The evening continued with Blind Man's Buff.
Miss Bingley had resisted the suggestion—”a children's game,” she had called it, her lip curling—but Mr. Bingley had insisted, and Lydia had shrieked with enthusiasm until resistance became futile. The furniture was pushed back to clear a space in the center of the drawing room, and a silk scarf was produced for blindfolding.
Lydia, naturally, volunteered to be blindfolded first.
“You must spin her three times,” Mr. Bingley instructed cheerfully, “and then she must catch one of us. Whoever she catches takes the blindfold next.”
Miss Bingley positioned herself as far from the game as possible while still technically participating. Mrs. Hurst stood near the doorway, ready to flee. Mr. Darcy had retreated to the periphery, his expression suggesting he would rather face a firing squad than be caught by a blindfolded Lydia Bennet.
Elizabeth watched with growing apprehension as Lydia was spun, released, and sent stumbling across the room with arms outstretched.
“I shall catch Mr. Wickham!” Lydia declared, lurching toward where she had last heard his voice. “He cannot escape me!”
Mr. Wickham, laughing, had already moved. Lydia's hands closed on empty air.
She changed direction, giggling wildly, her steps increasingly erratic. Guests scattered before her advance. Kitty shrieked encouragement. Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands with delight.
And then Lydia veered sharply left—directly toward the decorative table bearing Miss Bingley's prized candelabra.
“Lydia, mind the—” Elizabeth started.
Too late.
Lydia collided with the table at full tilt. Candles toppled. Crystal rattled. The candelabra wobbled, teetered, and sent one lit taper rolling toward the draperies, its flame guttering but not extinguished.
A collective gasp rose from the assembled guests.
A servant lunged and caught the candle before disaster could strike, but the damage was done. Lydia stood frozen, the blindfold pushed up on her forehead, her face pale with shock, while every eye in the room fixed upon her.
Mr. Wickham laughed.
The sound was too loud, too pointed—clearly meant to emphasize Lydia's humiliation rather than ease it. Several guests tittered nervously. Mrs. Bennet looked ready to faint.
And then Miss Bingley struck.
“What a display!” Her voice dripped with venom disguised as concern. “Miss Lydia, you might have set the entire house ablaze. Have you no sense of propriety? No awareness of your surroundings? I have never witnessed such?—”
“Miss Lydia is unhurt.”
Mr. Darcy's voice cut through the room like a blade.
Everyone fell silent.
He had not raised his voice, precisely, but something in his tone commanded attention. He stood near the fireplace, his expression hard, his gaze fixed on Miss Bingley with unmistakable warning.
“That is all that matters,” he continued. “The candle was caught. No harm was done. Perhaps we might resume the evening's entertainment without further commentary.”
Miss Bingley's mouth opened. Closed. Her face flushed an ugly red.
Mr. Wickham's smile had vanished entirely.
And Elizabeth—Elizabeth stared at Mr. Darcy with something that felt dangerously close to awe.
He had defended Lydia. Her wild, thoughtless, embarrassing youngest sister. He had spoken sharply to his hostess—his friend's sister—to spare a Bennet girl from humiliation.
Why?
She knew why.
