“She is so accomplished for her age. Few young ladies can compare to her—such taste in music, such elegance in her manner! And her playing on the pianoforte is divine.”
Darcy shifted his eyes to her coolly. “Indeed,” he said evenly. “She writes with great animation and is eager to meet the company here.”
At that, Miss Bingley’s fan snapped shut a bit too abruptly. She composed herself and turned to Mrs Hurst, murmuring something about how pleased she was to hear of Georgiana’s visit.
Richard leaned in and whispered, “She sounds thrilled.”
Darcy concealed his amusement behind a sip of wine.
Soon after, the ladies excused themselves from the table. Miss Bingley rose first, sweeping away with graceful determination, followed by Mrs Hurst and the others. Their voices trailed behind them in soft murmurs as they passed through the door.
The men sat back, more relaxed now that the social performance was half over. Bingley, who had been watching his sister depart, turned back with a twinkle in his eye.
“Well, Darcy,” he said, a touch of mirth in his voice, “you’ve gone and done it. My poor sister will not know what to do with herself. Three such exalted personages in one house—Darcy, Fitzwilliam, and Georgiana Darcy. I daresay she’ll spend the next fortnight floating about as though she were Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself.”
Richard laughed, lifting his wineglass in a toast. “To exalted company!”
Darcy allowed himself a rare smile. “She need not trouble herself on Georgiana’s account. My sister is neither exalted nor pretentious.”
“She will be a pleasant addition,” Bingley said more sincerely. “And it will be good for her to see you…well…so engaged.”
Darcy met his friend’s eyes, and though he said nothing, the gratitude was plain.
Richard, noticing the exchange, added, “You are not quite the same man who arrived in Hertfordshire, cousin. For the better, I might add.”
Bingley stood. “Come, let us rejoin the ladies before Caroline declares herself the empress of this drawing room.”
They left the dining room with light spirits, unaware of the shadows still lingering elsewhere—both in Longbourn and in the mind of one determined Mr Wickham.
Chapter Thirty
The golden light of hundreds of candles reflected in the gleaming chandeliers of Netherfield Park’s grand ballroom, casting a warm and lively glow on the finely dressed assembly. Garlands of holly and ivy lined the walls, the scent of evergreen clinging faintly to the air. Crystal glasses clinked softly, skirts rustled with every step, and laughter hovered above the gentle hum of conversation. The musicians, seated along the back wall beneath an ornate arch, tuned their violins and cello, the mingled sounds of plucked strings and short bow strokes adding a rising sense of anticipation.
George Wickham stood near the ballroom’s arched entryway, resplendent in his red regimentals. The fresh polish on his boots gleamed, and his cravat was tied just so, adding a debonair finish to his carefully calculated appearance.
He glanced about with a critical eye, cataloguing faces and judging the company with practised ease. Country gentry, for the most part—some awkward in their best attire, others managing a fair imitation of grace. Ladies fluttered their fans and curtsied with wide smiles, their eyes darting about in search of favoured partners. Wickham was not blind to the looks sent his way—he had always made an impression when he wished to.
He had not been certain he would attend, not with Darcy in the house. But in the end, the temptation was too great.
Let him see me,Wickham thought.Let him fret. Let him wonder what I am doing here, what mischiefto which I aspire.
He smirked. It would be good to remind Darcy that Wickham had not disappeared—that he could insert himself into any world Darcy built.
Still, discretion was required. He had been careful upon arrival to remain out of his former friend’s direct line of sight. It would not do to confront him too early. No, the evening would unfold on Wickham’s terms.
“Mr Wickham,” came a breathy voice beside him.
He turned with a smile. “Miss Mary King, what a pleasure.” She was slight, red-haired, with an unfortunate abundance of freckles and a toothy smile, but Wickham played the part of a devoted suitor as if she were the only woman in the room.
They stepped onto the dance floor and joined the first set. Wickham’s movements were easy and confident; his smile perfectly modulated. Miss King giggled incessantly at his light compliments, and he gave her just enough attention to ensure she would float through the rest of the evening bragging of her partner. In the second set, he partnered Miss Penelope Hart, a merchant’s daughter, who was visiting her cousins. He twirled her effortlessly, murmuring witty observations as they moved through the figures. Her cheeks bloomed pink.
As they danced, Wickham’s gaze searched the room, always searching. At the far end of the room, he spotted Darcy—tall, rigid, and unmistakable. Darcy was standing with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. The pair moved with quiet synchronicity, their glances occasionally meeting as they discussed…whatever it was they found interesting. Wickham watched the subtle exchanges between them, grinding his molars slightly. Darcy had danced the first with her, a sure sign his interest was anything but casual.
So it is true. He’s courting her.Darcy had shown his interest, but Wickham had doubted he would act on it. The man was a cold fish.
Wickham took care not to reveal himself. When the patterns of the dance drew them close, he turned subtly so Darcy would see only the backof his head. It was no difficult feat—he knew exactly how to stay hidden in plain sight.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
