Elizabeth supposed it was inevitable that the subject would arise at some point and only wished it had done so before she polished off three glasses of wine. She was much less able in her present state to guard against the flood of feelings that accompanied the allusion to Mr Darcy.
“Are we to evade the matter all evening?” Lady Marling enquired testily. “Miss Bennet must know we are all impatient to hear her story.”
“She does,” said Lady Rothersea, still attending to her cards. “But you might exercise a little subtlety, my dear.”
“You may exercise as much or as little subtlety as you please, madam, it will not change the story I tell you,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes, yes, you and Mr Darcy are not involved in any way. That is exactly what we expected you to say,” Lady Marling replied. “But we are all friends now. You need not persist with the ruse.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “It is not a ruse.”
“Come now, Miss Bennet,” said Lady Rothersea. “You know I witnessed your quarrel last week. People who are not intimately acquainted with each other simply do not argue like that.”
“And I hate to tell you,” added Miss Bryant, “but you were seen embracing on Henrietta Street earlier this week.”
Elizabeth’s heart sank. An embrace was a far cry from the real reason Mr Darcy had been obliged to prop her upright that day. “That was not what it seemed. I took ill at his house, and?—”
“You have been to his house?” asked Mrs Tattersall.
Elizabeth could have kicked herself. “Only to visit his sister.”
“His sister?” pressed someone else—Lady Harriett—drifting over to join in the interrogation. “Who is not yet out and does not live with him?”
“Pardon?”
“Miss Darcy has her own establishment in Portman Square, where she lives with her companion.”
Elizabeth swallowed a groan. She was all too aware that Miss Darcy’s invitation had been a scheme, concocted to allow her brother to impart his damning information. Four days had passed with no return call, and whilst she was disappointed, she was not surprised. Mr Darcy would never allow his sister to set foot so near to Cheapside to visit the family of a known adulteress. The discovery that the sweet and innocent young lady had been summoned from her own home to be embroiled in the contrivance somehow made the situation still worse.
She shrugged helplessly. “What can I say? She wished to meet me at Berkeley Square.”
“How deliciously convenient,” said Mrs Tattersall.
“Truly, it is not.”
“I cannot comprehend why you are persisting with this charade,” Lady Rothersea said. “It is the coup of the century. Mr Darcy has had more caps set at him than the Prince Regent has had hot dinners. Your reluctance to crow about it is unfathomable to the rest of us.”
Elizabeth knew not how to reply. None of them believed her when she spoke the truth, but she would not bind herself with a lie to a man who hated her. “There is nothing to crow about,” she repeated wearily.
“Have a care,” warned Lady Marling. “If you continue to insist that you are not engaged, people might begin to think it is a less salubrious arrangement.”
Elizabeth flushed hot, aghast at the notion. “It is nothing of the kind!”
“Of course not,” Lady Rothersea said calmly, “and nobody is suggesting that it is—Mr Darcy is not the sort. Besides, it is evident to everyone that he loves you.”
Those words landed awkwardly, making Elizabeth’s heart hurt and yearn all at once. “Much though I should hate to encourage Lady Marling’s conjecture, I assure you, he does not.”
“Yes, he does, and you love him. There is no point denying it. No one ever heard of two people more besotted with each other—nor of two people dancing a waltz to such fanfare. Folk are running out of superlatives to describe that little display. But have it your way,” she said, conceding at last. “You must manage the business as you see fit. We are clearly not going to succeed in drawing you out.”
Miss Bryant sighed. “I would give an arm and a leg to waltz with Mr Darcy.”
“Then you would dance very poorly, Cousin.”
It seemed Lady Rothersea was tired of the subject—or she had taken pity on Elizabeth. Either way, she turned the conversation with a decisiveness that took the whole room with her.
Almost.
“I imagine it is heavenly to be in his arms,” Miss Bryant whispered. “He is so dashingly handsome. We are all disgustingly jealous.”
