Page 23

“How goes your plan, cousin?”

inquired .

“I believe it is progressing admirably,”

Richard responded, a cheerful grin spreading across his face.

“I am most grateful for your assistance. I cannot recall ever seeing you quite so agreeable as when you sought Miss Mary for her dance.”

“What can I say?”

said, shrugging with an air of indifference.

“When one’s cousin is sadly deficient in charm, one must step in and perform the necessary duty.”

“I shall grant you that small victory, cousin,”

Richard said.

“Merely for the assistance you have rendered.”

Richard’s attention was soon diverted, and followed the direction of his gaze. Mr. John Lucas was approaching the Bennet ladies, and, as expected, he made a direct course for Miss Mary. observed as her countenance brightened with a smile, and before long, Mr. Lucas had offered her hand, guiding her toward the dance floor.

“Three down,”

Richard said, a faint smile crossing his face.

“Three to go.”

nodded, but even as they moved, the unmistakable voice of Mrs. Bennet cut through the gentle hum of the room.

“Ten thousand pounds! Good heavens! And Mary, of all my daughters! Good heavens!”

’s shoulders stiffened. Richard cast him a sidelong glance and offered a brief pat to his arm.

“Think nothing of it—she is all clamour and no consequence,”

he said lightly.

inclined his head, though the slight tightening at the corners of his mouth betrayed his irritation. Turning to Miss Catherine, his next partner, he found—almost against his will—his gaze drawn to Miss Elizabeth.

She was watching him, her brow gently furrowed in concern. Instantly, his expression softened, and he offered her a smile intended to reassure. He would not have her pained by her mother’s want of decorum.

Her features eased, and she returned a tentative smile before turning to Bingley, who had just approached to claim her dance. did likewise for Miss Catherine, while Richard crossed the floor to Miss Bennet.

As the couples arranged themselves, none among them observed the watchful pair of eyes that followed each movement with quiet, speculative interest.

Mary

“It is a pleasure to see you dancing again, Mary,”

said John with an amiable smile.

“I do not believe I have had the honour since your very first assembly.”

Mary could not dispute it. John had indeed been one of her two partners on that anxious occasion—when her nerves had run high, her muslin gown had seemed as stiff as her manner, and she had been wholly at a loss in the company of a gentleman.

Not long after, a mild case of scarlet fever had passed through the neighbourhood. Though swiftly contained and of little lasting consequence, it had occasioned the cessation of all social engagements for nearly eight months. During that time, John had gone away and missed the two assemblies that followed.

Upon his return, he had asked her again, and she had—though with every civility—declined. By then, she had taken up sermons and the cultivation of her mind, deeming dancing a frivolous pastime, unworthy of one of serious character.

He had not asked again—until tonight.

There had long existed a cordial acquaintance between the Lucas and Bennet families. John and his brother Samuel had been familiar companions to the Bennet sisters since childhood. They had chased chickens together, upset apple baskets, and addressed one another by their Christian names long before propriety had begun to demand more formal intercourse.

Mary had heard murmurs of John’s interest in Miss Agatha Long, one of the quieter nieces of Mrs. Long.

“I am glad to dance with you as well, John,”

she said, offering him a warm smile.

“And I do regret having declined you previously.”

“Pray, think nothing of it, Mary,”

he said.

“We all pass through seasons when we long to be something other than ourselves. Do you recall my brief foray into poetry?”

Mary gave a soft laugh.

“I do. You were but fifteen, and composed a sonnet to the cat.”

“I did,”

he replied with a dramatic sigh.

“And thank heaven it lasted but six months. My mother still shudders at the memory of it.”

Mary smiled, her nerves already soothed. As Mr. had done earlier, John was performing a kindness—engaging her in light conversation, shielding her from the many curious eyes lingering at her from every direction.

“Poor Lady Lucas,”

she said with mock gravity.

“Anyhow,”

said John, giving a cheerful nod as their steps fell into rhythm.

“now that you have begun to enjoy the dance again, I do hope you will continue. It would be a great shame if this were to be your last for the evening.”

Mary looked up at him, studying his expression briefly. She knew that both Mr. and Charles had danced with her at the Colonel’s request. But John?

“Pray, John, indulge me,”

she said after a pause, carefully choosing her words.

“Has anyone encouraged you to dance with me?”

She came close to mentioning the Colonel, but prudence stayed her tongue.

“Perhaps one of my sisters?”

John regarded her as if she had asked whether he came by order of the parish authorities.

“Certainly not,”

he said, genuinely confused.

“Why ever would they? I asked you of my own accord, I assure you.”

Mary nodded. There was no reason to doubt him—John’s honesty had never been in question. Yet she could not quite rid herself of the suspicion that the Colonel, in his well-intentioned scheming, had had some hand even here. The thought lingered with unexpected weight.

“Is something the matter, Mary?”

asked John, his gaze full of concern.

She shook her head without hesitation.

“No—no, John. Pray, forget I asked. It was a thoughtless question.”

The music ceased, and with a polite bow, he escorted her back to her sisters. Scarcely had she reached them when Mr. Chamberlain, one of the officers, approached and, with all due decorum, requested the honour of her hand for the next set.

And so it came to pass that Mary Bennet, long resigned to sitting out more dances than she joined, found herself engaged for a fourth—an unprecedented triumph, one which left her feeling quite breathless.