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“Have a care,” warned Lady Marling. “If you continue to insist that you are not engaged, people might begin to think it is a less salubrious arrangement.”

Elizabeth flushed hot, aghast at the notion. “It is nothing of the kind!”

“Of course not,” Lady Rothersea said calmly, “and nobody is suggesting that it is—Mr Darcy is not the sort. Besides, it is evident to everyone that he loves you.”

Those words landed awkwardly, making Elizabeth’s heart hurt and yearn all at once. “Much though I should hate to encourage Lady Marling’s conjecture, I assure you, he does not.”

“Yes, he does, and you love him. There is no point denying it. No one ever heard of two people more besotted with each other—nor of two people dancing a waltz to such fanfare. Folk are running out of superlatives to describe that little display. But have it your way,” she said, conceding at last. “You must manage the business as you see fit. We are clearly not going to succeed in drawing you out.”

Miss Bryant sighed. “I would give an arm and a leg to waltz with Mr Darcy.”

“Then you would dance very poorly, Cousin.”

It seemed Lady Rothersea was tired of the subject—or she had taken pity on Elizabeth. Either way, she turned the conversation with a decisiveness that took the whole room with her.

Almost.

“I imagine it is heavenly to be in his arms,” Miss Bryant whispered. “He is so dashingly handsome. We are all disgustingly jealous.”

Elizabeth only smiled vaguely in answer, then drained her glass and tried in vain to stop herself blushing.

It had been heavenly to be in his arms. He was tall and strong, his touch was warm and comforting, and he was the handsomest gentleman of her acquaintance.

Did that mean she loved him? It would be just her luck to have fallen for a man who despised her.

A footman reached over her shoulder to fill up her glass; she immediately took another gulp of wine?—

“What is he like to kiss?”

—and almost choked.

“He must have kissed you,” Miss Bryant pressed. “He does not seem the sort to wait. Too brooding by half, and the brooding ones are always the most passionate.”

“Helena, Mrs Priory needs a partner. Would you be good enough to oblige her?” Lady Rothersea said, directing her cousin to a table at the far end of the room with a small, apologetic glance at Elizabeth. “Tell me, Miss Bennet, have you been issued a voucher for Almack’s yet?”

“Goodness, no—and neither would I expect to be.”

“Nonsense. You are the woman of the moment. I shall see whether I can get you one.”

Elizabeth thought it best not to protest further and only smiled, though she could not think of anywhere she would like to go less than an assembly room full of this sort of speculation.

A conversation sprang up about the latest couplings to emerge from the famed marriage mart, and Elizabeth ceased listening.

The word ‘love’ was rattling around in her head too loudly for her to fix on anything else.

She wished with all her heart that it did not feel so apt, but now that it had been said, she could think of no other word that better explained the wild fluctuation of her sensibilities where Mr Darcy was concerned.

“Miss Bennet?”

Elizabeth jumped, looking about urgently to see who had addressed her. “I beg your pardon, my mind was miles away. I am not at all used to keeping such hours.”

Lady Harriett smiled sympathetically. “I am the same whenever I have been in the country for any length of time. I was just saying that you must come to my sister’s dinner next Thursday.”

Elizabeth did her best to conceal her vast disinclination. “Your ladyship is very kind, but I am not acquainted with…?”

“Lady Fulcombe,” Lady Harriett confirmed. “Actually, she is not my sister but my brother’s wife’s sister. But she will like very well to have you there. Indeed, I should wager that no guest list will be complete this Season unless you are on it.”

“That is a fine idea, Harriett!” Lady Rothersea said. “I am cross I did not think of it myself. Lord Rothersea and I shall be there too, Miss Bennet. Do say you will come.”

Elizabeth looked helplessly at the sea of expectant faces before her. “I shall have to confirm with my aunt?—”

“Oh, but your family must come too!” Lady Harriett cried.

Elizabeth hesitated, unsure whether her ladyship knew exactly whom she was inviting on Lady Fulcombe’s behalf. “Are you absolutely certain?”

“Perfectly. I have no doubt that your relations must be every bit as charming as you. And I understand your mother is quite the wit.”

Elizabeth fought the impulse to laugh, sure that it would make her sound half-crazed. “I am afraid my mother has left town.”

“Oh, that is a shame. But you are staying with your aunt, are you?”

“And my uncle and sister, yes.”

“Bring them all,” Lady Harriett insisted. “Do say you will.”

In the end, the thing that decided Elizabeth was not the ridiculous suggestion that she was the most sought-after guest in London, nor even the advantage to her uncle that such a party of potential connexions presented.

It was simply that she was too drunk to think of a reasonable excuse not to go—and far too drunk to withstand the temptations of her previous reverie.

Miss Bryant’s talk of embraces and kisses had sent her mind reeling into all manner of salacious reflections, and she found herself unable to muster much concern for aught but Lady Rothersea’s assertion that she must be in love with Mr Darcy.

As it turned out, she was also too drunk to avoid another day of enforced bedrest. An aching head and ill stomach convinced her family that she had, indeed, been too unwell to go to the soiree.

It convinced Elizabeth that she was an unqualified clodpoll, and she spent all four-and-twenty hours prodigiously regretting having agreed to another dinner that could only perpetuate the rumours that would surely give Mr Darcy even more reason to despise her.