"I cannot play one handed," I said, glowering at him.
My menacing stare had no effect on him this time. He grinned. "Hardly an argument for me letting go."
He ran his thumb over my knuckles, pulling me closer until there was no room between us. And then kissed he me, just a lovely, soft, perfect brush of the lips. Before I had time to protest it was over.
"That was . . . that was—
Wonderful?
Heavenly?
Why stop there?
"—inappropriate," I said finally, ignoring my own inner thoughts.
"No one noticed."
I glanced over at our party. No one appeared to be staring at us aghast.
"I'm still angry with you," I said.
"I assumed you would be, but perhaps we might call a truce, for tonight."
"You will not interrupt Jane and Mr. Bingley?" I asked.
"I will not."
I had noted that ominous "for tonight". That was concerning. However, he would change his mind about Mr. Bingley and Jane. He was just a snob, not a monster. Bingley's obvious happiness would make Darcy willing to overlook Jane's unfortunate relations. And as it was, he himself was now one of her unfortunate relations.
"And we will play charades?" Press the advantage while you have it, that is what I always say.
Darcy sighed. "Fine," he said with much displeasure.
Out of respect for his feelings, I contained my gleeful squeal.
Thirteen
19thDecember 1811
Evening
Sometimes you see a handsome stranger from across a crowded room, you meet his dark, mysterious eyes, a rush of elation sweeps through you to your very bones, and you just know
. . . that this already terrible evening is about to get even worse because that handsome stranger is not actually a stranger at all but your husband and that rush you felt is not the thrill of illicit love but rather that sinking feeling best verbalized as—
"Oh, bloody hell."
My whispered curse earned me a scandalized glare from the lady next to me. And by next to me I mean pressed right up against me because this party is an absolute crush which must make Mrs. Hamilton, the hostess, very pleased, but makes her guests feel like herring in a barrel and the resulting heat of all these tightly packed bodies makes said guests smell just as strongly odoriferous as said herring, though blessedly not as fishy.
The impermeable crowd dashed my hopes of escape from Darcy who was now approaching. He would come to visit me now when everything has spun out of control. A quarter of an hour prior everything was going splendidly. Dora was seated next to me speaking to Mr. Farthingham (about beetles of course, but he did seem genuinely interested) and Jane was conversing pleasantly with Mr. Bingley.
And then suddenly everything inexplicably went very wrong. Mr. Bingley took his leave of Jane without asking her to dance, and worse still when I turned to speak to Dora she was no where to be found.
I have left Jane in the corner with Mrs. Rose (a highly respectable but somewhat senile nonagenarian who has no idea where she is but is pleased as anything to be here) while I search for Dora. The last thing I wanted was for Darcy to emerge from the card room just as things have gone to—
"Bloody hell," I said, this time quite audibly, as a portly gentleman trod on my toes. Portly and full of port if his stumbling gait is any indication. Mrs. Hamilton has seemingly tried to make up for her lack of sufficient floor space by the liberal distribution of her wine stores.
The gentleman was still shouting apologies at me when Darcy finally pushed his way through the mob, though he made a hasty retreat when he saw Darcy's glare. He should not have worried. The glare was not for him. It was for me. I know because it is the Lizzy Specific Glare. This glare is thusly composed: one half exasperation, one quarter amusement, one third ire, two thirds resignation, and one eighth some inscrutable, smoldering emotion I cannot quite describe, but just the merest hint of it in his eyes makes my knees weak—which is unfortunate because it is hard enough to stay upright with my possibly broken toes.
