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reproached himself in silence. How could he discompose her yet again?

“Miss Mary,”

he said with a rueful glance.

“I must apologise. I know not how it happens, but I invariably leave you downcast by the time I have done speaking. I fear my self-appointed role as your friend has proven a most lamentable failure.”

To his surprise, she shook her head, a faint smile returning to her lips.

“No, Colonel, you are at least honest. I am far more accustomed to such candour from another—my mother, who never hesitates to express her opinions of me with the utmost frankness.”

The words might have escaped her before she could prevent them, for a faint blush coloured her cheeks.

“Perhaps I should not have said that,”

she added, her voice low with sudden self-consciousness.

“My tongue has a tendency to run away with me.”

“And here I am, reproaching myself for the very same error,”

he said with a smile.

“Miss Mary, if I may, know that I am always ready to listen to whatever you wish to say, even should it cause me some discomfort. I have been told I am a listener of some tolerable sort, though I fear I sometimes say things that might make you wish to cast your boot in my direction.”

“I very nearly considered it,”

she replied, her eyes alight with dry amusement.

“But I should not like to return to Longbourn without them.”

“Well, I am grateful for that eventuality,”

he said, with an exaggerated sigh of relief.

“I confess I have little desire to wear a boot as an impromptu decoration to my face.”

They continued in companionable silence for some minutes. Yet , despite the ease between them, found himself on the brink of a question—one which had lingered in his mind since their first acquaintance. He knew, however, that to voice it might provoke a sharper exchange than any which had come before.

“You appear lost in thought,”

she observed.

started.

“Indeed? And how could you tell?”

“You have not spoken for several moments,”

she replied.

“It is not in your nature to be silent, except when in doubt.”

Her remark startled him, though not unpleasantly. A curious warmth stirred in his chest.

“I am so,”

he said, his tone softer than usual.

“But I fear the subject upon my mind may bring you more unease than it is worth. Perhaps it is best left for another day.”

“Ah!”

she exclaimed, smiling.

“So—one troublesome topic per day. You proceed most methodically, Colonel.”

“I beg your pardon?”

said he, looking quite at a loss.

“You are attempting to change me, little by little,”

she returned, her tone light but unmistakable.

He stopped short and turned to face her, astonishment plain in his countenance.

“Why should I wish to change you?”

“I have not the slightest notion,”

said she, lifting her shoulders with a look both playful and inscrutable.

“Yet I begin to suspect it is your object.”

“Miss Mary,”

he said.

“I assure you, I harbour no wish to change you—though I may, now and then, endeavour to offer you a challenge.”

She studied him for a moment.

“Then pray, tell me,”

she said.

“when might the next such challenge occur?”

hesitated. He might, even now, retreat from the subject—but he detected a spark of anticipation in her eyes.

With a resigned breath, he relented.

“Very well, Miss Mary. I chanced to overhear your younger sisters speaking with Georgiana of a ball to be held next week, at Purvis Lodge.”

As he had foreseen, her expression altered at once, and her gaze fell.

“I do not dance, Colonel,”

she said softly.

“That is not true, Miss Mary.”

“No,”

she murmured.

“I do not dance. No one ever asks me.”

“Ah—now that, I grant, is the truth.”

“Pray, do not ask me, Colonel,”

she said, with quiet urgency.

“I would much rather sit out the whole of the evening than dance once with you, only to be left without a partner thereafter. No one expects me to dance, after all.”

He regarded her closely.

“And how many such balls or assemblies have you attended, Miss Mary?”

She sighed.

“Balls? Only one—that at Netherfield. Assemblies? Perhaps four each year; so, ten, or thereabouts, since I came out.”

He gave a thoughtful nod.

“And how many times have you danced?”

She glanced at him, a wary expression crossing her features.

“Why do you ask me all this, Colonel?”

“Pray humour me, Miss Mary. How many times have you danced, if I may ask?”

Mary hesitated, unease plainly visible in her countenance. At last, with an air of reluctant resignation, she replied.

“At my first assembly, I danced twice—perhaps thrice. I was so discomposed, I scarcely remember replying to anything my partner said.”

She turned away slightly, a faint colour rising to her cheeks.

“Indeed, I can recollect very little of it.”

’s expression softened.

“Who prepared you for your come-out?”

he asked gently.

“Prepared?”

she echoed.

“No one. I dressed as best I could. Jane and Lizzy did what they could to ease my nerves, but…”

Her voice faltered, her gaze drifting lower.

A shadow passed over ’s face.

“And had you a new gown for the occasion?”

“Certainly not,”

she replied at once, shaking her head, as though the notion were quite absurd.

“I recall my mother declaring—only the day before—that it would be a waste to spend money on gowns for me. All her attention was fixed on Jane.”

could only shake his head. That any mother should think so—and worse, speak so—was wholly beyond comprehension.

“Colonel,”

she said softly.

“as I have already told you—do not ask me to dance. I know you saw me in the grove that day—dancing—and you ought not to have done so. You surprised me in a moment I ought never to have indulged.”

Though a flush of vexation rose within him, maintained his composure. He knew that anger would serve him little with a lady so obstinate.

“Miss Mary,”

he said, his tone graver.

“how many dances are customarily held at a ball in this neighbourhood?”

She looked up, surprised.

“I know not, Colonel. It is not every year we are treated to a ball. The Netherfield ball is the only one I remember. There were ten dances in all.”

“Very well. And do you recall how many sets there were before supper?”

“Seven,”

she answered at once.

“Then we may agree that there could be six before the supper dance,”

he said, turning to her with resolute calm.

“Miss Mary, I propose this: if you are to dance the first six at the next week’s ball, then—and only then—will I presume to request the honour of your supper dance.”

She shook her head.

“But Colonel—how am I to engage in the first six? As I have told you, I am seldom asked to dance.”

He smiled.

“That may be so, Miss Mary—yet you have not answered my question.”

She lowered her gaze, her gloved hands twisting lightly in her lap. After a moment’s hesitation, she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“Very well, Colonel. If, by some extraordinary chance, I am engaged for the first six dances, then I shall consent to the supper dance with you—though I confess, I see little likelihood of such a thing coming to pass.”

“That need not concern you, Miss Mary. The matter lies with me. However, I must ask a small favour in return.”

She looked at him with wary eyes.

“Do you ever permit your sisters to assist with your appearance?”

he asked.

“Unless I am mistaken, you are accustomed to declining such offers.”

Her lips parted, and though her voice rose slightly, her tone was composed and earnest.

“I see no merit in altering one’s manner or appearance for the sake of trifling attentions. If a lady must be dressed out like a shop ornament to be noticed, I can place little value on such notice. I would far rather pass unregarded in sincerity than be admired under false pretences. Such as it is, my appearance is my own, and I shall not embellish it merely to gratify the caprices of fashion.”

drew breath and strove for calm. Yet even his patience, long exercised, had its limit. The frustration he had long suppressed, not just at Miss Mary, but at everything, now broke free, unbidden and without disguise.

“You speak, Miss Mary,”

he began, his voice low and fervent, his expression betraying the strength of his feeling.

“of beauty as though it were a mere ornament—idle, fleeting, and vain. You treat it as something to resist, to cast aside, as though it were a moral failing. But I wonder—what can you know of its absence? Of a darkness so complete as to rob the senses? Of a silence so profound it resembles death’s own stillness?”

He stepped forward—not so much in distance as in earnestness—his voice deepening with feeling.

“Have you ever been cast into such profound darkness as to stifle the very soul? Have you sat in stillness so deep, so lifeless, that even the beat of your own heart seemed like a betrayal? Tell me, Miss Mary—have you ever truly feared that you might not live to see another dawn? I have. And when that dawn comes—when the world stirs once more with light and colour—it is not vanity that compels one to cherish beauty, but need. Having witnessed ruin, having seen men broken and lives undone, one learns that beauty is no mere indulgence. It is a solace, a certainty, and something essential.”

He paused. She stood silent; her countenance remained fixed, though her lips parted slightly.

“I have served His Majesty these thirteen years,”

he continued, quieter now though no less impassioned.

“So many of them upon foreign shores—beneath scorching suns and amidst bitter frost—upon fields so steeped in violence that the very air was heavy with its taint. I have lain in frozen trenches, wrapped in a sodden greatcoat, and prayed—prayed, Miss Mary—not for victory, nor for honour, but for no more than the grace to open my eyes upon another day.”

He turned slightly, as though he found it difficult to meet her gaze fully, then looked back with something wounded in his eyes.

“Since you speak of sermons, Miss Mary, permit me to offer mine. Did not God, in His infinite mercy, clothe the earth with loveliness? Why, then, should it be deemed unworthy that a man battered by the world might yearn for the grace of beauty—not to possess it, but simply to behold it?”

He drew another breath, more a sigh than one of fortitude.

“Our eyes, Miss Mary, were not given us solely to pore over Scripture or to discern vice. They were given, too, that we might take joy in the goodness of the world—its colour, its form, its elegance—and, if we are blessed, to glimpse the soul of another reflected in their countenance. So do not, I beg you, mistake indifference for the loftiest virtue. There is virtue, too, in warmth, in gentleness, in love rightly placed. And yes—there is holiness in beholding what is fair, and in giving thanks that such fairness yet exists amidst the ruin.”

He looked at her then—truly looked—and what he saw seemed to still him, for her eyes, though brimming, did not fall.

“I have seen the world stripped bare, Miss Mary,”

he whispered.

“and would forfeit every line of Fordyce’s wearisome sermons for one honest, unguarded smile—from a woman who sees me not as a wayward soul in need of correction, but as a man who has suffered—and who, still, against all reason, dares to hope.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words. Whatever reply might have formed upon her lips, was in no frame of mind to hear it. He was weary, and all he desired was to spare her from his presence.

“Forgive me,”

he said abruptly.

“I fear I am unfit for company today.”

With a hurried bow, he turned away, his steps quick and uneven as he left her alone in the garden, the breeze stirring the leaves in his wake.