O nce again, Bingley had dragged him into society when he had no desire to leave the house, but this was by far the worst event Darcy could lay to Bingley’s charge.
To be met upon arrival by the master of ceremonies, a simple-minded bore, was bad enough.
Unsurprisingly, the man had secured Bingley at once for a dance with his eldest daughter, a near-spinster.
However, he had then introduced them all to a short, shrill fishwife masquerading as a gentlewoman, and her five hopeful daughters.
Well, the eldest was very pretty in a country fashion sort of way; Bingley would not suffer for dancing with her .
But to have all five daughters out when the first were not yet married?
By the cut and quality of their gowns, the family could ill afford the expense, and yet there they all were. It stank of desperation.
The second girl had not even been attentive during the introductions. Her eyes kept darting to the side and up, as though she was trying not to stare at her eldest sister. Envious, perhaps? He had seen it more than once.
His eyes found their way back to the second sister where she stood, still near where they had been introduced.
She was pretty, he supposed, but he noted more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form.
She was shorter than her eldest sister, and a woman so slender should not have such large .
. . well. He forced himself to look up at her face just as her bosom pitched forward and she took a step to keep her feet.
It was as though she had been shoved from behind, but there was no one there.
His brow wrinkled. Was she making some sort of attempt to display her .
. . no. She had not noticed him watching.
Might she be ill? He would not put it past a woman like her mother to insist her ill daughter attend an assembly in the hopes of attracting a wealthy man, even if it meant exposing them all to disease. His indignation rose a notch higher.
Darcy circled the room as the young woman was led off to dance.
He noted that she was preoccupied at first, but still her steps were light and sure.
A good dancer, then—he could give her that much.
She did not have a partner for the fourth, and he began his circle to avoid being pressed into asking her.
Even as he walked, Darcy watched the girl—Miss Elizabeth had been her name— as she tipped her head down.
Was she inspecting her slippers or the floor?
He could not help but watch, intrigued in the same sort of horrified fascination Londoners possessed when rolling past an accident in the street.
The woman snapped open her fan with an admittedly graceful flip of her wrist and held it up before her face.
She was hiding something. He paused, leaning forward to peer at her. Was she speaking?
His heart accelerated in his chest, and he drew suddenly away. She was speaking, behind that fan, and yet there was no one there .
Darcy glanced about. Did no one else notice her behaviour? Was she an eccentric to whom the locals had grown accustomed? What a fine society this was. He must thank Bingley for dragging him into it.
As though the very thought of his friend had summoned him, Bingley appeared at Darcy’s side.
“Bingley . . .” Darcy began but hesitated. He could not broach such a topic in public. He would speak to Bingley later.
“Darcy,” Bingley replied brightly, nodding amiably at a gentleman wandering past. When they were alone again, he leaned over, a smile still on his lips. “I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.”
Dance? Was Bingley mad? Was there something in the punch here in this hovel that lured good men to their doom? “I certainly shall not. I have done my duty to your sisters, and you know it would be a punishment to me to stand up with anyone else in the room.”
“There is one of Miss Bennet’s sisters standing just there,” Bingley said quietly, “who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable.” He paused. “She has something of a sparkle about her, do not you think? Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”
Darcy could not have been more appalled, but he recalled where they were and composed himself enough to say, “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me .” Good God, Bingley, she speaks to the air!
His eyes again made their way to Miss Elizabeth Bennet and widened as she winced and then held a hand up to her hair as though to protect it from the wind.
Still, she stood alone. He had no doubt as to why that was.
The real surprise was that she had been asked to dance at all.
A deep pink flush began to suffuse her face. It travelled down her neck to the line of her gown, and, he suspected suddenly, beneath it. Damn . Bingley was correct. She did sparkle. She was almost . . . glowing, in an unsettling sort of way.
Darcy gulped, unnerved. What was the matter with her?
His face heated, as though he was being watched, but everyone seemed to be going about their business. He took out his handkerchief and turned away to wipe his brow.
What was the matter with him ?
Bingley shook his head. “I will never understand your desire to disapprove of every pleasant girl, Darcy, even the uncommonly pretty ones.”
“Bingley . . .” he began warningly.
“Not now,” Bingley said as the strains of “The Nymph” began to play. “But we shall have to talk, Darcy. I mean to make myself well-liked in this neighbourhood, and you are going to help me.”
As Bingley took the hand of Miss Bennet and led her to the dance, Darcy began to devise excuses as to why he must leave Netherfield.
But he would have to convince Bingley to leave as well, for he could not bear to see his friend caught in the Bennets’ trap.
As he turned this over and over, searching for the best way to go about it, he could not help but glance at her , the source of his disquiet.
Unless he was wrong—and he was never wrong—Miss Elizabeth Bennet was watching him with something akin to pity in her dark eyes.