Wary, he took a step closer.
Mr. Darcy approachedwith the quiet intensity he carried everywhere. His expression was unreadable.
“Ladies.” He bowed. “Miss Elizabeth, might I have a word?”
Charlotte’s eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. She excused herself with barely concealed curiosity.
Elizabeth braced herself. “Mr. Darcy.” She glanced around the room. “The colonel did not accompany you?”
“He returned to his regiment.”
“I see.”
He moved closer. Not precisely improper since they were still in full view of the room. Close enough that she could see the weave of his coat. Close enough to catch the clean, masculine scent of sandalwood and citrus. Close enough that if she shifted slightly, their sleeves would brush. Close enough that when he spoke, his voice was meant for her ears alone.
She fought the urge to step back, to restore the proper distance. However, that would show weakness, and she refused to appear unnerved by his proximity.
Even though she was. Unnerved, that is.
“You seem well.” His eyes studied her with a single-mindedness that made her want to look away. She did not.
“I am quite well, thank you.” Her voice was steady. Good. “And you, sir?”
“Well enough.” He paused. “I trust you have found the company at Lucas Lodge agreeable this evening?”
Small talk.
“Very agreeable,” she managed, unsettled with the banality of his words and the intimacy of his tone.
Another pause. She could hear her own heartbeat in the silence between them. His presence filled the space they occupied, making the crowded room feel suddenly far too small.Be civil, Lizzy. Just be civil.
Then he asked, his head tipping towards hers, “Have you received any interesting correspondence lately, Miss Elizabeth?”
Her pulse leapt. Somehow, in that moment, with him standing so close that she could see the exact shade of his eyes—dark, intense, watching her—she knew he was asking about the drawing. Of her wrist.
Taking a shallow breath, her throat tight, she said, “I have received a drawing, sir. Of a chessboard.” She forced herself to meet his gaze directly. Her heart was hammering. “And a wrist wearing a very particular gown.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Not quite a smile, but close. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or pleasure that she had noticed.
“Is that so?” Although his voice was carefully neutral, she caught the slight tension in his jaw. “How curious.”
The air between them was charged, like the minutes before a storm.
This close, she noticed the way a lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes. The breadth of his shoulders blocked her view of the room.
And his hands. Strong hands. Was that—yes, just there, a shadow of ink beneath his thumbnail.
Her stomach fluttered inexplicably.
“The artist captured the trim with remarkable accuracy.”
His eyes never left hers. “Perhaps the artist had an excellent model to work from. And considerable motivation to render it faithfully.”
She should step back. Should move away from this dangerous proximity, from the way his nearness made her too warm, made her thoughts scatter.She should not be wondering what those ink-stained hands looked like as they held a brush, creating the image of her person with such painstaking care. Should not. But was.
“Lizzy!” Her youngest sister’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. “Come here at once. We must have dancing, and you must play.”
The spell—if it had been a spell—was broken.
