Wickham’s smile tightened. “You mistake persistence for admiration.”
“I do not,” Darcy said evenly. “Nor do I mistake admiration for entitlement. Miss Darcy’s engagements are not open to negotiation, and they are certainly not to be pressed upon her by anyone who presumes familiarity without warrant.”
There was a pause, brief but charged, during which Wickham’s expression shifted through several calculations before settling once more into civility. “You speak as though I had committed some offence,” he said at last, his tone sharpening by a degree that betrayed irritation beneath composure.
Darcy regarded him steadily. “You know very well what I speak of. Some years ago, at Ramsgate, you sought to ingratiateyourself where you had neither right nor honour, and you did so with an intention that would have ruined a young woman had it succeeded.”
Wickham’s expression altered—not into guilt, but calculation.
“I was young,” he said lightly. “Circumstances were… misinterpreted.”
“They were prevented,” Darcy replied, his voice low and unyielding. “And you were spared public exposure only because I chose discretion over disgrace. That indulgence was extended for my sister’s sake, not yours.”
A silence followed, heavy enough to leave no doubt of its meaning.
“Years have passed,” Wickham said at last. “I have lived openly since. I married. I have been widowed. I hold a situation now. I am not the man I was.”
“Then conduct yourself accordingly,” Darcy answered. “For if you presume again upon a young woman’s inexperience, you will find that my discretion has its limits.You have been warned, Mr. Wickham. That is all I intend at present. I wish no disturbance, no speculation, and no cause for remark. If you remain, you will do so with the understanding that my sister’s comfort is not a subject for experiment.”
“And if I choose not to remain?” Wickham asked lightly, as though the choice amused him.
“That is entirely within your discretion,” Darcy replied. “As is your future conduct. I merely make clear that I shall not hesitate to intervene again, should occasion require it.”
Wickham inclined his head, this time with an air of acknowledgment rather than challenge. “Very well. I should not wish to be thought troublesome.”
“I trust you will not,” Darcy said. He withdrew without haste and resumed his place among the company, his manner unchanged, his presence reassuming its place among the company without comment or consequence. Behind him, Wickham lingered a moment longer before following at a more measured pace, his resentment contained, but not extinguished.
To the room at large, nothing had altered. The music continued and the dancers moved. Yet Darcy, resuming his watch, knew that the evening had acquired an undercurrent that would not be so easily dismissed, and that restraint, once imposed, was rarely accepted without cost.
***
James Bennet remained where Darcy had left him, his position neither accidental nor entirely chosen. He had conducted Miss Darcy back with the understanding—clear enough in Darcy’s earlier glance—that her brother would be the one to receive her, and though the interval had lengthened, James did not move away, unwilling to appear either impatient or disengaged from a responsibility he had been tacitly entrusted to fulfil.
The room had settled into that particular hum which follows a well-executed set: conversation resumed, fans stirred the warm air, and the musicians adjusted their instruments while awaiting the signal for the next figure. James, observing these familiar signs, became aware that he was no longer merely waiting, but being quietly observed in turn—by those who noticed that he did not drift toward refreshment, nor seek out another partner, nor retreat to the margins where inconsequence was safest.
Just then, Mr. Darcy returned, cutting a quiet path across the polished floor with the kind of purpose that drew no undueattention and yet cleared its own space. James turned as he approached.
“I must apologise, Mr. Bennet,” Darcy said, his tone reserved but not cold. “I was delayed—something required my immediate attention.” He gave a slight nod toward the far end of the ballroom, where the figure of Mr. Wickham was already half-vanished into a knot of unfamiliar guests.
James, who had seen enough to suspect the nature of the delay, replied with mild candour. “No apology necessary. Your sister has not lacked for guardianship, sir. Colonel Fitzwilliam invited her for the next, and she accepted—he is dancing with her now—just a few couples down from my brother Elias, as it happens.”
Mr. Darcy’s gaze followed James’s subtle gesture. “A fortunate arrangement,” he said mildly. “Colonel Fitzwilliam is the most reliable partner in the room—though not, perhaps, the most graceful.”
His features eased—just slightly—as he beheld Georgiana moving with graceful precision through the steps, partnered by the man who, aside from himself, held legal guardianship over her for the final year of her minority.
“You chose well, Mr. Bennet,” Darcy said, his voice low. “She could not be in better hands. The Colonel is trusted, thoughtful… and fortunately, her fondness for him excuses his footwork.” He allowed the faintest smile to stir. “As tutors in the art of dance, we are none of us perfect.”
“Miss Darcy seems quite at ease,” James remarked, genuinely. “Happy, even.”
Darcy nodded, but the smile faded, replaced by something more sober. “I mean for her to remain so. Though my aunt,” headded, glancing across the room, “has an astonishing talent for draining cheer from even the most well-fortified guests.”
James followed his gaze and saw what Darcy meant—Lady Catherine was standing beside Mrs. Darcy, speaking in tones too low to be heard but too sharp to be misunderstood. Mrs. Darcy’s expression remained calm, but her hands were folded too tightly in her lap.
Mr. Darcy drew a breath and offered James a polite incline of the head. “If you will excuse me, I believe I ought to rescue my wife.”
“By all means,” James said, stepping aside.
Mr. Darcy did not reply, but the look he gave Mr. Bennet held something warmer than amusement—it was a flicker of regard. And then he was gone, crossing the ballroom with the quiet force of someone accustomed to interruption and the necessity of tact.
