Bingley blinked. “Was he?”
Darcy set his glass down. “I have no idea what you are referring to.”
Miss Bingley’s smile widened by a fraction. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s recovery was quite the evening’s entertainment. One could hardly miss it.”
“I fail to see how concern for a guest’s health constitutes entertainment.”
“Oh, concern,” she echoed. “Yes. Of course.”
Bingley laughed again, a little awkwardly this time. “Caroline—”
“I only mean,” she continued, “that you seemed unusually attentive. Brutus too. One might almost think the household had adopted her.”
Darcy’s expression did not change. “My dog behaves as he sees fit. He is a dog.”
“And yet,” she said, tapping her book against her palm, “he does not followeveryoneabout the house.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Nor did he follow Miss Elizabeth.”
“No,” Miss Bingley agreed. “He merely escorted her like a knight errant.”
Bingley poked the fire with a stick. “Dogs are excellent judges of character. That is what they always say, is it not?”
Darcy’s gaze lifted. “Dogs are creatures of habit who know which persons are likely to pet them or feed them.”
Bingley cleared his throat. “Well! In any case, she did look improved. Quite herself again.”
Darcy stood abruptly. He moved away from the hearth, crossing to the window as though the darkened grounds might offer something the room did not. The conversation resumed behind him at once—arrangements, invitations, the certainty that Mrs Bennet would be delighted, the question of whether the militia ought to be included.
Darcy did not turn.
“You will attend, of course,” Bingley said.
“I attend events I am invited to,” Darcy replied.
“That is a yes,” Bingley declared. “Now, then, what of the guest list? Caroline, I trust you are keeping note of everything?”
Miss Bingley was watching Darcy in the glass. “Indeed. Mr Darcy, I cannot help but notice that you are rather restless.”
He turned back at last. “If we are done speculating upon my disposition, I would be grateful to return to matters of substance.”
“Oh, but that is the matter of substance,” she said lightly. “You are rarely so… elsewhere. Meditating on.. What was it? I declare I recall some mention of ‘fine eyes…’”
Darcy held her gaze. “You mistake distraction for reflection.”
“On what?”
“On the dangers of overinterpretation.”
Bingley chuckled. “You see? Perfectly himself, Caroline.”
Darcy nodded once, as if to seal it. “Exactly.”
He took up his glass again, posture composed, expression schooled—every inch the man at ease among friends, engaged in the pleasant business of an evening well-spent.
And if his attention strayed, if his replies came a heartbeat late, if his thoughts refused tosettle—
Well.
