“Until we meet again, Miss Elizabeth,” he said smoothly, bowing once more.
As she drifted away, his expression hardened. She was cautious. Far too cautious. And not easily swayed by charm. But the greater the resistance, the sweeter the conquest.
He could not risk revealing his history with Darcy—not yet, and especially not the modified version that painted himself in a more favourable light. Elizabeth would ask questions. She would seek answers. AndDarcy, the insufferable prig, might actually tell the truth.
No, best to bide his time. Let her grow curious. Let her think him noble, misunderstood, perhaps even wounded. Women loved stories, especially ones where some poor fellow was wronged by a dastardly villain. He would craft a tale. He always did.
And if she fell for him—whenshe did—he would make sure Darcy knew it.
To steal the affections of the woman Darcy admired… yes, that was the perfect revenge. Far more satisfying than duels or debts. Because nothing stung more than love lost to an enemy.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Miss Bingley flitted about the drawing-room like a restless wasp, her voice sharp as she issued commands to the footman who had been summoned with barely concealed irritation. “And tell Cook we shall require the imported tea, not the local fare. The last shipment was passable at best.” She turned on her heel, skirts rustling like silk wings. “And be certain the chandeliers are polished to brilliance. We cannot be seen hosting in anything less than splendour.”
Her agitation crackled in the air. She had relented, albeit grudgingly, to her brother’s persistent entreaties and agreed to plan a ball at Netherfield. What began as a mild suggestion from Bingley had, over the course of a single evening, taken root and bloomed into a full-blown obsession in Caroline’s mind. She moved through the house like a general preparing for war, snapping at servants and regulating every particular from the floral arrangements to the wine pairings.
Darcy observed her from his seat near the window, feigning interest in a volume of Milton but noting every movement, every sigh, every falsely sweet smile she wore like armour. There was no mistaking the feverish gleam in her eyes. She was not merely planning a ball—she was orchestrating a spectacle. For whom, it was painfully clear.
He cast his thoughts back to the evening when it all began, the very day Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth had returned home to Longbourn.Bingley, buoyant and nearly glowing, had raised the idea during tea, leaning forwards with uncharacteristic fervour.
“A ball, Darcy! Can you not picture it? A proper gathering—music, dancing, laughter. The season needn’t be dull simply because we’re outside Town.”
Darcy had lifted an eyebrow. “You are confident, then, that your neighbours would enjoy such a thing?”
Bingley laughed. “Enjoy it? They would love it.”
Caroline had scoffed audibly, her tone lined with acid. “A ball, Charles? Why would we squander resources on something so provincial? The people here would hardly appreciate our efforts. They would not even know what a proper ball entails.”
“Do not be such a bore, Caroline,” said Mr Hurst from his chair by the fire, swirling the last of his brandy before draining it in a single, practised motion. “I say, an evening of revelry sounds wonderful. This place has been insufferably dull—no society, no opera, no gambling halls. The countryside offers little but fresh air and damp walks.”
Mrs Hurst looked up from her embroidery and offered a mild but pointed comment. “I shall help you, Charles. Besides, Caroline, it would be an excellent opportunity to display your talents as a hostess.” She cast a significant glance towards Mr Darcy, her meaning unmistakable.
Darcy suppressed a sigh, keeping his face neutral. He knew exactly what was intended.
Caroline paused, her expression calculating. Then, like the flick of a fan at a fashionable soiree, her demeanor shifted. “Very well.Itwould not hurt to introduce some refinement into this—quaint—society. We shall host a ball worthy of the first circles. If we are to do it, we shall do it properly.”
From that moment on, the matter was settled. Or rather, wrested from Bingley’shands entirely.
Miss Bingley had taken the reins with a vengeance. The drawing rooms were inspected, tapestries refreshed, invitations carefully penned in her slanted, delicate hand. Even the guest list was subjected to her scrutiny, though Bingley insisted the Bennets must attend.
Darcy had offered no opinion at the time. He knew his friend’s intentions. Bingley was determined to propose to Miss Bennet that evening. It was written across his face with every smile he gave, every hopeful glance towards the object of his affections. A man in love was difficult to miss, and Bingley had never been good at hiding his heart.
Darcy, however, had remained silent, his own thoughts far more tangled.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He could not banish her from his mind. The brightness of her eyes, the effortless wit, the confidence with which she carried herself amongst company far more practised in the art of society. She had unsettled him, stirred something he had not expected—did not want—to feel.
And now, with this ball approaching, he found himself watching the preparations with a strange blend of anticipation and dread. A night of dancing meant proximity, conversation, vulnerability. And he was not yet certain if proximity to Elizabeth Bennet was a balm or a poison.
Across the room, Miss Bingley turned towards him suddenly, hands clasped like a hostess at Almack’s.
“Mr Darcy, shall I expect your company for the first two dances?” Her smile was brittle and expectant.
He met her gaze, then bowed his head slightly. “I do not yet know if I shall dance, Miss Bingley.”
Her mouth tightened, but she said nothing more, only swept away to instruct a servant about the candles.
Darcy returned to his book, though his eyes did not move across the page. Somewhere in Hertfordshire, Miss Elizabeth waslaughing with her sisters, unaware of the storm that was gathering around her—around them both.
