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Chapter Fourteen

E lizabeth had never found candlelight so irritating.

It was meant to flatter—soften hard features, warm pallor into glow, blur the sharper edges of aging relatives and overeager suitors. A tool of subtle courtship and social mercy.

Tonight, it only made the ballroom feel like a greenhouse—humid and overripe with expectation. The kind of evening where every word seemed to hang in the air too long, and everyone laughed a beat too loudly to be sincere.

She had danced once with Mr. Denny, who always led like he was preparing for cavalry maneuvers, and once with a Purvis cousin she had never met before and could not pick from a crowd again if she tried.

He had trod on her hem, then her toe, then attempted to apologize in four different tenses while nervously attempting to discuss horology.

Or possibly horticulture. She had stopped listening.

The rest of the evening had been passed smiling in a way that was technically polite, watching Jane float past on Mr. Bingley’s arm, glowing and flushed like a woman recently knighted, and quietly declining invitations from men who offered either poor conversation or poorer posture.

Elizabeth perched on the edge of a tufted settee beside a ficus that had clearly been over-watered into submission. Her journal rested on her knee, open to a fresh page. Her pencil tapped the margin like a drumbeat of determination.

She had not intended to write tonight. But her hands needed something to do. And her pride had demands.

Journal Entry – Netherfield Ball:

Miss Markham—delicate as lace. Likely to faint if someone says the word “waltz” at a proper contre danse.

Miss Lattimer—speaks only in compliments. Mostly about herself. I believe she has congratulated her own cheekbones twice.

Miss Everly—attempted to discuss agricultural yields. I fear I encouraged her. We reached turnips. I may go back later and try her on barley.

Mr. Darcy is executing a lap of the ballroom with all the enthusiasm of a man inspecting livestock. He is dancing with every eligible young woman in Hertfordshire, provided she has never made eye contact with me.

Miss Brereton. Miss Lavinia Goulding. Miss Margaret Wells. Miss Lattimer again.

He has declined two offers to be introduced to “charming young ladies”. They were Kitty and Mary, and they were standing right there. He pretended not to hear the first and misheard the second.

I saw no such confusion when Miss Brereton asked if he liked poetry.

I do not exist.

Correction: I exist only as something to avoid.

He has crossed the floor twice to do so.

Mr. Darcy has the social agility of a weathered boot.

She closed the journal with a snap just as Jane passed by again, cheeks flushed and lace slightly askew, Mr. Bingley trailing beside her with the air of a man who believed punch was a romantic overture. Jane looked breathless and delighted; Elizabeth tried not to hold either against her.

Darcy stood a few feet off, speaking to no one and managing to look as though the entire arrangement—the beverages, the music, the company—had been organized exclusively to irritate him.

He made a short, formal bow as they passed and immediately turned to Miss Brereton, who had been lurking artfully in the vicinity with a fan and a neckline that had slipped fractionally lower every hour.

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. He had a perfect opportunity there, but he had not asked Jane to dance. He had not spoken a word to any of her sisters all night. And he had not so much as looked at Elizabeth since she entered the room.

Which was all very proper, of course. Sensible. Undoubtedly in keeping with whatever code of glacial civility he held sacred.

It was not as though she had expected—well. Anything.

Certainly not attention. Or acknowledgment. Or the barest nod of acquaintance. Their understanding was perfectly clear—he needed a bride in a hurry, and neither of them wanted it to be her. So, apparently her sisters were off-limits as well.

Still.

The evening unfolded with increasing clamor—faster dances, louder laughter, and the particular kind of gaiety that often precedes a headache. Charlotte dropped beside her once and laid a hand lightly on her arm.

“Are you certain you are not ill?” she asked, low enough to pass for subtle.

Elizabeth smiled. “Only bored.”

Charlotte did not look convinced. “Then you must apply yourself. There are at least three gentlemen near the windows who appear both available and possessed of adequate limbs.”

“I shall rush to inspect their ankles.”

“You are not fooling anyone.”

“On the contrary—I believe I am fooling nearly everyone. Except you, of course. You were always annoyingly perceptive.”

Charlotte smiled. “It is one of the few qualities no one has ever tried to marry me for.”

Elizabeth snorted. “Their loss, I assure you.”

Charlotte shook her head and drifted back to where her younger sisters were retying hair ribbons and whispering about the musicians. Elizabeth remained seated, her journal now tucked beside her, but her pencil still in hand, twirling between her fingers with practiced disinterest.

Across the room, Miss Lavinia Goulding was swept through a long-wise turn with so much flourished enthusiasm that she lost her footing mid-turn and had to cling to her partner like a cat to a curtain.

Two young men near the hearth were discussing cavalry commissions in voices better suited to battlefield orders than polite society.

Somewhere near the card room, her mother’s laughter rose above the crowd—triumphant, prolonged, and just a hair too loud to be comforting.

Elizabeth was perfectly content. Entirely. Unshakably.

She reached for her journal again.

Pink gown attempted a twirl and nearly took out a footman. Recovery unclear.

Green gown has been adjusting her gloves for twenty minutes. They are either enchanted or too tight.

4 is whispering scandal to 5. 5 is repeating it at full volume.

A certain saint is still nodding politely to a man who believes pheasant hunting is a conversation topic.

A matron related to me just asked someone’s cousin about his income. I have lost track of which cousin.

Orange gown is smiling as if it hurts. It may. I shall inquire as soon as I find my shoe, for it seems to have slipped off my foot. I cannot decide if I am more annoyed or relieved.

She had just begun debating whether one could fake a twisted ankle to justify leaving early, when a flicker of movement caught her eye.

Another gentleman—Mr. Howarth, cheerful and recently sunburned from an overlong hunting excursion—was cutting across the room toward her with the clear, inevitable gait of a man about to request a dance.

He had spent part of the evening engaged in a heated discussion about partridge with Sir William Lucas, and part of it staring hopefully at whichever young lady happened to be seated nearest the musicians.

Elizabeth sat up a little straighter. Smoothed her skirt. Prepared the clever little line she had rehearsed for the occasion—something lightly charming, not overly eager, just enough wit to suggest that she was entirely unbothered by having been ignored for most of the night.

And then—

“Miss Elizabeth.”

The voice did not belong to Mr. Howarth.

It was lower. Less amiable. And unmistakable.

She turned, and there he was.

Mr. Darcy stood at her side, his coat immaculate, his face composed to the precise degree of formality that suggested he might be thinking—or feeling—absolutely anything.

“May I have the honor of the supper set?”

Her mouth opened. The supper set? The words tumbled out too quickly, too brightly.

“I would be delighted.”

She froze. That had not been for him. That had been meant for Mr. Howarth—cheerful, sunburnt, safely unimportant Mr. Howarth.

It was too eager. Too prepared. Too obviously rehearsed.

Darcy inclined his head in acknowledgment—clipped, polite, maddening—and walked away without another word.

No smirk. No hesitation. No attempt at conversation. Just a swift, silent retreat, leaving her with a flushed face, a misplaced line, and the unpleasant sensation of having somehow been outmaneuvered in a game she had not agreed to play.

She tried not to glare as he crossed the floor. Took the hand of Miss Latimer for the next dance. As if the last thirty seconds had not occurred at all.

Elizabeth stared at her lap.

Then picked up her journal again.

Addendum:

Apparently, I am annoyed. And I suspect that man practices being insufferable in the mirror.

Miss Latimer's gown was lemon-colored and determined to make a statement. Her laugh had the crisp ring of someone who had been practicing it since birth. Darcy looked down at her as one might regard an instruction manual written in an unfamiliar dialect.

Well, what did she care, anyway? Surely there was something more interesting to see in the room.

It began with a ripple—subtle at first, like the rustle before a curtain rises. Conversations paused mid-word. A few heads turned. Then a whisper passed from one corner to the next, trailing curiosity in its wake.

Elizabeth looked up from where she sat, half-listening to the music, and followed the attention across the room—just in time to see the figure standing poised at the threshold, perfectly lit by the chandelier above.

Mr. Wickham had arrived.

He was in full uniform, perfectly pressed, with a shine on his boots and a smile already blooming before he had even crossed the threshold. He paused just inside the ballroom, long enough for everyone to notice. Not so long as to appear staged.

It was theatrical in a way Darcy would have despised. Which, Elizabeth suspected, was half the point.

He greeted Mrs. Goulding first, then bowed over Miss Lavinia’s hand in a manner that could have passed for chivalry if one were feeling generous. His eyes passed over the musicians, the refreshments, the dancers—and found her.

Elizabeth did not look away.