoid those such as himself.
No, that was not entirely true. He did not like these gatherings, but he was not the snob that so many at university had been, men that had grown into the insufferable bores he mixed with in town.
Bingley, and even Goulding, brought out a better side of him, a side that did exist. Simply not in this moment.
The music stopped, at which point Bingley said, “You look pained, Darcy.”
“I am. You know I am.”
“Dance.”
“There is no one worthy here.”
“You might dance with Miss Elizabeth.”
“She does not interest me,” he lied. She did interest him, but she was part of this town and this life, and her family, other than her father and elder sister, was frivolous and absurd.
“Miss Elizabeth does not interest you?” asked Mr Bingley. “Whyever not? She is amusing and pretty.”
Could Miss Elizabeth hear their conversation over the din? It seemed unlikely. Heavens, she was beautiful in her own way. Those piercing eyes stared at him at this moment, eyes he could look at forever. He wanted to wrap her hair around his fingers and tug her to him. And those lips—
It was too hot in here.
The air was too still.
The room was too crowded.
His cravat was too tight.
He had not eaten enough at Netherfield. Or had he eaten too much?
The walls were closing in on him and he wanted out.
“She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me.”
He noted that she looked down at this. She could hear every word. That realisation made him feel sick. He ought to apologise.
“Come, come,” said Bingley, “she is just there and has no partner. There are far fewer men than women, and she is, at least, good company. No one need get the wrong idea.”
He could have agreed. He could have made amends. But then he remembered her mother—the uncouth woman whom he could never allow to have a connexion with him—and chose to put her off for good.
“Bingley, I am in no humour to dance with young ladies who are slighted by other men. You may dance with Miss Bennet and every other girl here, for all I care. They would be pleased by your company and your attentions. You know they would. As for me, I have no desire to give anyone false hope, nor to pretend I am enjoying this gathering.”
He stalked out of the assembly, wishing he could go back and begin again. Or that he had never come to the assembly—nay, to Meryton—at all.