“You seem rather sensitized to the general—may I say, entirely expected—speculation of the room this evening,” he said mildly. “I should recommend ignoring at least half of it.”
Elizabeth’s mouth curved. “Only half? How generous.”
He flicked his eyes toward another corner, where Mrs Bennet was fluttering her handkerchief and holding forth with unmistakable animation. Elizabeth’s name surfaced even at a distance. Then there was Collins, whose glances in their direction were too frequent to be accidental.
“At least,” Darcy continued, “the remainder may safely be dismissed as invention. I have already heard three incompatible accounts of your prospects, my intentions, observed six hands covering indiscreet mouths, and we have been seated less than five minutes.”
She laughed—softly, but with unmistakable relief. The sound settled something in him. The faint queasiness that had dulled his appetite eased, replaced by the simpler pleasure of watching her speak without caution.
“Then I am glad of it,” she said. “I was beginning to fear I had been living a double life without noticing.”
“If you have,” Darcy said, “you conduct it with admirable discretion.”
Her eyes brightened at that, and she leaned back in her chair. “You see? That is precisely the sort of encouragement one requires. If I am to be misrepresented, I prefer it done with elegance.”
He found himself smiling before he could check it. The room still pressed close, the noise still rose and fell in uneven waves, but seated beside her, it all seemed manageable—background rather than assault.
“I shall endeavour to correct the record where possible.”
“I should be grateful,” she said. “Though I warn you—my mother will only improve upon any correction you offer.”
“That,” Darcy said dryly, “does appear to be a talent.”
She laughed again, more freely now. “It is rather astonishing how pleasant an evening may become when one is no longer obliged to listen for one’s own name. Do you not find that the success of any evening depends almost entirely on whether one is permitted to choose one’s own companions?”
“A dangerous doctrine,” Darcy replied. A brief blur crossed his vision; he blinked it away and went on. “Society would collapse.”
“Only the duller portions,” she said sweetly.
He huffed a quiet laugh before he could stop himself. “Then I shall consider myself warned.”
They ate for a moment in companionable ease, the clatter of the room receding to a tolerable murmur. Darcy found he had little appetite for what lay before him, though he made a show of it—lifting his fork, taking a few careful bites—more for the sake of appearances than hunger. The effort cost him more than it ought, but he ignored that as well.
“You danced well,” he said at last. “With attention and skill, I mean. Not merely with energy.”
She glanced up, amused. “That sounds suspiciously like praise.”
“I intended it as an observation,” he replied. “And perhaps gratitude from my toes, though I am aware the distinction is rarely convincing.”
“I shall allow it,” she laughed. “You strike me as someone who noticeshowthings are done, not merelywhetherthey are done.”
“That is generous,” he said. “And perhaps unwise.”
“Why?”
“Because it invites questions,” he said. “And I find myself ill-equipped to deflect them.”
Her smile turned curious. “I should have thought deflection a practiced skill of yours.”
“Only when necessary,” he answered. He reached for his glass, then set it down again untouched. “I prefer candour when it is… safe.”
She considered that. “I suspect we differ there. I find candour most useful when it is inconvenient.”
He shook his head, a quiet huff of amusement escaping him despite the faint tightening beneath his ribs. “Then I am glad not to be your adversary.”
Her smile hovered between deliberate flirtation and calculation. “Not at present.”
Warmth answered that—quick, dangerous—and with it a slight tremor at the corner of his vision that made him blink once, hard, before it passed. He did not look away from her.
