Miss Elizabeth curtsied in a way that suggested nothing of the sort of warmth and informality that a girl treated as one of her own daughters might display towards a woman very nearly her mother.
Darcy frowned to see her hurry away.
Something. What was it?
He liked her.
Nonsense, he knew far too little about her tolikeher.
And he wished to protect her. To make her smile again, like she’d smiled after Miss Lydia had made such a scene. She was a woman who had a sense of the ridiculous, and who must be able to understandTristram Shandy.
The way she was treated like she was a servant by the only woman she could look up to as a mother made him want to stand between her and the slights of the world, to protect her.
Darcy followed Miss Elizabeth, catching up to her when she was near to the punch table. “Miss Elizabeth, might I have your hand for the next dance, if you are not already occupied.”
This clearly startled the girl.
She looked directly into his eyes. She was searching for something.
Such beautiful eyes!
Darcy felt suddenly alert, confused, and eager.
They stared at each other for a seeming eternity. The brightness of her dark eyes. The appealing curve of her lips and cheeks. Raven hair. A lovely figure that was mostly hidden by the heavy dark-colored dress whose neckline nearly covered her chin, and the severe bun with no curls falling about.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet was a remarkably pretty woman.
She glanced back at Mrs. Bennet. Darcy glanced back with her, drawn to look at whatshewas looking at.
Mrs. Bennet was engaged in grandly making love to Mr. Bingley on behalf of the eldest Miss Bennet.
Miss Elizabeth turned her attention to Darcy again. Her eyes were dancing. She smirked at him. “Still apologizing? You did include me with Lydia in the horrid calumny of being merely ‘tolerable’.”
Darcy flushed but her light manner made the joke inoffensive. “Youare certainly more than merely tolerable.”
Darcy was quite surprised that he said so much. But he had only realized how very pretty her eyes were in the last dozen seconds, and that had addled his wits.
She frowned and did not smile.
It surprised Darcy that this odd girl was not pleased by what could have easily been taken as a flirtatious sally—what he had said in fact had the solid substance of a light flirtatious sally.
Darcy never flirted. And she had not been pleased. He very much wished to see her smile again. He had no notion of what to say to bring her to smile.Hedid not flirt.
“This next dance?” Darcy prompted again.
“No, no. I cannot. I never dance.”
Due to Mrs. Bennet?
The jealousy of that woman would explain why Miss Elizabeth was so poorly dressed. Darcy nearly asked the question aloud. It was hard to be his ordinary self around this girl. The way that Mrs. Bennet pushed forward her own daughters at the expense of this young woman, with her eyes and her face that pulled at something in Darcy, made him desperately want to give Miss Elizabeth something kind.
“You are silent and grave.” Miss Elizabeth looked up into his eyes once more. The twinkling smile and light had returned to her eyes. “I do hope I have not broken your heart with this refusal.”
“If I said that you had,” Darcy asked curiously, “and I do not mean this as a flirtation, just curiosity, would you then dance with me?”
“Oh, no. Certainly not! Though I would grieve you when you died. But,” her grin widened, “you see, I am not inclined to gain consequence by dancing with a gentleman who is too incautiously loud in his expressed disinterest in dancing.”
Darcy nearly laughed. Now even his better judgement agreed: He did very much like Miss Elizabeth.
