Elizabeth curtsied, her cheeks warming.
Neither looked away quite as quickly as they should have.
Mr. Bingley appeared at Jane's side as though magnetized, his face alight with joy. “Miss Bennet! You have come. I was—that is—I had hoped—” He stopped, ears reddening, and simply beamed at her. “You look lovely.”
Jane's blush was answer enough.
Mrs. Hurst drifted past with a languid greeting. Various neighbors Elizabeth recognized from church and assembliesfilled the drawing room, their voices rising and falling in festive chatter. The quartet Mr. Bingley had engaged from London played softly in one corner.
It was, by any measure, a triumph of holiday hospitality.
And Miss Bingley was about to ruin it with parlor games.
“Attention, everyone!” Miss Bingley clapped her hands, her voice cutting through the conversation like a blade. “We shall begin the evening's entertainments with some structured amusements. Nothing too strenuous—merely some festive diversions to warm our spirits before dancing.”
Elizabeth felt a prickle of foreboding.
Miss Bingley began arranging the guests with the determination of a general positioning troops. She placed Mr. Wickham directly beside Elizabeth. She positioned Mr. Darcy opposite, with two young ladies Elizabeth did not recognize flanking him like sentries. She attempted to separate Jane and Mr. Bingley to opposite sides of the room, a maneuver that failed when Mr. Bingley simply moved his chair to follow Jane.
Miss Bingley's eye twitched.
“We shall begin with a memory game,” she announced. “Each guest will recite a holiday verse or rhyme in turn. Those who forget their lines must pay a forfeit.”
The game commenced with awkward enthusiasm. Various guests offered nursery rhymes, snatches of carols, fragments of poetry both sacred and secular. Mrs. Bennet recited something about Christmas pudding that made Mary wince. Lydia forgot her verse entirely and was made to surrender a ribbon as forfeit, which she did with theatrical dismay.
Elizabeth was acutely aware of Mr. Wickham beside her.
He leaned close, his voice pitched for her ears alone. “What a charming gathering. Though I confess I find these country amusements rather simpler than those I enjoyed in Derbyshire. Mr. Darcy's family hosted the most elegant entertainments—before I was cast out of their circle, of course.”
A fortnight ago, she would have offered sympathy. Would have encouraged him to continue. Would have drunk in every word of his grievances against Mr. Darcy.
Now she merely nodded politely and watched Mr. Darcy across the circle.
He was looking at Mr. Wickham.
His expression was carefully controlled—that neutral mask Elizabeth had once mistaken for arrogance. But beneath it, she saw something else. Something that looked like restraint held by the thinnest of threads. Something that looked almost like hatred.
What happened between these men?
The question burned in her mind.
Mr. Wickham performed his verse flawlessly—something witty and charming that made Lydia giggle and several other ladies smile.
When her turn came, she rose and began her recitation—a simple verse about winter roses her father had taught her as a child. Halfway through, she made the mistake of glancing at Mr. Darcy.
He was watching her with an intensity that stole the words from her throat.
She stumbled. Recovered. Finished the verse with cheeks flaming.
Mr. Wickham leaned close again. “Nerves, Miss Elizabeth? How unlike you.”
“The room is warm,” she said. “Nothing more.”
But she did not meet his eyes.
Miss Bingley, clearly dissatisfied with the game's failure to produce drama, announced a second entertainment.
“We shall now have a pairing challenge! Guests will draw ribbons from this bowl, and those who draw matching colors will work together to create a holiday decoration.” She held up the bowl with triumphant satisfaction. “The materials are provided. The best creation wins a prize.”
