Lady Catherine paused, studying him with an expression in which calculation and resolve were evenly balanced. Then, with a decisive inclination of her head, she turned her attention back to the floor, already adjusting her expectations and considering the next arrangement.
“An excellent beginning,” she declared, with evident satisfaction. “We may proceed just as smoothly.”
At her signal, the quartet prepared once more, and the assembly entered an interval that allowed new pairs to be formed for the next set of dances.
Lady Catherine observed this pause from her elevated seat near the hearth, her gaze fixed upon the open space where the next figures would be drawn together, for new pairs did not assemble themselves at Rosings without direction.
Thus the evening advanced, and with it Lady Catherine’s plans, unaware, as yet, that authority acknowledged is not always authority obeyed.
It was during this interval that Mr. Darcy became aware of a figure approaching him with a confidence born not of intimacy but of presumption, and with an intention he could not yet fully discern. At his side, Georgiana started perceptibly and tightened her hold upon his arm.
Mr. Wickham—known to the Darcys as the son of their late father’s steward—had stepped forward from the outer ring of observers and now advanced with an ease that might, to a less informed eye, have appeared merely sociable. His coat was cut with care, his manner outwardly polished, and his countenance arranged into an expression of cordial assurance; yet there lingered about him that indefinable air of a man who relied too readily upon charm where discretion would have served him better.
Darcy recognised him at once, and with the recognition came that inward tightening of resolve which experience, rather than temper, had taught him to command. He did not move from his place, nor did he offer the smallest encouragement, but waited, his posture unaltered and his gaze steady, unwilling to concede even the appearance of welcome. At his side, Georgiana did not withdraw her hand.
Wickham halted at a proper distance and inclined his head, as though they met upon neutral ground and on equal terms, and spoke with an ease that assumed familiarity rather than requested it.
“Mr. Darcy. It has been some time. Miss Darcy.”
Darcy returned the inclination with measured civility. “Mr. Wickham.”
The exchange, brief though it was, did not pass entirely unnoticed. Lady Catherine’s attention rested upon them for a moment, not with alarm but with appraisal, as one might observe any unfamiliar interaction among her guests, before returning to the floor in evident satisfaction that nothing had yet occurred to require her direction. She was aware of Mr. Wickham only in the limited sense that propriety demanded—as a gentleman recently admitted upon her invitation—and whatever history lay beyond that distinction did not enter her consideration. Others, less exacting in their observations, remarked merely that two gentlemen conversed during the customary interval and dismissed it as a commonplace occurrence.
“I had not expected to see you here this evening, Darcy,” Wickham continued, lowering his voice in a manner that suggested confidence rather than caution. “Nevertheless, Rosings has always been a place of… select invitations.”
Darcy’s reply was calm and deliberately devoid of warmth. “Her ladyship’s invitations are extended according to her own judgment. Your presence here requires no further comment from me.”
“Indeed,” Wickham said lightly. “And yet one cannot help but admire her taste—the company excellent, the music agreeable, and Miss Darcy—” He allowed a pause, as though savouring the name. “—a very graceful dancer.”
At this, Darcy’s expression hardened, though only by a degree perceptible to those who knew him well. “My sister’s conduct requires no commentary from you.”
Wickham smiled, apparently unfazed. “You mistake me. I speak only in admiration. In fact, I had thought—should the next set permit—that I might request the honour of a dance.”
The presumption lay not in the request itself, but in the certainty with which it was offered. Darcy did not answer at once, and when he did, his voice was quiet, controlled, and final.
“That will not be necessary.”
Wickham’s brows lifted, the first sign that his confidence had met resistance. “Not necessary?”
“No,” Darcy replied evenly. “Miss Darcy’s engagements are already determined.”
For a fleeting moment, something less polished crossed Wickham’s features—surprise yielding to calculation, and calculation to a thinly veiled irritation—before he recovered himself and smoothed his expression into an approximation of good humour.
“I see. I had not realised arrangements were so strictly governed.”
“They are governed,” Darcy returned, “by regard for propriety.”
Wickham inclined his head again, this time with a stiffness that betrayed his displeasure. “As you wish, sir. I would not wish to overstep.”
Darcy offered no reply, and the silence that followed carried sufficient weight to indicate dismissal. Yet Wickham did not at once retreat, remaining where he was with a posture schooled into easy patience, as though time itself might yet soften a decision already rendered.
To Darcy’s practised eye, the manoeuvre was familiar. Wickham had always relied upon endurance where authority resisted him, lingering until circumstance itself grew uncomfortable enough to compel concession—a tactic that preyed not upon principle, but upon embarrassment.
Georgiana, standing beside her brother, became aware of the continued presence without the need to look directly at it. She neither turned her head nor altered her expression, yet the subtle shift of her attention told Darcy that she had understood perfectly.
Conversation ebbed and re-formed around them, moderated by courtesy, while Wickham remained—close enough to be noticed, distant enough to avoid rebuke—his expectation thinly veiled beneath politeness.
Georgiana did not turn toward Mr. Wickham at once. She remained beside her brother, her posture composed, her expression unaltered, as though weighing not the moment itself, but the consequences of yielding it. She understood—perhaps more clearly than anyone present—that to refuse openly would invite persistence, while to hesitate would encouragepresumption. What was required was neither refusal nor retreat, but choice.
