Mr Darcy, by contrast, sat in rigid silence for the first twenty minutes. Elizabeth could feel his tension. He was sitting so still he might have been carved from marble.
But as the music swelled, she felt him lean closer.
"Do you likeIl flauto magico?" he asked, under the cover of a particularly loud chorus.
"I do," Elizabeth replied, turning her head slightly so he could hear her. "Though I confess, I find the plot improbable."
"People falling in love in an instant? Singing about their feelings to total strangers?"
"Exactly."
"Perhaps," he murmured, "it is only improbable until it happens to you."
Elizabeth's heart skipped a beat. She looked at him in the gloom. His profile was illuminated by the stage lights—the strong nose, the heavy brow, the mouth that was usually so stern now softened by uncertainty.
"Mr Darcy," she whispered. "Did you meet Mr Bingley last night?"
She felt him stiffen. The air between them changed, heavy with sudden weight.
"I did."
"And?"
"And I have a confession to make, Miss Elizabeth."
On stage, the tenor began a mournful ballad. In the box, Mr Darcy moved his chair an inch closer. It was a breach of propriety. It was a risk. It was necessary.
"You left the choice to me, to convey your regards or not," he said, his voice rough with suppressed emotion.
"Yes."
"I did. I told him you were here. I told him Miss Bennet was in London. I told him he could call."
Elizabeth turned fully in her chair, ignoring the stage. "And?"
He looked at her. His eyes were dark pools of regret. "And he said... maybe in late January. When his calendar is less full."
Elizabeth stared at him. "January?"
"He has met someone else," he whispered. "A Miss Ellington. He met her at a ball. He is quite taken with her."
Elizabeth felt a flash of anger—not at Mr Darcy, but at Mr Bingley. And then, a wash of protective fury for Jane. "He has replaced her? Already?"
"He is... light," Mr Darcy said, choosing his words with agonizing care. "He feels strongly, but he moves on quickly. I was wrong to separate them, Miss Elizabeth. I see that now. I interfered where I had no right. I judged your sister's heart by my friend's shallowmeasure."
He took a breath, his hand clenching on his knee.
"But I was right about one thing. He does not deserve her. If he can forget her in a month, he is not worthy of the grief she has suffered."
The music soared, a crescendo of tragic beauty. Elizabeth sat frozen, processing his words.
He had told Bingley. He had given him the chance. And Bingley had failed.
"You meddled," she said, her voice trembling. "You decided for them."
"I did," he admitted. "It was arrogant. It was proud. I thought I knew best. I thought... I thought I was saving him from an unequal match. I did not realize I was separating a woman of deep feeling from a man who..." He stopped. "I am sorry. Not for the result, actually, for I believe she is better off without him. But for the pain I caused her. And for the pain I caused you."
Elizabeth looked at Jane. Her sister was whispering to Lord Keathley, her face serene, her eyes bright. She wasn't looking for Bingley. She wasn't waiting for him.
