“Did you?”
Determined to do better, he added, “The meal is delicious in every respect. I have always been more fond of English cooking than French.”
“Have you?” She took a small bite of her own cheesecake.
“Um.” He reached for his wine and took a drink to stall for some time. In truth, he was a man who ate what was placed in front of him and rarely gave much thought to what style it was, or how it was seasoned, or sauced.
Elizabeth’s eyes were unwavering upon him, which did nothing to ease his present anxiety. Thankfully, she rescued him from her query. “Not that I have much experience in the way ofFrench chefs, but I, too, prefer simpler fare. It likely speaks to my country-town indifference or whatever it was Miss Bingley accused me of.”
The last was said with good humour, but it gave him a jolt. Well did he recall that conversation at Netherfield last autumn. Miss Bingley had begun to abuse Elizabeth almost before the door closed behind her. He remembered admitting that he should not like his own sister to make any such exhibition, but he had not meant it as censure. Elizabeth could not have known that, however. He wondered when it was that he would cease finding further examples of his dreadful behaviour.
“I must be guilty as charged as well,” he said. “Some well-roasted venison or beef and a nice potato is truly all I need.”
“Your cook must be very grateful to you for it.”
“I think that must be in part the reason for my preferences. As a boy, I often would sneak down to the servants’ hall while they had their meal. It was always so jolly down there, all of them talking and laughing.”
She nodded. “I have always thought it diverting to be below stairs as well, though Hill rarely allowed us to linger about. One quiet boy is likely far less disruptive than five boisterous little ladies all bent on stealing biscuits.”
“I cannot deny that, though for my part there were generally two of us, not only me.”
She, caught mid-sip, gave him a quizzical look over her wine glass.
“George Wickham,” he said ruefully. “We were thick as thieves in those days.”
“Oh, of course.” She set her glass down, then turned towards him a bit in her seat, her head bent. “I am glad you mentioned him. I have wished to tell you how embarrassed I am by how I defended him to you. I-it was idiotic of me to believe his lies, so wholly?—”
“No, no,” he said. “He has the gift of pleasing wherever he goes. I cannot censure you for being charmed by him in the same way countless others, including my own family, have.”
“He appealed to my vanity.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “I should not have imagined myself so cheaply enticed, but so it was. I know better now how one man might take on the appearance of goodness while another…”
“While another comports himself as the villain?” Darcy offered a tentative smile.
That made her smile, faintly. “I did not say you were a villain.”
“Your friends and neighbours did not think well of me last autumn,” he said lightly. “I cannot blame them. I did not give you, or them, any reason to think well of me.”
“Any man who commits the unpardonable sin of leaving a lady to sit at a ball is rather doomed, is he not?” She grinned. “Of course, I do not expect more invitations to be forthcoming. I was hardly an agreeable partner at Bingley’s ball last November.”
“You were perfectly amiable,” he protested.
“Oh no.” She shook her head, ringlets bouncing. “No, I was determined to punish you for what I believed was your cruelty to Mr Wickham. I behaved abominably, I admit it. But it has left me to wonder…”
“What?”
“Is it dancing itself that you find disagreeable? Or is it partnering with me that you find distasteful?”
On the surface, her countenance appeared light-hearted. But in her eyes was something else—perhaps worry? He knew not if he dared believe it. To imagine she might think that their last dance together had soured him on dancing with her! Helongedto dance with her; it was no more than his diffidence where she was concerned that inhibited him.
“I am not overly fond of dancing, in truth,” he said cautiously. “But I enjoyed dancing with you before, and I anticipate that I shall enjoy it again at Bingley’s next ball if you would so honour me.”
“I would like that,” she said softly with a small nod. Amid nodding, however, she grimaced. Reaching behind her, she tugged at one of her curls at her nape.
“Is something wrong?”
“This always happens,” she explained with a little wincing smile. “My hair gets entwined with my button, and it feels like half my scalp is about to be torn off with it.”
She had her hand behind her but did not seem to make progress in terms of solving her dilemma, not if the frowns and pulls she made were any indication.
