Page 12 of The Meddling Matlocks (Pride & Prejudice Variations)
Chapter Twelve
Elizabeth stood before the small looking-glass in her room, pushing a last pearl-tipped hairpin into her coiffure. The soft fabric of her gown rustled faintly as she moved, its delicate ivory hue lending her an air of elegance she might not have otherwise claimed for herself. She tilted her head, studying her reflection with narrowed eyes.
“Jane,” she called over her shoulder, “does this look presentable? Or is my hair so rigid I shall be mistaken for a marble statue?”
Her elder sister, seated on the edge of Elizabeth’s bed and carefully adjusting the ribbons on her own dress, looked up with a smile that could soothe even the most fractious housemaid. “You look lovely, Lizzy. Truly. If anyone at Netherfield mistakes you for anything other than the lively young lady you are, it will say far more about their eyesight than your appearance.”
“Well, let us hope Mr Darcy’s vision is not so poor,” Elizabeth remarked dryly, turning back to the mirror. “Though I suspect my liveliness is precisely what he finds unappealing. He seems rather to prefer individuals who remain silent and still, qualities which I fear are not among my natural talents.”
“Elizabeth!” Jane chided gently, though her lips curved in amusement.
“Forgive me,” Elizabeth said with mock solemnity. “I shall endeavour to keep my opinions locked away this evening, lest I offend his lordly sensibilities.”
“Perhaps you might find him less objectionable if you spoke with him more openly,” Jane suggested. Her voice was calm, but there was an earnestness in her gaze as she studied her sister. “You have been quite convinced of Mr Wickham’s account, yet... does it not trouble you that it conflicts so sharply with Mr Darcy’s character? I know he can seem distant, but surely there is more to him than his reserve.”
Elizabeth sighed, turning from the mirror to face Jane fully. “Oh, it troubles me greatly,” she admitted. “That is precisely why I am determined to speak with him tonight. It has been several days since Mr Wickham poured his tale into my ears, and while I confess I was readily inclined to believe him at first, there is something that does not sit well with me now. Mr Darcy is proud, yes, and I admit after he called me only tolerable at the assembly, I was disinclined to like him, thinking him abominably proud! But having spent more time in his company at Netherfield, and seen him with his aunt and uncle...” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “His character is a little more complex than I initially thought. He seems uneasy in company, as though every word spoken is a trial to him. It hardly aligns with the image of a man capable of deliberate cruelty.”
“Then you mean to ask him directly?” Jane asked, surprised.
“Not directly,” Elizabeth clarified, smiling wryly. “I have no intention of charging at him like some avenging angel. But I shall draw him out, if I can. There must be a way to uncover the truth without resorting to accusations or theatrics.”
“Be careful, Lizzy,” Jane urged softly. “Mr Darcy may not be as easily read as others, but that does not mean he is without feeling.”
“Indeed, I rather think his feelings run deeper than most,” Elizabeth replied thoughtfully. “It is just that they are buried beneath so many layers of propriety and pride that one scarcely knows where to begin digging.”
“Perhaps tonight will provide an opportunity,” Jane said with a hopeful smile. “If anyone can manage such a conversation, it is you.”
“Thank you for your confidence, dearest,” Elizabeth said, her tone light once more. “Let us hope it is well-placed. And now, enough of Mr Darcy. Tell me, what new scheme do you suppose Mama has devised to secure Mr Bingley’s affections for you this evening?”
Jane blushed prettily, shaking her head. “Mama needs no schemes; Mr Bingley is perfectly kind on his own.”
“Kind, indeed,” Elizabeth teased. “But I dare say Mama will not rest until he is kind enough to propose.”
“Lizzy!”
Their laughter filled the room, the tension of their earlier discussion momentarily forgotten as they prepared to face the evening ahead.
“Why must we be left behind like a pair of old spinsters?” wailed Lydia, collapsing dramatically onto the settee as though she had been struck down by some mortal blow, as Jane and Elizabeth entered the parlour. Her curls bounced with the force of her despair, and the ribbons of her sash trailed limply to the floor. “It is cruel— cruel , I say!—to deny us the Netherfield Ball!”
“Indeed!” sniffled Kitty, her voice trembling with equal indignation. She perched on the arm of the sofa, clutching a lace handkerchief to her chest as though preparing for tears. “What harm could it possibly do? Everyone knows we are the very life of any gathering. Without us, the ball shall be dreadfully dull.”
“Then perhaps,” Elizabeth interjected, “the absence of your company will allow others to recover their hearing for an evening.”
Lydia gasped, clutching at her throat as though Elizabeth’s words were an arrow to her heart. “You are unkind, Lizzy!”
“Unkind or not,” came Mrs Hill’s no-nonsense voice as she swept into the room with the air of a general quelling a rebellion, “you two young ladies are neither invited nor permitted. And if you cannot behave yourselves,” she fixed them both with a steely glare that brooked no argument, “there will be no supper for you tonight. Now, upstairs with you!”
“Mrs Hill!” Lydia exclaimed, leaping to her feet in outrage. “Surely you would not deprive us of food! That is barbaric!”
“Barbaric or not,” said the housekeeper firmly, taking Lydia by the elbow and steering her toward the staircase, “it is what shall happen if I hear another wail out of either of you. Go along now, and mind your manners.”
Kitty looked to Lydia as though expecting a rallying cry to arms, but when none came, Lydia being far too preoccupied with muttering complaints under her breath, she relented with a reluctant sigh and followed her sister upstairs. Their departure was punctuated by the ominous creak of the stair treads beneath Lydia’s stomping feet.
“Finally,” Elizabeth murmured, smoothing the folds of her gown. “Peace is restored.”
“Though not for long, I fear,” Jane replied softly, tweaking her necklace so the pendant lay precisely in the hollow of her slender throat. There was a quiet elegance about her tonight, her pale blue gown setting off her golden hair to perfection. She looked every inch the angel Mr Bingley so clearly believed her to be. “Mr Collins awaits.”
“Ah, yes,” said Elizabeth, her tone dry. “The human embodiment of peace and serenity.”
Jane stifled a laugh, linking her arm through Elizabeth’s as they made their way out into the hall together. Mr Collins at once sprang up from where he was seated on the settle beside the front door, his expression lighting up with such fervent admiration that Elizabeth instinctively stepped back half a pace.
“Miss Elizabeth!” he exclaimed, his hands clasping together as though in prayer. “What a vision you are this evening! Truly, I am rendered nearly speechless by the sight of you, though, of course, I must remark upon the regrettable absence of green in your ensemble. A most superior colour, you know, particularly for young ladies of your complexion. Lady Catherine herself has often remarked…”
“How fortunate we are,” Elizabeth cut in with a tight smile, “to benefit so frequently from Lady Catherine’s opinions. Shall we make our way to the carriage?”
“Indeed, indeed!” Mr Collins hurried to retrieve his hat, his movements bumbling yet eager. “Allow me to escort you, Miss Elizabeth. Such a lovely evening deserves no less than my utmost attentions.”
“How could I refuse?” Elizabeth muttered under her breath, exchanging a look with Jane that spoke volumes even in silence. As they stepped outside, the cool evening air offered momentary relief from the oppressive warmth of Mr Collins’s enthusiasm. Yet as the carriage loomed ahead, gleaming faintly in the moonlight, Elizabeth could not suppress a wry thought: if this was how the evening began, what fresh absurdities might await them at Netherfield?
The carriage jolted forward as it set off for Netherfield, and Elizabeth glanced at Mary. The green fabric of her gown shimmered faintly in the dim lantern light, and while the colour did little to flatter Mary’s complexion, she held herself with an air of quiet anticipation that nearly softened Elizabeth’s heart. Nearly.
“Mr Collins,” Mary began earnestly, her hands clasped in her lap, “you are so kind to join our family this evening at what promises to be such a distinguished event. I do hope…”
“Indeed, Miss Mary,” Mr Collins interrupted with a wave of his hand, clearly not having listened to a word. His gaze was fixed on Elizabeth. “It is my sacred duty, as both clergyman and guest, to lend my humble presence to such occasions.” His eyes darted briefly, reluctantly, to Mary. “Perhaps you might make yourself useful by playing the pianoforte during any intermissions. Lady Catherine always insists upon music; it is, after all, one of the hallmarks of a refined gathering.”
Mary’s hopeful expression faltered, but only slightly. “Of course, Mr Collins,” she murmured, her voice subdued yet still tinged with yearning. Elizabeth caught Jane’s eye, and her sister’s gentle shrug confirmed what Elizabeth already suspected: Mr Collins remained oblivious to even the most obvious efforts to draw his attention elsewhere.
“Fear not, Mary,” Elizabeth said lightly, attempting to redirect the mood. “Perhaps Colonel Fitzwilliam will appreciate your talents more than certain other individuals.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam?” Mary asked, blinking in confusion.
“Lady Matlock’s younger son,” Jane supplied softly. “I believe he is expected this evening.”
“Ah,” Mary replied, faintly intrigued, though whether her interest stemmed from the prospect of meeting him or merely the potential for an audience, Elizabeth could not say.
As the Bennets arrived at Netherfield, the grand house glittering under the soft glow of countless candles, they were quickly ushered into the ballroom. The hum of conversation and the strains of violins filled the air, and Elizabeth found herself momentarily captivated by the scene. It was a marvel of elegance, with ladies adorned in silks and jewels gliding gracefully across the polished floor alongside their impeccably dressed partners. Yet even amidst such splendour, there was no mistaking Lady Matlock as she approached with purposeful strides, her richly adorned gown swishing about her.
“My dear girls! How marvellous you are here,” Lady Matlock exclaimed with a warm smile. “My sons have been positively eager to make your acquaintance.”
Elizabeth inclined her head politely, though inwardly she wondered whether ‘eager’ was perhaps too strong a word. Nevertheless, true to their mother’s pronouncement, two figures emerged from the throng behind her.
“May I present my younger son, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Lady Matlock said proudly, gesturing towards a tall man with broad shoulders and an amiable smile, dressed in a red coat with a good deal of gold braid about it. Elizabeth could only be grateful Kitty and Lydia were not present to swoon over him. “And my eldest, Viscount Highton. Richard, James, Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and Miss Mary Bennet.”
“How do you do?” Elizabeth curtsied, taking in the viscount’s calm brown eyes and reserved countenance. While less immediately engaging than his brother, he exuded a quiet steadiness that was far from unappealing.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Colonel Fitzwilliam continued, addressing her directly, “I understand from Lady Matlock that you and your eldest sister are already engaged for the first dances, and I must wait until later to claim one. A pity indeed, but it seems I must apply elsewhere. Miss Mary,” he turned to Mary, who had been standing slightly apart, hands clasped nervously before her, “may I have the honour of securing your hand for the set?”
Mary blinked, the colour rushing to her cheeks. She glanced at Elizabeth uncertainly, but there could be no objection, and Elizabeth gave her an encouraging smile. “Y-yes, sir,” Mary stammered, dipping into a hasty curtsey.
“Splendid!” he declared, offering her his arm with such genuine enthusiasm that Mary, though still blushing furiously, almost smiled as she took it.
“Mother, you have left me quite abandoned!” Viscount Highton exclaimed, as the Colonel led Mary away. “Surely you did not intend to deprive me of a partner entirely?”
“Abandoned, my lord?” Elizabeth interjected lightly before Lady Matlock could reply. “What an unkind accusation! But perhaps I can offer some remedy.” Glancing around, her gaze fell on Charlotte Lucas, who stood nearby, observing the proceedings with her usual composed air. “Might I present my dear friend, Miss Lucas? A lady of excellent sense and finer conversation, and one who would never abandon anyone without good reason.”
“Miss Lucas, then, if you will indulge me,” James said, bowing with impeccable courtesy. Charlotte raised her brows at Elizabeth but allowed herself to be led onto the dance floor, her dignified expression softening into something almost amused as she exchanged pleasantries with her new partner.
“Well done, my dear,” Lady Matlock murmured approvingly, patting Elizabeth’s arm before excusing herself to mingle with another group.
Elizabeth barely had time to enjoy the success of her matchmaking before Mr Collins appeared at her elbow, looking both flustered and triumphant. “Cousin Elizabeth! The musicians are about to begin. Shall we proceed to the floor?”
“Indeed,” she replied, inwardly bracing herself as she accepted his clammy hand.
It was worse than she had anticipated. Mr Collins’ footwork was not merely awkward, it was catastrophic. He lumbered through the steps as though attempting to navigate a maze blindfolded, colliding with her twice and stepping on her toes thrice within the span of a single quadrille. Elizabeth attempted to guide him subtly, but every effort only seemed to increase his confusion. At one point, he spun entirely the wrong way, leaving Elizabeth stranded in the centre of the floor while he collided with another couple.
“Terribly sorry!” he bellowed, bowing repeatedly as their offended glares followed him back to Elizabeth’s side. “These intricate figures are most perplexing, are they not?”
“Quite,” Elizabeth managed, biting down a sigh.
From across the room, Miss Bingley’s laughter carried over like the chime of icy bells. Elizabeth glanced up to see her dancing gracefully with Mr Darcy, her expression alight with undisguised malice as her gaze flicked between Elizabeth and Mr Collins. Whatever barb she whispered, it elicited no reaction from Darcy, who looked straight ahead, his countenance unreadable. Yet Elizabeth could not help but feel the heat rising in her cheeks.
“Steady, Cousin!” Mr Collins exclaimed, mistaking her flush for exertion rather than mortification. “You are doing admirably, though I daresay I may require some instruction after supper.”
“Or several years of it,” Elizabeth muttered under her breath, her patience fraying at the edges.
The quadrille had scarcely ended—mercifully for Elizabeth’s toes—when Colonel Fitzwilliam approached Elizabeth with a buoyant step and a smile that could only be described as roguish. He bowed low, though the glint in his eye suggested a man more inclined to jest than ceremony.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he began, straightening with an air of mock solemnity. “I find myself at a disadvantage. My aunt has spoken of your beauty, my cousin of your wit, and yet I fear their descriptions may both have been woefully inadequate. Beauty I see before me, it is undeniable, but your wit, madam, I must judge for myself. Would you do me the honour of the next dance?”
Elizabeth, still recovering from the ordeal of Mr Collins’ enthusiastic but disastrous attempts at refinement, could not suppress the laugh that bubbled forth. “You are bold, sir, to imply my wit may not meet your expectations,” she replied, meeting his gaze with a spark of mischief. “But I accept the challenge. If you emerge unimpressed, you shall have no one to blame but yourself.”
“Ah, a fair warning!” he exclaimed, offering his arm. “Then let us test this perilous ground together, madam!”
As they took their places on the floor, Elizabeth felt the lingering sting of embarrassment begin to ebb. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s easy charm was as refreshing as it was disarming, and she found herself smiling without effort. His conversation flowed effortlessly between clever observations and light-hearted quips, and though she parried his remarks with her usual dexterity, she could not help but be amused by his unpretentious warmth.
“Tell me, Miss Bennet,” he said as they turned through the first figure, “is it true that Hertfordshire produces the finest conversationalists in all of England? For I am tempted to believe it, from present evidence.”
“I could not say, Colonel,” Elizabeth replied, tilting her head playfully. “Though I understand our sheep are known to be particularly eloquent, though I cannot claim their acquaintance. You might find them quite engaging should you attempt a conversation.”
“Sheep? And here I thought I was conversing with a lioness,” he retorted, his grin widening. “I stand corrected.”
By the time the set concluded, Elizabeth was genuinely sorry to relinquish her partner. But scarcely had she returned to her place when another Fitzwilliam appeared, this time James, Viscount Highton, who bore a striking familial resemblance to his brother, albeit with a quieter, steadier air.
“Miss Bennet,” he said with a polite bow. “Colonel Fitzwilliam has sung your praises so thoroughly that I feel compelled to see if his account holds any truth. Would you grant me the honour of the next dance?”
“Another Fitzwilliam determined to interrogate me?” Elizabeth said lightly, though she accepted his offered hand. “I must warn you, Viscount, your brother’s assessment is likely exaggerated.”
“That remains to be seen,” he replied with a faint smile. “But I am willing to risk the disappointment.”
As she danced with James, Elizabeth could not help but contrast the brothers. Where Richard was all lively charm and quick humour, James possessed a quiet confidence that spoke of a man used to bearing responsibility. Yet there was nothing forbidding in his manner; rather, he seemed to take genuine pleasure in their conversation, listening with an attentiveness that flattered without overwhelming.
Though Elizabeth enjoyed herself immensely, she could not entirely ignore the sensation of being watched. Glancing surreptitiously across the room, her eyes met those of Mr Darcy, who stood near the edge of the ballroom, his gaze fixed upon her with an intensity that sent an unexpected flutter through her chest. His expression was unreadable, neither displeased nor approving, but something altogether more complicated.
From Darcy’s vantage point, the scene before him might as well have been a tableau designed solely to provoke. There was Elizabeth, radiantly beautiful in an ivory gown with tiny crystals catching the light as she skipped and spun, her laughter ringing out like music as she danced with first Richard, then with James. Both his cousins seemed utterly captivated, and why should they not be? Elizabeth Bennet, with her sparkling eyes and effortless grace, had a way of drawing attention without even trying.
Darcy’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around the glass of wine he held. He had intended to approach her himself after the first set, but Richard had beaten him to it. Then James, ever the picture of propriety, had followed suit. Now Darcy remained rooted to the spot, an unwilling spectator to the ease with which Elizabeth charmed everyone around her.
“Your cousins seem much taken with Eliza Bennet,” came Caroline Bingley’s voice at his elbow, sharp and brittle as frost. “Though I suppose such rustic liveliness holds a certain novelty for men unaccustomed to…” she paused delicately, “… country manners.”
“Indeed,” Darcy replied curtly, not taking his eyes off Elizabeth. There was something in her manner tonight, a brightness, a vivacity, that unsettled him. It was not that she looked different; it was that she seemed wholly herself, untethered by pretension or artifice. He admired it against his will, even as it heightened his discomfort.
“Surely you do not mean to join the fray?” Caroline continued, her tone lilting with false sweetness. “I daresay Miss Eliza has had her fill of dancing partners for the evening.”
“On the contrary,” Darcy said, his voice cool. “I find myself inclined to inquire whether she has saved a set for me.”
He moved away before Caroline could respond, leaving her gaping behind him. Darcy did not often act on impulse, but tonight, the prospect of standing idly by while others basked in Elizabeth’s company was intolerable. She was radiant, her cheeks flushed from exertion, her dark eyes alight with amusement as she exchanged pleasantries with her latest partner. James Fitzwilliam. Darcy’s cousin.
He felt the faintest twinge of irritation, though he could not have said why. James was a perfectly amiable man, but there was something about the ease with which he had drawn Elizabeth’s laughter that unsettled Darcy. For a moment, he debated retreating, consigning himself to the shadows where he could nurse his thoughts in solitude. But no—he had come to a decision tonight. He would speak with her. He would prove, if only to himself, that he could engage her in conversation without succumbing to the maddening pull she seemed to exert over him.
Steeling himself, Darcy stepped forward as the set concluded and James led Elizabeth to the side of the room. His bow was precise, his every movement deliberate, though his heart beat faster as her gaze met his. There was a flicker of something in her expression—surprise, perhaps, or hesitation. He could not tell.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said. “Might I have the honour of this dance?”
Her hesitation was brief, barely perceptible, yet long enough to stir a faint doubt within him. Would she refuse? It would not surprise him; Elizabeth Bennet was not a woman inclined to offer easy acquiescence. But then she dipped into a graceful curtsey, her lips curving in a faint, teasing smile that made his breath catch.
“Very well, Mr Darcy,” she said lightly. “I suppose I might endure one more turn about the floor.”
Endure . The word struck him as both amusing and vexing. Did she truly find his company so trying? He caught the flicker of mischief in her eyes, and his lips twitched despite himself. Offering his arm, he led her into position, acutely aware of the light touch of her hand resting on his sleeve.
The music began, and they moved in time with the other dancers. Darcy focused on the steps, forcing his mind away from the warmth of her presence beside him. He needed to speak, needed to say something that might bridge the chasm of misunderstanding that seemed to yawn between them.
“Your youngest sisters are not in attendance tonight,” he remarked, his tone carefully conversational. He had noticed their absence almost immediately upon arriving. “I trust they are well?”
“Quite well, thank you,” Elizabeth replied, her voice as composed as her expression. “Mama deemed it best that Kitty and Lydia remain at home. She thought them too young to manage such superior society.” There was a wry edge to her words, and Darcy resisted the urge to smile. “Lady Matlock, however, deserves the credit for convincing my mother. She suggested, most persuasively, that some time devoted to schooling would serve them far better than evenings spent at assemblies. Kitty acquiesced without much protest, but Lydia…” She shrugged delicately. “Lydia does not take kindly to persuasion, no matter how noble the intention.”
Darcy inclined his head in agreement. “Girls of fifteen rarely do,” he observed dryly. “I fear their judgment is seldom sound at that age. Even my sister Georgiana,” he hesitated, the thought of her still a raw wound “has made mistakes I would rather she had not.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, her curiosity evident in the slight arch of her brow. “Miss Darcy? Surely not. According to Miss Bingley, your sister is quite perfect in every regard.”
The mention of Caroline Bingley brought a flicker of annoyance to Darcy’s expression, though he quickly suppressed it. “Miss Bingley,” he said with measured restraint, “is prone to exaggeration.”
“Surely not!” Elizabeth exclaimed, her mock astonishment accompanied by a sparkle of amusement that sent a ripple through him. “What a disappointment to discover that perfection may be but a clever fiction!”
He could not help but admire the way she turned under his hand, her movements graceful yet unstudied. The warmth of the room pressed in around them, but Darcy was keenly aware only of her presence. She had a way of disarming him, of breaking through his carefully constructed reserve.
“Nobody is perfect,” he said at last, his tone quiet but firm. “No matter how much they might claim to be or appear it on the surface.”
Her head tilted again, her expression thoughtful. She studied him with a sharpness that unsettled him, as though she could see past the mask he wore. “Well,” she said, her voice light but probing, “you do speak with rather an air of authority on the matter, Mr Darcy. Should I assume you count yourself among the imperfect, then?”
“I would be the first to admit it,” he replied, his words deliberate. “No matter what Miss Bingley may claim.”
Her laughter was soft, almost musical. “Indeed, I am vastly surprised. After all, perfection is so rarely accused of humility.”
Darcy said nothing, his gaze fixed on hers. There was a charged silence between them, one that neither seemed eager to break. He felt as though they were engaged in a duel of sorts, each testing the other’s defences. It was Elizabeth who finally spoke, her tone shifting.
“Mr Darcy,” she began carefully, “I must confess, I have heard a rather strange tale about you of late.”
His hand faltered, only for an instant, but enough for him to curse his lapse in composure. He knew, of course, who would have been telling tales. Wickham . The thought alone was enough to ignite a bitter flame within him. “Oh?” he prompted, his voice calm but edged with tension.
“From Mr Wickham,” she clarified, her gaze steady, searching. “He spoke quite freely of your… history together.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened, and he forced himself to remain outwardly composed even as her words stirred a storm within him. “If it is a tale from Mr Wickham’s lips,” he said grimly, “then it is a tale not to be trusted.”
The sharpness of his tone seemed to startle her. He saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, though she quickly masked it.
“Indeed?” she said, her voice light but tinged with curiosity. “That is a rather bold denunciation, Mr Darcy. I suppose you mean to say that Mr Wickham’s accounts might be… embellished?”
“Embellished would be far too generous a term,” he replied, his words clipped. He hesitated, glancing away briefly as he struggled to rein in the surge of emotion Wickham’s name had evoked. When he looked back at her, his voice was quieter but no less firm. “Miss Elizabeth, there are... complexities at play here. Matters that cannot be resolved with a few cursory words.”
Her head tilted again, her expression intrigued. “I must admit, Mr Darcy, your reluctance only serves to pique my curiosity further. What could possibly compel such vehemence?”
Darcy hesitated again, the weight of her gaze pressing upon him. At last, he spoke, his voice low and measured. “This is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. The matter is delicate, and it requires... context.” He met her gaze squarely. “If you would permit me to call upon you tomorrow, I will give you an accurate account of my dealings with Mr Wickham.”
Her surprise was evident, though she quickly masked it with a faint smile. “Tomorrow?” she repeated, her tone teasing but curious. “And how do you propose to accomplish this feat of candour, sir? Shall you arrive at Longbourn armed with stacks of sworn affidavits?”
“Mock me if you wish,” he said gravely, though he allowed a faint flicker of humour to soften his tone. “But I assure you, I am quite serious. You shall have the truth, and you may appeal to Lord Matlock or either of my Fitzwilliam cousins for verification, should you doubt my word.”
After a pause, she inclined her head. “Very well. You may call upon me tomorrow, Mr Darcy. Though I confess, I find myself in some suspense as to what revelations await.”
Darcy nodded, relief mingling with the ever-present tension that seemed to follow every encounter with her. “Then I have your word that you will hear me out?”
“Certainly,” she replied, her smile laced with mischief. “Provided, of course, that you manage to escape this evening without further scandalising my poor toes, which I fear have already suffered enough abuse at the hands of Mr Collins.”
A faint smile ghosted across his lips, though it vanished as quickly as it had come. “In that case, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, inclining his head, “I shall consider it my utmost duty to tread carefully, for tonight and henceforth.”
“See that you do, sir,” she quipped, before turning her attention back to the dance. Darcy followed her lead, though his thoughts remained focused on the promise he had made, and the challenges that lay ahead. Tomorrow could not come soon enough.