“Miss Elizabeth.”
She turned, surprise flashing across her face before settling into polite attention. “Mr Darcy.”
He inclined his head. “Might I speak with you a moment?”
She hesitated—only a breath—then stepped aside with him, just far enough that conversation might pass without performance.
“I had wondered,” he said, choosing his words with care, “whether you were already engaged for the supper set.”
Her expression changed at once—not into gratitude, not quite, but into something like relief held in check.
“I… perhaps.” She clenched her jaw, then winced and sniffed. Then, after a pause, “At least—that is, I ammeantto be.”
Darcy waited.
She drew a breath, quivering slightly. “My mother has been kind enough to announce it for me,” she added lightly. “With a generosity that leaves little room for correction.”
“I see,” he said. “Well, if you are already engaged—”
She looked up at him then, more directly. “If you would be willing,” she said, “I should like to beg a small indulgence.”
That word—beg—sat ill with him at once.
“I would… appreciate it if… a belief could be made to circulate,” she went on, carefully, “that you asked me for the supper set several days ago. Just after the ball was announced.”
Darcy stiffened. “I did no such thing.”
“I know.” She offered a quick, apologetic smile. “That is the difficulty.”
He drew back a fraction. “Miss Elizabeth, I cannot—”
“I would not ask it,” she said, more urgently now, “if it were not for certain extenuating circumstances.”
Darcy swallowed. He was acutely aware of how such a story would sound—how readily it would be repeated, embroidered, examined. He had spent the evening resisting exactly this: the impression of intention, of preference.
And pretence, above all, offended him.
“I do not care to encourage invention,” he said. “Nor to supply it with evidence.”
Her gaze did not waver. “Nor do I,” she replied. “But I care even less to be cornered by it.”
Something in her voice—controlled, but not light—gave him pause.
“You have found Mr Collins… oppressive,” he said, before he had quite decided to.
Her mouth curved, briefly. “That is a charitable description.”
Darcy considered her then—not as she moved among the company, but as she stood now, deliberately composed, asking him for something he did not wish to give, and yet she clearly needed.
The lie troubled him.
So did the look in her eyes.
“Very well,” he said. “If the arrangement can be easily assumed, I will not contradict it.”
Her shoulders eased—only fractionally, but enough that he noticed. “I am obliged to you,” she said. “I promise not to entertain fancies beyond the inescapable.”
“I should hope not. Very well, Miss Elizabeth. I shall come to claim your hand after two dances for the supper set.”
