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Elizabeth glanced up at him with such an alluringly arch expression that he genuinely feared it might render him indecent to be in public. “I might. Do you?”

“I do. Will your uncle object to your dancing it?”

“I hope not, for as you say, I am not sure we can escape it. They have done this on purpose, have they not? To justify all their speculations.”

He nodded. “Do not allow it to unnerve you.”

“Oh, do not worry. I am not easily intimidated. But I do not enjoy performing for strangers.”

The music began, and Darcy took up her hands. “Then it is a very good thing that I am not a stranger to you.”

A faint blush broke out across her cheeks, her lips parting as they had when she blew on her tea, and Darcy pulled her into the first hold with barely restrained fervour.

Wherever she had learnt the waltz, she had learnt it well.

They spun through the figures with faultless grace, matching each other effortlessly.

Her pleasure in the dance was infectious.

She made every aspect of it more enjoyable; the music was more rousing, the candlelight more brilliant, the activity more invigorating.

The joy of it was so heady, and the feel of her, warm and supple, beneath his hands, was so sublime, so distracting, that he forgot to talk at first. He almost resented the recollection that she had admonished him for being silent during their last dance, at Netherfield, for he would happily have completed the whole set in silent admiration.

For her alone, he forced himself to speak.

“I have been remiss in not telling you how very well you look this evening.”

Elizabeth looked thoroughly taken aback, thanked him in very few words, and returned to silence. Darcy was somewhat amused to comprehend that he had embarrassed her. It was more commonly she who left him tongue-tied and stupid.

“It is your turn to say something now,” he teased.

She smiled wryly. “Very well. Did you know I would be here this evening?”

“No, it was a very pleasant surprise. Why do you ask?”

“I have been trying to work out why we keep running into each other.”

A string of oaths rang through Darcy’s mind, all of them directed towards Bingley.

But he could hardly tell Elizabeth that he had been searching for the man who abandoned her sister and seduced her mother; thus he was forced to equivocate.

“For all its contrariety of inhabitants, London is not such a large place.”

She regarded him searchingly, as well she might, for London was the largest city with the densest population in Europe.

“Metaphorically speaking,” he added.

“Oh, I understood you—and am inclined to agree, for if it were any larger, you might have avoided my mother.”

The mention of Mrs Bennet so soon after the reminder of Bingley momentarily disconcerted Darcy, and before he could think how to answer, Elizabeth winced.

“I would have done better not to remind you of that encounter, would I not?”

“Think nothing of it.”

She nodded and gave him a highly unconvincing smile, which dropped away instantly. “Would that I could,” she muttered.

“Is something the matter? Has something happened concerning your mother?”

She winced again, and mis-stepped. Darcy tensed his arms, keeping their frame solid whilst guiding her gently back into the correct pattern, turning them both smoothly between the other dancers until she regained her rhythm.

She whispered her thanks, which he would have enjoyed considerably more were he not preoccupied with the apprehension that she had discovered her mother’s indiscretion.

“You must not feel obliged to tell me, of course, but I hope you know you may depend on my secrecy.”

She held his gaze, and there was real gratitude in her countenance. “She is refusing to go home,” she whispered.

Darcy was at once relieved that Elizabeth did not know the truth and dismayed to perceive the extent of her distress.

He pressed his hand more firmly into her shoulder in the hope that it would offer some of the same comfort as if he were able to embrace her properly.

“I am sorry for you. I regret that I cannot be of more help.”

Her eyes seemed to soften as she regarded him, and a warm smile, this one lasting longer than the blink of an eye, played gently across her lips. He imagined kissing her—and was shocked by the intensity of the immediate desire to enact his reverie.

“I did not expect that you would be able to help, sir. Indeed, I cannot quite believe I have told you, for I know you can have no flattering opinion on the subject. But I confess, it is a relief to say it aloud. I have been obliged to conceal it from the rest of my family. You are kind to lend an ear.”

“Have I acquitted myself better in this dance than our last, then?”

She looked fleetingly surprised, then laughed with such open delight that it made him chuckle too.

“Much better,” she declared. “And you have certainly succeeded in amazing the whole room.”

“No, Miss Elizabeth, that was indisputably your doing.”

“I am not sure either of us can truly take credit for it. They seem to have taken it upon themselves to be amazed by us regardless of what we do. This had certainly better be our only dance. We ought not to fan the flames any further.”

Darcy did not answer her. She was undoubtedly right, but the longer he held her in his arms, the longer he watched her smiling and laughing, the more reluctant he grew to ever give her up.

He would happily dance again with her—and more than happily do a good deal more than the waltz.

The temptation to pull her all the way into his arms and kiss her until she understood exactly what she did to him was a constant torment.

There were no two ways about it. He wanted this. He wanted Elizabeth.