Chapter Twelve A Ball of Excellent ution Part I #2
She lowered her eyes, though pleasure warmed her face. “If your duties release you.”
“And a later dance,” Bingley continued. “Perhaps the fourth, unless Caroline arranges another receiving line.”
Mrs Bennet clasped her hands in delight next to Mr Bennet, who was watching the negotiation.
“Two dances in one evening, Mr Bingley?” He removed his spectacles and polished them with his handkerchief. “Your arithmetic continues to outrun your caution.”
Bingley’s colour rose. “I shall attempt greater caution.”
“Not on Jane’s account, I hope,” Mrs Bennet interrupted. “There is no reason for caution among friends.”
“Then I shall attempt it only when counting visits.”
Mr Bennet restored his spectacles. “The distinction may preserve us from requiring Mr Collins before supper.”
Collins heard his name and approached, carrying the walking stick upright. “If any pastoral service is required, I remain at the family’s disposal.”
“Your smallest toe has already given enough,” Mr Bennet said drily.
Bingley was rescued by the arrival of Colonel Forster’s wife.
He returned to Miss Bingley’s side, while Miss Bennet joined Miss Elizabeth, Miss Lucas, and Mrs Hurst. Darcy moved to the edge of the ballroom, where he could see the entrance, the dancers’ floor, and the card-room doors without appearing to guard any of them.
The room filled rapidly. Mrs Bennet established herself beside Lady Lucas and began counting officers before the regiment arrived.
Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty moved closer to the entrance each time a red coat appeared in the hall, regardless of whether the coat belonged to a soldier or an elderly gentleman’s footman.
Miss Mary examined the musicians, offered a suggestion concerning tempo which they accepted without intention of following, and chose a chair by the gallery.
Mr Bennet entered the card room with Mr Philips and two neighbours, settling where he was visible through the open doors.
Miss Lucas had found a vantage from which she could observe Miss Elizabeth, the terrace doors, and Collins without turning her head more than society permitted.
Colonel Forster entered shortly after the musicians finished tuning. Denny and Carter followed with several officers, their uniforms introducing enough scarlet into the room to satisfy Miss Lydia before she noticed Wickham between them.
He wore charm as easily as the regiment’s coat.
Candlelight warmed his complexion, his smile reached everyone likely to repeat it favourably, and there was no trace of the fear Darcy had seen under the milliner’s awning.
Night had released him from the calculation of shadows, and he moved with confidence, protected by invitation, witnesses and civilised restraint.
Darcy met him before he reached the ballroom.
“Wickham.”
“Darcy.” Wickham bowed, allowing the gesture to suggest old friendship to Colonel Forster. “You keep a magnificent house.”
“Bingley keeps it. The prohibition I laid at Pemberley is lifted for this night alone. You will remain within the rooms opened for the ball. No other part of Netherfield is available to you.”
The master’s command entered the words. Wickham’s body stiffened before he concealed the reaction, and his eyes travelled to the card room, the staircase, and the closed doors beyond the hall.
The permitted boundaries had been established.
He could enter the ballroom, drawing room, card room, supper room, and study.
The private passages, bedrooms, cellars, and grounds would resist him.
“You wound me.” Wickham placed one hand against his coat. “I had hoped for a tour.”
“You have mistaken hospitality for freedom.”
Hurst joined them after Denny and Carter moved to the ballroom. His face held none of the murderous pleasure he had displayed in Meryton. The absence of humour made him more dangerous.
“Have you settled any of your debts since morning?”
Wickham’s smile stayed in place, charming and cruel at once. “Immortality provides ample time.”
“Patience should not be mistaken for forgiveness.”
“Nor boredom for principle.”
Hurst stepped closer, keeping his voice too low for Colonel Forster, who had turned to greet someone. “Johnson.”
For one instant, Wickham’s charm failed.
Darcy remembered the valet clearly. Johnson had served Hurst for more than twenty years, endured his temper, managed his clothes, and declined every offer of conversion.
Wickham had fed from him during a journey, lost control, and transformed him without consent.
Johnson had awakened cold, hungry, and incapable of returning to the life he had chosen.
Before Hurst could teach him restraint or offer him any reason to continue, the man had walked into the morning sun. There had been little left to bury.
Wickham recovered and smoothed one hand down the front of his uniform. “Johnson made his own decision.”
“After you removed every other choice.”
“He might have discovered advantages in time.”
“He did not want your advantages.”
Hurst’s fangs were concealed, but the violence in his stillness required no visible weapon.
Darcy placed himself between them. “Not here.”
Hurst’s gaze did not leave Wickham. “No. Not here.”
Wickham adjusted his smile and entered the ballroom under Colonel Forster’s protection. Hurst remained in the hall for several seconds, then drew a slow breath he did not need.
“He remembers him,” Darcy murmured.
“He remembers everyone. He merely mistakes memory for remorse.”
They returned to their positions before Wickham could interpret Hurst’s anger as weakness.
The musicians began the first set. Bingley had received enough guests to escape the entrance and claimed Miss Bennet.
Mrs Bennet arranged herself where she could see every step.
Sir William joined the dancers with Lady Lucas, Miss Lydia secured Denny, and Wickham turned towards Miss Elizabeth only to find that Collins had claimed her first.
Darcy watched Miss Elizabeth place her hand in Collins’s while regarding the walking stick with understandable doubt.
“Surely you do not intend to dance with that, Cousin.”
“My injured toe requires support.” Collins positioned the stick beside his right foot. “I assure you that it will not impede the figures.”
The first turn disproved him. The ferrule struck the floor, slid between Miss Elizabeth’s slippers, and forced her into a sideways step which she converted into part of the dance before anyone beyond Darcy noticed.
During the next figure, Collins brought the stick down on the edge of her left slipper.
Miss Elizabeth drew a sharp breath. “You appear determined to injure my toe as well.”
Collins apologised, shifted the stick, and nearly caught Sir William behind the knee.
Yet beneath the clumsiness lay purpose. Whenever the figures carried Miss Elizabeth near Wickham, Collins altered his position so that his own body and the ash stick stood between them.
He watched Wickham constantly, abandoning elegance, rhythm, and the safety of surrounding dancers in service of Darcy’s instruction.
Miss Elizabeth recognised the design during the final turn. Her irritation softened, though she continued guarding her slippers. When Collins returned her to Miss Lucas, she thanked him with a sincerity which restored his confidence far more effectively than praise of the dancing might have done.
Wickham claimed Miss Lydia for the next set.
She laughed before he spoke, laughed again after he did, and spent most of the dance ensuring that every other girl witnessed her triumph.
Miss Kitty watched from the edge until Carter invited her, but Wickham secured her for the following set before she had finished the present one.
The arrangement served his purpose. Both younger Bennet sisters would now defend him against any public accusation, and every observer saw only a charming officer distributing his notice generously.
Darcy was at the ballroom’s edge. Standing apart attracted no comment because the county already believed him proud, and pride offered excellent concealment for a watchful eye.
He watched Wickham flatter Miss Lydia, Bingley forget the steps whenever Miss Bennet spoke and Collins plant his stick in progressively more dangerous locations.
Nothing failed.
The success lasted long enough to become ominous.
When Wickham began his dance with Miss Kitty, Darcy approached Miss Elizabeth. She stood beside Miss Lucas, her fan looped at her wrist and open in her right hand, one slipper resting lightly against the floor after Collins’s assault.
“Has your cousin disabled you?”
“Not really, but my left foot may never again trust a clergyman.”
Darcy bowed. “Will you dance with me?”
She placed her hand near his without touching it. “Is this part of the plan?”
“No.”
“Then I accept.”
The warmth of her fingers entered his as they joined the set.
Darcy had held her hand before learning what moved under her skin, but knowledge had altered every sensation.
Her pulse travelled through his palm, living and swift, while the scent of the True Blood gathered around them.
He governed his hunger, kept his grip light, and refused to consider the exposed curve of her throat.
Miss Elizabeth noticed all three efforts.
“You may breathe, Mr Darcy. Mr Bingley assures me it is polite.”
Darcy drew air into his lungs because he was always polite. “Bingley’s standards alter in the presence of your sister.”
“He has become almost human.”
“He would consider that a compliment.”
“And you?”
The question carried more than banter. Darcy guided her through the turn, allowing another couple to pass before responding.
“I would consider it a gift.”
Her expression changed, but the dance separated them before she could pursue the admission. When the figure returned her to him, she had restored her composure.
“Mr Wickham has watched us since the music began.”
“I know.”
“He may approach me after this set.”