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CHAPTER ONE

Darcy

I stood at the edge of a bacchanal. The noise—it could hardly be called music—was pitched to a high screech that emanated from a second-rate gaggle of performers. I loathe a crush, and I do not like to associate with people who do not know the meaning of the word dignity.

Deuce take you, Bingley! I raged inwardly at my host. I was only there because if I had refused to come, his sister Caroline would have felt obliged to stay home and entertain me. Survival, I mused darkly, is sometimes an uncomfortable business.

Somehow, my friend Charles Bingley had sniffed out my location. I stood off to the side of the room, and he came towards me, panting with enthusiasm.

“Come, Darcy,” he said joyfully, “I must have you dance. I cannot bear to see you standing about in this stupid manner.” He then continued to pressure me and even pointed out the sister of his own most recent partner. “Do let me ask Miss Bennet to introduce you,” he said.

“Good lord, Bingley,” I replied impatiently.

“I have been paraded before a hundred people tonight and had names babbled at me from every corner of the room. I am certain I am known to her, but you will forgive me for failing to distinguish one girl in a white dress from another.” And while I reluctantly admitted Bingley’s partner was the prettiest girl in the room, the offer of an introduction to her sister smacked of meagre leavings, and I had no intention of standing up with anyone that evening.

“She is tolerable, I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me,” I replied, and then seeing him take a breath to persuade me from my vile mood, I added, “Do go away, Bingley. I am not inclined to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.”

Bingley, whose sunny disposition did not allow him to be vexed, only shrugged and laughed before he left me alone. As I stood there brooding—as he is fond of calling the state of sober silence—I noticed the object of our recent conversation out of the corner of my eye.

She was a dark-haired girl, small and unremarkable.

I had responded to Bingley’s urgings by rote, knowing after an initial scan of the room there were no ladies present that could tempt me to the floor, and I was gratified I had not erred in refusing to stand up with her.

She was looking out onto the swarm of dancers, seemingly quite engaged in her observations, but then I noticed, as I examined her covertly, that the girl had about her mouth a coy little smirk.

She had heard me!

An unwelcome warmth crawled up my neck. That I spoke with full consciousness I would be overheard I cannot deny, but to see the consequences of an insult so casually delivered left me slightly breathless.

My beastly state notwithstanding, I do have my standards.

I limit myself to a hair’s breadth above behaving like a lout.

And so, I stepped directly up to the young lady—one of the Bennet sisters, I believe—although I must be forgiven for not knowing which one.

“Miss Bennet,” I said with a stiff bow, “I believe you may have overheard my ungenerous remark just now.”

The lady had slowly risen when she perceived I was about to address her. She held her head proudly, cocked slightly to the side, with her right eyebrow delicately raised. “Sir,” she replied in cold acknowledgement.

“Forgive me. My friend Mr Bingley is unbearably persistent, and I spoke intemperately only to deflect his efforts to force me to enjoy myself.” I spoke briskly. I am not one to simper or whine.

There was an archness in her manner as she replied, “You do not like a country dance, I surmise.”

I do not know why, but this gambit forced a wry half smile from me. “I do not, Miss Bennet.”

“Very well. If your explanation was given as a sort of apology?—”

“It was.”

“Then I accept your explanation and give you leave to return to the wall you have been holding up for the last half an hour.”

Never in my life have I been so rudely dismissed! I would be damned to hell if I scuttled away like a scolded child. I held out my hand.

“I believe, Miss Bennet, we had better dance. It would look odd for us to have stood here in conversation for as long as we have without ending our tête-à-tête in the usual manner.”

“But you abhor dancing, Mr Darcy,” she said gravely and for a second I thought she might even refuse!

“I have never said so. I abhor being urged to dance, as though I only require a nudge. Come, I am standing here with my hand extended, and we are now creating a scene.”

A reluctant grin threatened to undo Miss Bennet’s smouldering glare, and she took my hand.

Elizabeth

I took my place in the line of dancers with Mr Darcy. Egad, the man was insufferable, but this was the most fun I had had in ages! He looked pinched and irritated, but to be fair, he made a very elegant partner. How could I resist teasing him just a little?

“You are not the only one in your party who does not enjoy a country dance, I think, sir,” I remarked as we swirled past Mr Bingley’s two sisters and his brother-in-law. The three of them stared at us with expressions of dismay.

My partner offered a tight mirthless smile. I thought he might be silent for the rest of the dance but then, he abruptly replied, “I cannot imagine why they are not rejoicing to be jostled, stared at, and talked about like fairground curiosities.”

I laughed at him.

“ You ,” he said pointedly, “enjoy this vulgar romping about, do you?”

“ I am not above my company.”

He seemed to ruminate as the steps of the dance separated us, but when he once again took up my hand, he was ready with a most provoking rejoinder.

“What is that noise?” he asked plaintively.

We had just rounded the corner of the room where my mother loudly held court. I sensed we were to take the buttons off our foils and fence in earnest now.

“Oh!” I replied brightly, “that is my mother. I am dancing with the richest man in Derbyshire, and she is planning our wedding.”

This startled a bark of laughter from Mr Darcy-of-ten-thousand-a-year. “And just how do you plan to secure me, Miss—forgive me, I do not recall which of the dozen unmarried Bennet sisters I have the pleasure of entertaining.”

“I am Miss Elizabeth, sir. Our hovel is just over three miles from the palace of Netherfield. You might see me pulling turnips out of the garden if you pass that way tomorrow.”

For the first time, Mr Darcy looked at me in earnest. I did not get the impression he was entirely displeased with what he saw, and so I pressed my advantage. “But you really should not laugh at my teasing, sir.”

“Why not?” he asked with a tiny frown.

“Because your friends seem quite put out that you are enjoying yourself. I believe if they raise their noses any higher in the air, we shall see right into their skulls.”

“They are above their company,” the deplorable man replied, as though he offered a reasonable defence for snobbery.

“Oh? They are saints and angels then? My word, how fortunate we heathens of Hertfordshire are tonight.”

My partner visibly relaxed, and a genuine smile flashed out at me for the briefest second. “Well,” he admitted, “I believe Mr Hurst is a saint. He is forever in their company, yet he bears up regardless.”

“I see the saint is taking Communion now,” I replied with a twinkling laugh. As one, we turned to watch him standing by the refreshments table drinking down the contents of a glass in one gulp and reaching for a second.

“Yes,” Mr Darcy said. “He is devoted to his bread and wine.” We watched in amusement as he piled his plate high with shaved ham and local cheeses.

“And his hair shirt?”

“He is married to it,” my partner replied.

It was my turn to laugh aloud. If I continued in this vein, I would be no better than my sister Lydia, who was at this juncture, roaring at something John Lucas was telling her. My unladylike whoop of laughter caused Mr Bingley’s sisters to look, if it were possible, even more outraged than before.

Upon rejoining after the chaine anglaise had temporarily separated us, Mr Darcy followed my gaze, which was still aimed at Mr Bingley’s sisters, and he said in a musing way, “Ah. As I suspected.”

“What is as you suspected, sir?”

“Their noses are held so high I can clearly see their skulls are indeed hollow as gourds,” he replied quietly and close to my ear.

“Angels are not known for their intelligence,” I explained sweetly.

“No,” he replied with a smile. Was I imagining he was admiring my intelligence?

Sadly, the strains of the dance were ending and with surprising reluctance I followed Mr Darcy off the floor. Before we parted, he said, “If you are sitting down for the last set?—”

“Do you mean if I continue to be slighted by other men?”

“Yes. If you are among the wallflowers at the end of the evening, I shall lend you my consequence by leading you out again, Miss Elizabeth.”

Darcy

I had done something I never do. I had asked a marriageable young lady for a second dance. For the first time since I had engaged this surprising country girl in a game of wits, Miss Elizabeth sobered.

“We must not stand up again, Mr Darcy,” she said in a shy voice.

“We must not?” Was that a tinge of wheedling in my voice? Good lord!

“My mother will indeed remark on it, sir, and make my life unbearable.” With that, she looked downward, and I saw her dark lashes rest on her pinking cheeks and felt myself quite sympathetic to the chit.

“Well then,” I said in a gentle murmur low enough only for her to hear, “I shall look for you in the turnip patch in the morning. We have hardly begun to make sport of all our acquaintances.” Elizabeth Bennet looked up and blinded me with a smile I shall not soon forget.

So, this is a flirtation! I marvelled. I had heard many a man wax poetically on the merits of such a playful and dangerous game, but I never knew what the fuss was about.