Page 39

He stood near the fireplace, speaking to a tall, elegant woman in sapphire silk—Miss Latham, whom Elizabeth had introduced to him not ten minutes prior, with every expectation that they would suit.

The lady had seemed promising: poised, articulate, entirely sensible.

And yet Darcy’s posture—straight-backed, jaw set, hands clasped behind him as if resisting the urge to flee—suggested that the conversation had not borne fruit.

He looked as though he were enduring a lecture from a particularly tedious canon of taste.

Jealousy was not the word for what she felt. Irritation, perhaps. Frustration. An unwanted pulse of something far too personal. She looked away.

This was precisely why she had to succeed. To find someone agreeable, stable, sufficiently dull. Someone who would never inspire her to question herself.

She would smile. She would endure. She would find the most amiably uninspiring man in the room and secure herself against nonsense like this.

Because caring for a man like Darcy—caring at all—was not a risk she could afford.

The musicians struck their first proper chord—a sonata, still delicate, still too gentle for Elizabeth’s current mood—and the crowd obligingly shifted. Chairs creaked. Fans fluttered. Conversations softened to accommodate the performance without actually yielding to it.

Elizabeth sat with her hands folded and her posture impeccable, a model of calm. But her smile was starting to fray at the corners.

Five introductions. Five men. All named Henry. Not one of them had asked her a question that did not involve needlework, music, or her opinion on weather. One had inquired whether she embroidered pastoral scenes.

“Only if they include gallows,” she had nearly said.

Across the room, she caught sight of Darcy beside Lady Matlock, who looked positively delighted with herself. He was engaged in conversation with a woman Elizabeth had pointed out not ten minutes earlier—Miss Latham, composed, graceful, and deeply unlikely to use her journal to roast the gentry.

Exactly the kind of woman Darcy ought to marry. If only he did not look as if his fingernails were being ripped out by the roots every time he was forced to speak.

Elizabeth remained seated until the sonata drew to a close and polite applause rippled through the room.

Only then did she rise, moving slowly along the edge of the chairs, pausing to murmur a word of praise to the musicians as she passed.

Her trajectory curved, entirely by accident, toward the fireplace.

Darcy saw her coming. His spine straightened, expression flickering with something too brief to name.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, with a short bow.

Miss Latham turned and smiled with gracious confusion. “How lovely to see you again, Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth curtsied. “And you. I am so pleased to see you two in conversation—I had hoped you might find one another.”

Darcy’s brow twitched. Miss Latham smiled, still composed.

“We were discussing the merits of oratorio,” she said. “Mr. Darcy has been most attentive.”

“I can imagine,” Elizabeth said warmly. “He has always had a gift for listening. Particularly when he disagrees with every word being said.”

Miss Latham blinked. “I—I beg your pardon?”

Darcy cleared his throat. “Miss Bennet is... often fond of stating opinions which are not her own, merely to provoke amusement.”

“Mr. Darcy knows me too well,” Elizabeth agreed, her smile just shy of innocent.

A tight silence followed.

Miss Latham smoothed her skirts with unnecessary precision. “Ah. I believe... yes, my aunt is signaling for me. Please excuse me.” She curtsied—polite, brisk—and vanished before either of them could stop her.

She dipped her head and withdrew. Elizabeth turned her gaze to Darcy, wide-eyed and blameless.

Darcy’s jaw tightened. “You were rude.”

“Undoubtedly. But you cannot want a wife chosen out of sheer politeness.”

He stared at her. “That is hardly the point.”

“Oh, but it is precisely the point,” she said, adjusting her glove with serene satisfaction. “I am determined to help you marry wisely, not obligingly. However, I might observe that you could have contributed something to that conversation.”

“I did,” he muttered. “I contributed silence.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Well, you are certainly good at that. Come, I think there may be someone even more docile near the potted palms.”

And before he could object, she laid a hand on his arm and steered him firmly back into the crowd.

“You are enjoying this far too much,” Darcy muttered.

“And you are not holding up your end of the bargain. We made an agreement.”

“How am I to introduce you to gentlemen when I am obliging you by speaking to the woman you brought to me?”

Their path was cut off by a figure in a satin gown and an even more expensive turban. “Why are we whispering?” asked Lady Matlock. “That never bodes well.”

Elizabeth dropped Darcy’s arm at once. “Merely assessing the tenor of the room.”

“Ah,” said the dowager. “I see. Plotting seductions. I do admire efficiency.”

Darcy looked skyward. “We are attempting to meet people, Grandmother.”

“Yes, yes, that is what I said.”

Lady Matlock swept her shawl around herself and began marching ahead of them, a pathfinder in a sea of silk. “Come,” she said, not looking back. “There is a viscount somewhere in this room. Let us get him safely paired before his mother begins declaring bloodlines from the pianoforte.”

Elizabeth laughed despite herself and followed. Darcy followed with considerably less enthusiasm.

The next quarter hour was an exercise in contradictions: Elizabeth tried to introduce Darcy to two eligible women and had both conversations interrupted—first by Lady Matlock’s commentary (“No chin, poor thing”) and then by an enthusiastic baritone determined to describe the evening’s musical selections in excessive detail.

Darcy, for his part, attempted to present Elizabeth to a junior barrister with excellent prospects, only for the man to recoil visibly when Elizabeth mentioned she enjoyed satire.

“Perhaps I should begin lying about my interests,” Elizabeth said flatly.

Darcy gave her a sidelong look. “And claim what?”

“Millinery. Watercolors. Obedience.”

He coughed into his hand. “Perhaps not obedience.”

“I am told it is fashionable.”

“You would never pass for it.”

She opened her mouth for a tart reply—only to hear the dowager's voice rise again from somewhere behind them: “Do not let her fool you, Mr. Fairley! Miss Bennet is merely clever, not dangerous. Unless you bore her.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes. “I am going to bury myself beneath a tablecloth and never emerge.”

“Too late,” said Darcy grimly. “You are visible.”

She exhaled a slow, measured breath, and then smiled again, all charm and polished edges. “Then we had better keep moving. The night is still young, and we have not yet failed thoroughly enough.”

They moved on—more introductions, more thin smiles, more hidden barbs and waylaid prospects. All the while, Elizabeth tried not to look at Darcy too closely. And all the while, she caught him watching her anyway.