Page 28

He took his time. Another few pleasantries. A compliment to Maria Lucas that made her giggle. Then, at last, he made his way toward Elizabeth with the easy confidence of a man who had never once been denied a warm reception.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, stopping just short of her chair and offering a bow more elegant than necessary. “Am I too late to steal your hand?”

She tilted her head. “You are late.”

“But not unrepentant,” he said, smile widening. “I was called away—something tedious and temporary. But I could not miss the evening entirely.”

“Of course not. The punch is exceptional.”

“And the company?”

“Variable.”

He laughed. “You wound me.”

“I doubt that.”

Wickham glanced toward the floor, where Darcy and Miss Latimer had just turned at the end of the line. Elizabeth followed his gaze—just for a moment. Then looked back, all innocence.

He seemed amused. “I see I managed to arrive before the supper set begins. I had feared I missed my chance with the fairest creature in the room.”

“That depends on who the fairest creature in the room is, sir.”

Wickham’s eyebrows rose, just slightly. “Ah. Modesty, Miss Elizabeth? You should not attempt it, for it does not suit your face at all.”

“No?”

“Indeed not. Your eyes give you away.”

Elizabeth chuckled. Behind Wickham, the set was drawing to a close.

Darcy was still dancing—Elizabeth could see him turning Miss Latimer with the awkward grace of a man trying very hard not to look irritated.

It would take another minute or two before he could return to her, and Wickham seemed fully prepared to make use of every second.

“You are not usually so late to a party,” she said lightly.

He smiled. “A tragic miscalculation of timing. I blame the military.”

“I had thought the military prized punctuality.”

“We do. Except when we do not. I was called away this morning—nothing dramatic, I promise—but there are always forms to sign, uniforms to correct, horses to inspect. And then, of course, I had to dress.”

“Clearly. I suspected your boots alone took twenty minutes.”

“Seventeen,” he said solemnly. “The buckle was uncooperative.”

She laughed. “And yet, despite all obstacles, you arrived just in time to be disappointed.”

“I had hoped,” Wickham said with a glance toward the dancers, “that the supper set might still be free.”

“Tragically not.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ah. So I was outpaced?”

“You were late ,” she corrected. “And someone else was… less so.”

“May I know the lucky gentleman?”

Elizabeth hesitated half a beat too long. “You may not.”

Wickham’s smile twitched—still smooth, but flickering just slightly at the edges.

“Very well,” he said. “I shall nurse my wounds in silence.”

“You may nurse them however you like,” she replied sweetly. “Someone will come to collect me any moment now.”

He looked at her then—really looked at her—with the speculative, almost amused expression of a man attempting to solve a riddle he had only just realized was worth the effort.

“ Someone ,” he said, “or Mr. Darcy?”

Before she could respond, the music ended. Darcy was already escorting Miss Latimer to the edge of the floor. A crisp bow, and he turned… straight for her.

Elizabeth kept her tone dry as she looked back at Wickham. “You are full of questions tonight.”

“I like to be informed.”

“Then allow me to inform you that Miss Latimer now requires a new partner.”

And just then, Mr. Darcy arrived at her side—silent, immaculate, his gaze not straying an inch in Wickham’s direction.

Elizabeth did not announce anything. She simply stood, smoothed her skirt, and offered Wickham a parting smile.

“I did warn you,” she said, and turned.

Darcy offered his arm without a word. She took it.

Together, they stepped into the open space now cleared for the supper set, leaving Wickham behind—still smiling, but no longer quite so easily.

H e had not meant to ask her.

The supper set was traditionally slower—designed for cooling limbs and warming conversation.

When the time approached, he had fully intended to select one of his many failed prospects: Miss Lattimer, Miss Goulding, even Miss Eugenie, with her disconcerting laugh and over-watered eyelashes.

But as his last set was ending, and the music queued, he had found himself moving—almost against reason—toward the only woman in the room who made silence impossible.

At least Elizabeth would not giggle. And she would not try to impress him with compliments about her embroidery. And she would not—he was reasonably confident—attempt to corner him into a marriage proposal before the first course of supper.

She took his hand with only the faintest lift of her brows.

He had danced with other women tonight. He had nodded, spoken, even smiled. But none of them had looked at him like this—like she was already halfway through annotating his expression. And blast it, he almost liked that she could.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said with a gravity that could not be trusted, “how glad I am to be the chosen recipient of your most elusive attention.”

“The pleasure is mine,” he replied, and nearly believed it.

They turned, hands parted and bodies realigned with the dancers around them. The room was warm, voices rising in the chatter of spent energy. When she came back to his side, her tone had already shifted.

“So,” she said lightly, “how have your hunting excursions fared of late?”

His eyes narrowed. “Uneventful.”

“No game?”

“Nothing worth calling a prize, no.”

“Such a pity! I hear they abound in these parts. The woods near Meryton are positively brimming with eligible fowl. One wonders how you have failed to bring anything home.”

Their fingers touched again—briefly—and they turned.

“I choose my targets carefully,” he said.

“Ah,” she murmured. “Perhaps that is the trouble. Pheasants tend to flee when the hunter looms quite so sternly.”

“I had not realized my countenance was the issue.”

“Oh, it is not the only issue.”

They met again. A turn. A pause. Elizabeth’s lips curved—barely—and she nodded toward the side of the room.

“I believe Miss Latimer is still available for the last set of the evening,” she said. “Or was, five minutes ago. Perhaps if you move quickly—”

“She has poor footing,” he said.

“Miss Brereton?”

“Unsteady hands.”

“Miss Goulding?”

“She tried to discuss her aunt’s rheumatism.”

“Scandalous,” she whispered.

He turned her again. Her hand slid against his palm—firm, assured—and for one irrational second, he thought she wore no gloves at all. Of course she did. His mind was simply misbehaving. The music swelled behind them.

“You give up too easily, Mr. Darcy,” she said as they crossed paths again. “A hunter who brings home no dinner does not eat.”

“I do not recall inviting Miss Elizabeth Bennet to assess my hunting habits.”

“You did not. But I have taken the liberty.”

“I see.”

She leaned just a little closer. “The partridges and pheasants will surely fly up in your path—if only they know how desperate the hunter is.”

Her tone was innocent. Her eyes were not.

He faltered for half a step. Not enough to draw attention. Enough that she would notice.

She had not said it outright. She had not needed to. The clause loomed in his mind—February. The deadline. The inheritance. The miserable, accursed terms.

Had she said something? Had she told someone?

He looked at her—truly looked—and saw no triumph. Only mischief.

“Miss Bennet,” he said under his breath, “I do hope you have not made my circumstances a topic of conversation.”

Her brows lifted with theatrical innocence. “Goodness. Is that what you fear?”

“You seem rather entertained by my... position.”

“I am,” she said cheerfully. “But only privately.”

“And you have kept it private?”

“I have not so much as whispered it to a single debutante,” she said, placing her hand on her heart. “Though it has been tempting. You really ought to hear how they speculate.”

He exhaled slowly.

“Your restraint is… appreciated.”

“You act as though I had reason to thwart you! If I wished to expose your little predicament, Mr. Darcy, I would have told half the ladies in this room by now.”

“That is not comforting.”

“It should be. You make it too easy, you know,” she said with a shrug. “Truthfully, Mr. Darcy, I would not need to whisper a word. I would only need to stand back and let you panic. I have chosen instead to watch you unravel in private. It is far more satisfying.”

He turned to her again, slower now. Her cheek was pink. His pulse—blast it—was climbing.

“Then I suppose I should thank you,” he said stiffly.

“And I suppose I ought to say that you are most welcome.”

They wove through the long figure—forward, hands, turn, and back again. The floor dipped in rhythm beneath their steps, and the music shifted subtly, easing into something more intimate.

Darcy adjusted his grip. Her hand remained steady—too steady—and somehow warmer than it ought to be. Candlelight flickered across her face, catching the gleam in her eye like a secret she had not decided whether to keep.

He should not feel this light. Or this... unarmored. It was dangerous. No one else could make him forget the weight on his shoulders. And he had nearly forgot it now.

“You do enjoy this,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Watching me flounder about.”

“Certainly. You make an excellent study.”

He arched a brow. “I imagine I do.”

They turned. Came together again.

“And what is it you are studying, Miss Bennet?”

Her smile tilted, dry and devastating. “How long a man can court every woman in the county while pretending not to be desperate?”

He stumbled—internally. His feet held their place, but something below his ribs jolted, sharply.

The remark should have stung. It did sting. But it also sank deeper, hooked itself into that terrible space between indignation and truth.

He caught her eye as they stepped through another figure—closer now, just briefly.

“And what do your observations suggest?” he asked.

“That the subject is determined. But not particularly effective.”

He exhaled—once. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not.

“And what result would satisfy the scientist?”

“I suppose,” she mused, “when the subject stops mistaking calculation for courage.”

The final turn approached. They met, bowed, and held—for just a moment too long.

Supper doors opened with a rustle of anticipation. Chairs scraped. Laughter bloomed somewhere to their left.

He offered his arm.

She took it—lightly, without comment. They walked off the floor together in a silence that was not quite silence at all.