Page 8 of A Most Unfortunate Gentleman

Elizabeth held her breath. What excuse could he offer now?

This, she felt, would be the true test. Though she had never considered herself as handsome as Jane, Mr. Bingley’s open suggestion had placed Mr. Darcy in a position to reveal the substance of his character—once and for all.

And judging by his grave countenance and solitary manner, she found herself increasingly disposed to side with her mother’s estimation of him.

She did not wait long for the answer.

“There is no lady in the room handsome enough to tempt me, Bingley,” Darcy said.

The words he gave in reply—cool and curt—landed like a blow.

Elizabeth felt as though a hammer had struck her.

She blinked, stunned. What had she just heard?

Her blood rose hot, and it took no small effort to keep from crushing the cup of punch in her hand.

Had he truly called her tolerable and nothing more?

Was that the meaning behind that look he had given her upon first entering the room?

As if to answer her unspoken question, Mr. Darcy turned, and their eyes met.

He had not realised she was so near. That much was evident in the flash of shock across his face. But Elizabeth made no effort to disguise her displeasure. Her gaze, steady and proud, spoke volumes. If he had meant to dismiss her, she would not grant him the favour of pretending otherwise.

What nonsense, Elizabeth thought. These arrogant city gentlemen thought far too highly of themselves.

She had indeed heard the talk of his ten thousand a year income within the assembly, but even so, could such a fortune justify incivility and condescension in speech?

No, not even if he were the richest man in all England, not if he were finer than unicorns and angels, indeed, not even if he were the last man on earth, she would not dance with him after such an insult.

On that point, Elizabeth concluded with firm resolve, her mother had judged him precisely.

She looked away, angry.

But then, just as she began to stew in that righteous indignation, his voice softened. The change in tone was unmistakable. It no longer carried the dismissive air of the earlier slight but something altogether more troubled.

"I am feeling singularly unlucky," Darcy said, though in a more subdued tone now, perhaps, evidently aware that she might overhear him.

Elizabeth caught fragments of his words, murmured now, and not meant for a wider audience. Yet she heard enough.

He spoke of his misfortune, of feeling particularly ill-starred of late. Mr. Bingley’s response was lighthearted, even incredulous. But Mr. Darcy persisted. He spoke again, this time of events from the past few days—unlucky incidents that had unsettled him, made him wary.

Elizabeth’s annoyance faded into curiosity.

What had he endured that rendered him so cautious, so evidently on edge?

When he spoke further, this time with a reference to fine eyes —hers—Elizabeth felt an involuntary warmth bloom in her cheeks.

She could not say whether it was apology or admiration he had intended, but the compliment, cloaked though it was in reticence, had landed.

So he had studied her. That look she had dismissed earlier as disdain must have held something gentler. Perhaps, it had been regard.

He continued speaking of a fear that his misfortunes might extend to others, that inviting her to dance might carry ill consequences for them both. Elizabeth did not quite know what to make of this confession. There was something oddly honourable in his concern, however misguided.

Still, he seemed resolved. It was obvious his mind was made up when Mr. Darcy excused himself and turned away from Mr. Bingley, his long stride carrying him toward the outer doors.

Elizabeth’s eyes followed him without quite intending to. He moved with precision, though his shoulders carried the weight of a man who feared even the ground beneath him might betray his steps.

It did.

As he passed a nearby lady, his heel caught on the trailing edge of her gown.

The room did not so much grow quiet as erupt in a single unified gasp, like a held breath released all at once.

The sound of tearing fabric split through the music.

Silk gave way in a long, shuddering line from hem to waist. The lady, caught off balance, stumbled backward, her hands flailing, before several nearby women swept in to shield her from full exposure.

Darcy froze.

He turned at once, mortified. His posture—tense, apologetic, and utterly undone—was that of a man who had expected catastrophe and was still aghast to find it fulfilled.

He offered his apology with visible humility, his head slightly bowed, but Elizabeth could not hear the words.

The lady affected offered little response, shielded as she was by the attentive flutter of surrounding women, each striving to preserve her modesty and prevent any whisper of scandal.

Fortunately, little had been exposed. A few of the women assured Mr. Darcy that his apology was sufficient, though their tone left little doubt that they did not, in truth, consider it so.

A ripple of mockery stirred through that portion of the assembly who had observed the mishap.

It did not erupt into laughter, but rather rustled—like wind through dry leaves—laced with schadenfreude and the quiet delight of witnessing another’s discomfiture.

It was as though they had been awaiting just such a moment to find fault with the gentleman.

Elizabeth did not laugh.

She watched Mr. Darcy in that moment, his apology sincere, his movements quiet and contained.

And though she could not name the feeling that took root in her heart—whether pity or perplexity—she knew it was not scorn.

She expected to see him ashamed, perhaps even angry.

What she saw instead was regret. When his eyes lifted and met hers once more, there was something else there too.

Not humiliation, but a quiet plea that she, at least, might see him differently.

Elizabeth held his gaze a moment longer than she meant to.

Then, without a word, he turned and left the room.