“There,” Caroline said, setting down her pen with satisfaction. “That should suffice. The Bennet ladies will be suitably honored.”
“The Bennet ladies will be suitably confused,” Mrs. Hurst murmured. “Your handwriting grows more elaborate by the day, Caroline.”
“Elegance is never wasted on the deserving.” Caroline's gaze slid toward Darcy. “Would you not agree, Mr. Darcy?”
He did not answer. He was thinking of Elizabeth reading the invitation. Would she roll her eyes at Caroline's pretensions? Laugh to herself at the absurdity of such formal prose for a simple country tea?
Would she think of him at all?
“Mr. Darcy danced with Miss Elizabeth at the ball,” Mrs. Hurst observed, as though reading his thoughts. “Quite remarkable, given how seldom he takes the floor.”
Heat crept up Darcy's neck. “It was nothing. A matter of circumstance.”
“Circumstance.” Caroline's smile sharpened. “And yet you seldom dance with those you are not well-acquainted, Mr. Darcy.”
He rose abruptly. “I have correspondence to attend to.”
“Of course you do.” Caroline's voice followed him to the door. “Though I confess, I did not know letter-writing required such haste.”
He did not dignify this with a response.
The library offered no refuge.
Darcy stood at the window, watching the footman depart with Caroline's invitation, and felt an uncomfortable twist beneath his ribs. In a matter of hours, Elizabeth Bennet would hold that letter in her hands. She would read Miss Bingley's overwrought prose and form opinions about the household that had produced it.
She would come to Netherfield.
She would sit in this very room, perhaps, drinking tea and making conversation with that sharp wit of hers, and Darcy would be expected to behave as though her presence meant nothing.
He turned from the window and attempted to read.
The book was some fashionable amatory tale Caroline had acquired in London—full of swooning heroines and improbablecoincidences. He made it through three pages before giving up entirely.
His mind kept circling back to the ball.
Elizabeth's laugh, bright and unrestrained. The way she had challenged him about country dances, her chin lifted in defiance, her eyes sparkling with mischief. The warmth of her hand in his during their set—proper and yet somehow electric.
She had nearly made him smile. He had tamped it down in time, but the moment lingered with embarrassing clarity.
He remembered the slight catch in her breath when he had taken her hand for the second dance. The way her cheeks had flushed when Sir William Lucas pushed them together. The arch of her brow when she had accused him of being too serious for country entertainments.
“I am attempting to determine your character, Mr. Darcy.”
Her voice echoed in his memory. He had given some stiff reply—something about the danger of sketching characters too quickly. She had laughed, and the sound had lodged itself somewhere beneath his breastbone like a splinter he could not remove.
“Mr. Darcy.”
He started. Caroline stood in the doorway, her expression arranged into something between sympathy and conspiracy.
“You look quite pensive,” she said, gliding into the room with the air of a woman bearing confidences. “I confess I am not surprised. This morning's announcement must have been... disappointing.”
Darcy closed his book with deliberate care. “I am sure I do not take your meaning.”
“Charles remaining in Hertfordshire.” Caroline settled into the chair opposite him, uninvited. “Through the winter, no less. After all the wise counsel you offered about the dangers of forming attachments too hastily.” She shook her head with practiced sorrow. “It must be vexing to see such sensible advice disregarded.”
Darcy said nothing. He was aware of the trap being laid—Caroline's attempt to recruit him as an ally in her campaign against Jane Bennet and, by extension, her entire family.
A week ago, he might have taken the bait.
