Darcy bowed. Mr Bennet acknowledged, saying something about how pleased he was to have forgone his usual tendency to stay home in favor of meeting new acquaintances. Darcy detected mild sarcasm in his tone but chose to ignore it. Bennet gave him a dry nod and a murmur of greeting before turning his attention to the arrangement of the chairs. Miss Bennet curtsied with quiet elegance, and Miss Elizabeth—though her smile was far less subdued—offered a graceful inclination of her head. Her eyes, bright and alert, darted not to Darcy, but to her sister, watching with evident amusement as Caroline Bingley attempted a compliment too drenched in artifice to land with any sincerity.
Darcy had scarcely exchanged a few words before he discerned what Bingley had likely noticed from the first: Miss Bennet was genuinely fond of his friend. The gentle light in her expression, the way her glances lingered, the softening of her tone when she answered his questions—it was all unmistakably sincere. There was no guile in her manner, only warmth. It was a great relief to know his friend had not been taken in by a fortune hunter. His attention, therefore, shifted to the younger sister.
Miss Elizabeth was not beautiful in the fashionable sense. Her features were fine, though not striking, and her complexion, whilst clear, held the faintest touch of sun. But she moved with confidence, spoke with clarity, and her eyes—those eyes—seemed to read every gesture and word. When Caroline made a sly remark about the novelty of so many provincial flowers in one room, Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, though her smile remained. It was not the reaction of a woman easily cowed.
Darcy watched her in silence, intrigued.
Bingley, in the midst of offering Miss Bennet a refreshment, turned suddenly towards her sister.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said with a grin, “I have already secured the first and last dances of the evening from your sister, so I suppose I must steal one from you as well, lest I be accused of favouritism.”
Elizabeth laughed, her tone bright and amused. “I shall be sure to mark that in your favour when I write my report to the magistrate.”
Bingley offered a mock bow. “I live only to preserve my honour.”
Miss Bingley, standing stiffly at Darcy’s elbow, rolled her eyes in a manner that was anything but subtle. Darcy, unmoved, turned to Miss Bennet.
“May I hope for the second set, Miss Bennet?” He wished to come to know the lady better.
She accepted with a modest nod, and he turned next to Elizabeth. “Miss Elizabeth, if you are not otherwise engaged for the fourth…”
“I am not,” she replied, watching him closely. “It would be my pleasure.”
Miss Bingley did not seem at all pleased, likely upset that he had condescended to ask any other lady to dance. Determined to do all in his power to avoid singling her—or any other lady—out, Darcy next asked Mrs Hurst for a set. She granted him one near the end of the evening.I shall dance all night if it means less time in Miss Bingley’s company.
The music struck up again, and the dancers began to move. Darcy stepped onto the floor with Miss Bennet for the second set. She was, as expected, the very picture of grace—gentle in her step, soft in her speech. They exchanged pleasantries, mostly concerning her family and the charm of the countryside. Her affection for Bingley was delicately veiled, yet not absent, and Darcy could not deny a measure of satisfaction that his friend’s attachment was not misplaced.
The third set arrived with Miss Bingley. She danced well, but her conversation was marked by a brittle edge.
“You seem determined to make the acquaintance of every local family,” she said as they turned.
Darcy offered no more than, “It is only proper to acknowledge your brother’s new neighbours.”
“Oh, certainly. And some of the girls are quite… lively.” Her gaze swept towards Elizabeth, then returned, sharp. “But I daresay you will grow tired of the novelty soon enough.”
Darcy did not reply. He had never been in the habit of indulging another’s pettiness. By the time the fourth set began to form, he found himself beside Miss Elizabeth once more on the edge of the dance floor. Their conversation was less stilted than before, and though she teased him once about his reticence in company, he found no malice in her words—only mirth and a challenge beneath it.
She was not what he had expected. And for that, he was unexpectedly glad.
The fourth set began, and as they moved onto the floor, Darcy found himself unusually alert to the expression on Elizabeth Bennet’s face. Her smile was composed, but there was a curiosity in her eyes that suggested she did not waste time on performances. She took his arm with a graceful ease, and they joined the line of dancers as the first notes struck up.
“The music is better than I had expected,” she said lightly as they turned. “Though I suppose anything seems fine if one’s partner is not stepping on one’s slippers.”
Darcy allowed the corner of his mouth to lift. “Then I shall consider myself warned.”
“I am certain you need no such caution, Mr Darcy. You look far too practised in the art of not making mistakes.”
“Not making mistakes,” he repeated with mild irony, “is not always the same as doingthings well.”
She tilted her head as they turned again. “A very neat distinction. I shall have to think on that.”
They danced in companionable rhythm for a few measures before she spoke again. “My brother would have liked this assembly. He is fond of music, even when it is bad.”
Darcy noted the shift in her voice—softened, almost wistful. He glanced towards her, but she was already looking away, following the movement of the line.
“Your brother is not here tonight?” he asked.
Her smile returned, though fainter. “No. He is but five years of age, though he wishes he were grown already.”
