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cast a thoughtful glance across the room. Miss Mary had already danced four times, yet no gentleman appeared inclined to secure her hand for the fifth.

“Richard,”

said quietly, with the air one stating a simple truth.

“you must know that Miss Mary would not deny you the supper dance, even were she to sit out the next two. She would not consider it any breach of honour.”

“I do know it,”

replied Richard, crossing his arms and casting a glance about the assembly.

“But you must ask yourself—do you truly wish me to go back on my word?”

“I could never ask that of you,”

said .

“Still, let us be fair—you have accomplished what you intended. Miss Mary has been sought out by others, and for her own merit, no less. You did not press Mr. Lucas, nor whisper in the ear of that accommodating officer.”

“No, indeed,”

replied Richard.

“But I hold out hope that two more gentlemen will step forward. For if I am to dance the supper set with her before she has danced six times, I fear I shall never hear the end of it—and I am quite certain you shall be the loudest voice in that particular chorus.”

’s expression grew sly.

“Well, I will not say I shall not.”

“There! You see?”

exclaimed Richard.

“Your honesty is appreciated, if not exactly comforting. If only for the sake of my future peace, I must persist in this little quest.”

He nodded discreetly towards the far side of the room.

“And now, do you see Mr. Collins? Our aunt’s esteemed parson has yet to dance a single set with any of his cousins.”

“I had noticed,”

replied, his tone tinged with disapproval.

“I suspect he still nurses the wound inflicted by Miss Elizabeth’s refusal. In a clergyman, such pettiness is especially unbecoming.”

“Quite so,”

said Richard.

“Although, considering our aunt Catherine’s criteria for patronage, I fear Christian virtue was never among them.”

was just opening his mouth to reply when his eye fell upon a young man approaching the Bennet ladies. He was unknown to either, yet carried himself with confidence.

“Do you know who that is?”

Richard asked, watching narrowly as the gentleman bowed to Miss Mary.

“I have not the faintest notion,”

answered.

As they looked on, the young man led Miss Mary toward the dance floor. They arrived just as the first notes of music began to swell, their entrance timed to perfection.

Recalling his earlier promise, Richard hastened towards Miss Lucas to claim his dance. , distracted by his cousin’s affairs, had yet to secure a partner. His eyes swept the hall in search of an unpartnered lady, but before he could approach, a voice spoke softly behind him.

“That young man is Augustus Goulding,”

said Mr. Bennet, appearing at his elbow with the noiseless tread of a cat.

“He has been away at his studies. Only returned a few days back.”

turned, half suspicious, half astonished.

“Good heavens—Mr. Bennet, you had no hand in Miss Mary’s sudden surge of partners, I hope?”

Mr. Bennet’s eyes twinkled as he gave a negligent shrug.

“For the last two dances, no; but for this one—”

He paused for effect.

“Well, I might have given Augustus a little encouragement. The musicians were about to begin, and he was standing right there, talking to me. A gentle nudge seemed only the right thing to do.”

’s expression darkened slightly. Richard would not take kindly to hearing that Miss Mary’s dance card was being directed by several unseen hands.

Mr. Bennet smiled slyly.

“Let us agree not to inform your cousin, or my daughter. After all, it is but a harmless bit of artifice—if one may call it such. A well-placed suggestion is hardly a contrivance. Besides,”

he added with an arch glance.

“what, I ask, are fathers for, if not to gently guide young men towards those daughters most worthy of their attentions?”

raised an eyebrow.

“And why do you suppose it is my cousin who stands behind all this?”

Mr. Bennet chuckled softly.

“Well, Mr. , I cannot imagine you concocting such a scheme. You, sir, are far too proper for that. As for poor Mr. Bingley...”

He paused, a grin widening across his face.

“He is so open-hearted and amiable that, were he ever to engage in such a contrivance—which I assure you he would not—he would most likely announce it to every soul within hearing.”

Mr. Bennet was indeed very observant. could not help but wonder at the sudden change in Mr. Bennet’s interest in his daughters’ affairs—though he was too cautious to inquire further.

“You are no doubt wondering,”

Mr. Bennet continued, his voice lowering to a tone of amused mystery.

“why I have taken such an uncharacteristic interest in my daughters’ matters.”

blinked, growing convinced that Mr. Bennet had taken up mind-reading.

“There is no need to answer,”

Mr. Bennet went on.

“Mary has changed these past few weeks—quieter, yes, but not as before. There is a softness about her now, a hopefulness that I could not explain. Then I saw you approach her for a dance”—he smiled wryly—“and knowing your affections lie quite elsewhere, I suspected a scheme. A noble one, mind you. I resolved to stay in the hall and observe how it unfolded. Even I must confess,”

he added more gently.

“there is a certain pleasure in seeing one’s child dance with such joy. When I saw my daughter searching in vain for a partner, with young Augustus standing by me—well, he was simply in the right place at the right time.”

regarded the older man with surprise.

“You are a better father than you would have us believe.”

Mr. Bennet waved this off with a flourish.

“Nonsense, Mr. . I am merely vain enough to take pleasure in a well-executed plan—especially when I may claim some credit for it without exerting too much effort,”

he said with a grin that bordered on pride.

“After all, what is life, if not for a touch of subtle orchestration?”

accepted the explanation with a soft chuckle, as Mr. Bennet no doubt intended. Yet he could not help but suspect there was more to Mr. Bennet than met the eye.

Mary

Mary could scarcely restrain a grateful smile when Mr. Goulding offered to fetch her a glass of punch. Had she possessed the foresight to anticipate that five sets danced without interruption might leave her utterly exhausted, she might have paused before submitting herself to the Colonel’s scheme. She sat in a state of most elegant fatigue, uncertain whether she might even have the strength to rise for the supper dance—the very dance, the moment of triumph, to which all the evening had inclined.

Mr. Goulding delivered the refreshment and promptly withdrew. Mary sipped gratefully at the punch and cast her eyes about the room in search of her next partner. She must dance the next; to sit out now, after so much contrivance, would be insupportable. The thought of forfeiting her dance with the Colonel, after so much effort, was more than she could bear.

No gentleman, however, approached her. The musicians were tuning their instruments with maddening deliberation. With a most uncharacteristic boldness, she rose and stepped forward—away from the cluster of young ladies, in hopes of drawing notice. She marvelled at herself. Was this the same Mary who, but a week past, would have deemed such conduct forward, perhaps even wanton?

Relief—though brief and imperfect—arrived in the form of an approaching red coat: Captain Carter. Mary’s spirits lifted, only to sink at once in quiet disappointment, for the Captain bowed and passed her by without so much as a second glance. He made directly for Kitty, who accepted his invitation with such studied indifference as might almost have been mistaken for reluctance.

Even Kitty and Lydia had, to general astonishment, each sat out two dances—a circumstance so rare as to suggest there was something peculiar in the very air of the ballroom.

The first plaintive strains of the violin rose. Mary stood quite still. Surely not yet? She turned towards the musicians, who, with merciless composure, were indeed beginning the next set. A painful flutter stirred in her breast.

Could it truly be? After all the anticipation, the exertions, the contrivances—was she to remain unpartnered for the very set that ought to crown her evening with the one honour she had prized above all others?

With little heed to appearances, she turned her gaze about the room in search of the Colonel, resolved to entreat him to secure her supper set, even should she be passed over for this one. Yet he already had a partner, and though he stood quietly at the edge of the floor, his eyes—marked by concern—remained fixed upon her.

Just then, as though the course of the evening had shifted by some unseen design, Mr. himself began to approach her with marked intent. Mary’s eyes widened in disbelief and no small degree of alarm. Mr. ! He had not yet danced with Elizabeth, and for him to do so twice with her would border upon impropriety. She could not—ought not—permit such a thing, and resolved to convey as much with all the firmness civility would allow.

And then—merciful Providence!—another figure emerged at her right. Her father, whose distaste for dancing was rivalled only by his distaste for society at large, was making his way toward her with an expression quite unreadable. The very notion of his soliciting a dance would astonish the entire assembly; it would not merely occasion surprise, but quite surpass every other event of the evening.

But neither Mr. nor Mr. Bennet reached her.

A voice—low, earnest, and slightly nasal—sounded just behind her.

“Miss Mary,”

said Mr. Collins.

“I would be honoured if you would condescend to dance this set with me.”

A breath escaped her lips—a breath she had scarce realised she was holding. Her alarm, her pride, her confusion—all gave way to a sensation so quietly ordinary, so blessedly untroubled, that she could only smile. It was a true smile, free of artifice; and to her astonishment, it seemed to render Mr. Collins speechless.

“I shall dance with you, Mr. Collins,”

she said. And as she placed her hand upon his arm and joined the forming set, she could not help but marvel—how strange are the workings of fate! That Mr. Collins, of all people, should be cast in the role of her saviour.

Yet in that moment, she had no true notion of what she had consented to. Scarcely had the first figure begun when Mr. Collins had already trodden upon her foot no fewer than three times—once with considerable weight. Thus far, he remained unusually silent, as though labouring to compose his thoughts—an effort of restraint that, in Mr. Collins, bordered on the heroic.

At length, his words began to pour forth—just as Mary winced from a fourth stamp upon her toes.

“Ah! My dear Miss Mary!”

he exclaimed, misinterpreting her wince as a sigh of rapture.

“How fortunate that we should find ourselves thus joined in the gayest exertions of society, for there is a particular subject upon which I have desired to address you.”

Mary, now limping but slightly, cast him an inquisitive glance.

Mr. Collins leaned in far too close, his tone lowering to a confidential murmur.

“There are, Miss Mary, persons in this assembly—persons of considerable rank—whose manners, though seemingly devoid of pomp, may, to the unguarded eye, invite attentions that are, alas, far above one’s expectations.”

He stepped left instead of right, and another stamp fell upon Mary’s other foot. She stifled a yelp, already fearing for her next dance with the Colonel.

“I speak,”

Mr. Collins continued, utterly oblivious to her discomfort.

“with the deepest admiration for your—well—most admirable qualities, which, if I may be permitted to say, combine the moral instruction of conduct books with the more agreeable accomplishments of music.”

Mary blinked.

“I beg your pardon?”

He smiled smugly, like a man who mistakes his own nonsense for profound wit.

“In short, my dear Miss Mary, it has come to my notice—through the most delicate and reliable channels—that you may have, knowingly or not, given particular attention to a gentleman most closely connected with my illustrious patroness—Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park.”

He gave her a meaningful look, as though expecting her to swoon from the shock of her own indiscretion.

A sudden, dismaying clarity came upon her; she saw where this was headed. Mr. Collins had, by some inevitable blunder or gossip, come to hear of her acquaintance with the Colonel.

And was it but an acquaintance? Surely—it must be so… must it not?

Had not the Colonel himself hinted that he could not marry where he pleased?

“I... I think you must be mistaken,”

she said at length, each word chosen as delicately as a fragile porcelain cup.

“There is no danger of... whatever it is you imagine.”

“Ah!”

cried Mr. Collins, seizing upon her interruption with the eagerness of a cat upon an unsuspecting wren.

“But that, Miss Mary, is precisely where the danger lies—not in what is said, but in what is believed!”

He swept out an arm, narrowly missing the ear of a passing dancer.

“There are men—noble men, connected by blood and virtue to the highest ranks—whose manners are so genteel, so unguardedly gallant, that a young lady of soft heart and sound upbringing may, quite unwittingly, begin to entertain what I must charitably term... hopes.”

Another stomp—this time, entirely on beat.

Mary’s expression—formerly fatigued—now contorted into a bewildering blend of pain, disbelief, and a rising, unfamiliar sense of indignation.

“Sir,”

she said sharply.

“if you are implying that I—I, who have never knowingly conducted myself in any manner—”

“No, no!”

interrupted Mr. Collins hastily, raising a hand as though to ward off scandal itself.

“No need to elaborate! I seek not a confession, but your protection. I only endeavour, dear cousin, to shield you from the exquisite torment of misapplied aspirations—a torment, I assure you, that few can bear. These men—these high-born gentlemen, for all their charming condescension—are invariably destined for unions befitting their elevated lineage. I speak, of course, with all the humility of one deeply acquainted with such circles.”

Before Mary could summon a reply—though, truth be told, she had no inclination to do so—the dance drew to a close.

With a final flourish so exaggerated it might yet disturb the sleeve of a lady two sets over, Mr. Collins seized her arm and began steering her toward the chairs by the refreshment table, bearing her with all the solemnity of a man conducting a wounded comrade from the battlefield.

“I trust,”

he gasped, dabbing his brow with a handkerchief.

“that I have fulfilled my duty—as a clergyman, a cousin, and, I daresay, as a man of the world who has seen much.”

He released her hand, and she nearly sank into the nearest seat, overwhelmed by the blessed relief of one freed from captivity.