“It is not fair!” Kitty exclaimed. “Not fair! Both Jane and Lizzy have dances already secured, and I do not.”
“I am at your service, Miss Catherine,” Charlie replied gallantly, “for any set except the first two and the last two, both of which have been promised to Jane.”
“Oh, that is not so bad, then I shall take the two second with you.”
“You may inscribe it into your card, dear madam, and I will be there.”
“Oh, Charlie,” cried Kitty, “you always joke. Of course you will be there, for the ball is atyourhouse.”
“I am not at all unhappy,” Mary said, “to not have a dance partner already established. For I wholly agree with Caroline, and I think that balls would be far preferable if conversation rather than dancing were to be the order of the day.”
“And I yet insist,” Charlie replied, “that it would then be not so near like a ball. But if dancing is the order of the day, we must endure it. Mistress Mary, quite contrary, might I begyourhand for the two third?”
She looked at him consideringly with pursed lips, quite living up with her expression to the appellation of “Mistress Mary, quite contrary” from the nursery rhyme. “Oh very well. But only because I must dance withsomeone.”
“I shall take the appropriate joy,” Charlie said, “in my superiority tono one.”
Chapter Eight
Darcy’s hand cramped as he resolutely focused on the fine scratchings of his pen on paper. The sound of a pen scraping across paper had always been one that he found pleasant and relaxing.
“Oh how even your lines!”
Though he did not show it on his face, Darcy winced at the voice at his side.
No reply was ventured to Miss Bingley.
He’d had half a night of peace earlier, when she’d been ensconced in conversation with Elizabeth and Miss Bennet. Miss Bennet had recovered sufficiently to be piled under blankets and placed by the fire. The room was rather too warm from how high Bingley had piled the fire, and Darcy wondered if the recovering invalid was actually able to enjoy that much heat, or if she also sweated in it.
Bingley now talked eagerly to Miss Bennet while Elizabeth read a book, one leg tucked under herself — Darcy had developed a sixth sense that always informed him of exactly where Elizabeth was, what she was doing, and how attractive she appeared while she did it.
She united intelligence, cleverness, womanly charm, a fetching liveliness, excellent eyes, excellent figure, and clear loyalty to those she cared for. Further she had a passable fortune, almost passable connections — the intimate relationship with the Bingleys offsetting her unfortunate uncle in trade — and an acceptable, if only barely, family.
Day by day Darcy knew himself to be in more danger from her.
Bored and without the welcome distraction of conversation with her bosom friend, Miss Bingley had turned to her other favorite occupation: Annoying Darcy.
She sat next to him, leaning forward so that she could display her bosom to him, and watch him write.
Darcy had a decidedly uncomfortable feeling, almost like some small bug was crawling up and down his torso beneath his coat at how close she was. But still, she wasnotclose enough toviolate norms of politeness.
It was halfway impossible to think with her there, constantlywaitingto say something else as soon as he forgot about her presence.
What had he been about to write?
Darcy scratched his jawline with the bristly feather on the back of his pen. Ah, yes.
He began writing again, and once he mentally fully engaged with the task, Miss Bingley added, “And you write somanyletters! I would hate it if it fell to my task to write that many letters of business!”
“Then it is fortunate,” Darcy replied, not quite able to keep the sharpness from his tone, “that it is my fate to write them rather than yours.”
“Don't believe her,” Elizabeth said in a half absent voice without lifting her face from her book. “She is an excellent correspondent. Caroline will write reams and reams when we are apart.”
Elizabeth’s white fingers were wrapped around the cover of her book. He’d like it if she wrapped those fingers around his arms and shoulders.
With a shake Darcy once more applied himself to his letter.
“Oh! Are you writing to dear Georgiana? Do tell her that I miss her exceedingly, and look forward to that duet we promised each other when next we meet.”
