Her gaze moved across the room and settled upon James Bennet, who stood a few feet apart, observing the scene with quiet attentiveness.
“I believe,” she said, in a voice clear enough to be heard by those nearest, yet entirely free of emphasis, “that I have already promised the next set to Mr. Bennet.”
The statement was delivered not as an announcement, but as a simple recollection, offered without apology and without glance toward the gentleman it excluded. It was, as such things often were, a promise made real by the manner in which it was claimed.
James, whose attention had remained alert rather than idle, turned at the sound of his name. For the briefest moment, surprise crossed his features; then understanding followed, swift and unembellished. He took in at once the circumstances, the proximity of Mr. Wickham, and the quiet firmness with which Miss Darcy had placed herself beyond dispute.
He hesitated only long enough to look—reluctantly, and without invitation—toward the gentleman she had declined, acknowledging his presence without conceding him any claim. Then his attention shifted, as it ought, to where it properly belonged.
James’s eyes sought Darcy’s.
The exchange between the gentlemen was slight, easily overlooked by any not already accustomed to such signals: a steady look held, a fraction of an instant’s pause, and a single inclination of the head that conveyed approval without ceremony. Nothing more was required.
James Bennet stepped forward at once.
“I shall be most happy, Miss Darcy, to keep my promise,” he said, offering his arm with a courtesy that was neither eager nor affected, but wholly correct.
Georgiana inclined her head in acceptance, her composure unbroken, the matter settled as cleanly as it had been proposed. She placed her hand upon his arm, and together they moved toward the forming set, their progress natural, unhurried, and entirely unremarkable—except to the one gentleman left standing where opportunity had been.
Only then did Wickham’s expression alter, by no more than a tightening at the jaw and a momentary loss of ease. The space he had sought to occupy was no longer available to him; the choice had been made, and it had been witnessed. He withdrew at last, his retreat accomplished with civility enough to preserve appearances, though not, perhaps, his satisfaction.
Darcy watched his sister take her place upon the floor, not with anxiety, but with a quiet recognition of judgment well exercised. She had not sought protection. She had chosen it.
The music resumed, and the assembly adjusted itself accordingly, the moment absorbed into motion, leaving behind only the knowledge—understood by those who knew how to read such things—that propriety, once claimed, could not be reclaimed by those who had failed to earn it.
Darcy exhaled slowly, not in relief, but in recognition of his sister’s judgment. She had not required rescue; she had exercised authority of her own.
Lady Catherine, observing the exchange from her elevated seat, noted the new pairing with approval untempered by curiosity. The arrangement was respectable, intelligible, and—most importantly—useful; whatever designs she entertained for the evening, this particular development offered no obstacle.
At her signal, the quartet prepared to resume.
As Georgiana took her place opposite James Bennet, the movement of the room absorbed the moment entirely, leaving Wickham with nothing but the knowledge that he had been excluded—not by force, but by propriety.
From the corner of his eye, Darcy marked Wickham’s movements as he drifted toward the edge of the room, exchanging a word here, a glance there, as though testing whether sympathy or diversion might yet be secured. His manner remained outwardly agreeable, but it lacked ease, and the careful observer might have discerned beneath it a restlessness ill-suited to an evening governed by order and display.
Darcy did not wait for that restlessness to find expression. When the dancers were fully engaged and the room’s attention properly absorbed, he crossed the floor with deliberate calm and halted beside Wickham, addressing him in a tone low enough to avoid notice, yet firm enough to admit no evasion.
“Mr. Wickham,” he said, “a word with you, if you please.”
Wickham turned, his expression at once alert, and after the briefest hesitation inclined his head with an air of ready compliance. “Certainly, Mr. Darcy.”
***
The music resumed, and with it the ordered movement of the floor. The figures formed with practiced ease, and Miss Georgiana Darcy found herself once more carried forward bythe familiar pattern of the dance, her steps precise, her posture composed, her attention fixed not upon the room at large but upon the quiet steadiness of the moment. Whatever unease had attended the interval did not follow her onto the floor; within the measured boundaries of the set, she recovered herself entirely.
Mr. James Bennet danced with unobtrusive correctness. He neither sought to command her attention nor appeared anxious to impress it, and the very absence of effort rendered his company easy. He watched the figures as they crossed and re-formed, mindful of his place, attentive without intrusion, and content to allow the music to govern what need not be spoken.
After the first change, when the movement allowed a moment’s exchange, Georgiana spoke. “You reside chiefly at Longbourn, do you not?” she asked, her tone even, her manner thoughtful rather than idle.
“I do, miss,” James replied. “My responsibilities keep me there more often than not.”
She inclined her head slightly. “And your brothers—are they much with you?”
“They are,” he said, without emphasis. “Though each pursues his own course. Elias, in particular, divides his time between study and the quieter obligations of the household.”
Her interest sharpened, though her expression did not alter. “He studies the law, I believe.”
“He does, Miss Darcy,” James answered. “With diligence, and without haste. He prefers understanding to display.”
