He focused on me again. “I should have realized a man like him, one who was so open and eager and fearless… he would have an arrangement already. Perhaps it’s different in London, but here in the country, it’s… well, you are so very tall. I entirely understand.” He laughed, a sort of wistful laugh, and then he was off, without taking his leave.
I gazed after him, thoroughly confused.
I wondered if I should apologize to Miss Bennet or not. She was on the periphery of the dance floor, her dark curls hanging artfully against her flawless skin. When she caught me looking at her, she smirked.
She had heard me, then.
Damnation.
CHAPTER TWO
I did not apologize to her.
I could not. I had no notion how to go about it. I thought of going over to her and asking if she’d overheard, but that was insupportable.
I thought of going to her and just blurting the apology out, of telling her that I actually thought she was very beautiful, but then that sounded idiotic and I didn’t think she’d believe me.
Trying to explain that I had been doggedly sticking to my argument with Bingley made me sound like some sort of village idiot, and I resolved I needed to think that explanation through before I gave it voice again.
At some point, I noticed that Mr. Bingley and Mr. Bennet were talking about me, at least they were talking and looking over at me and both gesturing at me from time to time, and Bingley was shaking his head and laughing. Mr. Bennet looked stunned and rubbed his forehead.
This distracted me, and I would have gone to speak to Bingley about it, demanded he explain himself, truly, for it was rude to talk about a person in that manner, especially when I could see them doing it.
But Miss Bingley was there, interrupting my thoughts. “You have not danced, Mr. Darcy.”
Well, that was Miss Bingley for you. She had painted me into a corner with but one sentence. I had no option now but to ask for a space on her dance card.
Perhaps, I supposed, I could have said that I was in no mood for dancing at all, but she might still have taken that as a slight, and I could not do that in all politeness. However, it was really not entirely fair, because she was not being polite.
Not that she was typically polite, I supposed.
She was a bit artless, was Miss Bingley. No, no, that is not it at all. She was actually rather artful, but she was awful at concealing it, so that everything she did seemed to be a scheme, all of her behavior manipulative in some way, always trying to move people about here and there to do her bidding. However, because she was so obvious about it, she was not at all good at manipulating people. This seemed to only make her behavior more desperate and obvious.
“It is true, I have not,” I said. “But here you are, such a fortuitous coincidence. I wonder if you might do me the honor, Miss Bingley.”
“Oh, of course, Mr. Darcy.” She gave me a dazzling smile.
We took to the dance floor, and she began to engage me in conversation, though I found speaking to her rather tedious. Miss Bingley had two modes of interaction: one was to slavishly ask questions about her conversation partner’s interests and make all sort of interested noises and various exclamations of delighted surprise and the other was to go on about her own (very boring) exploits. I had been treated to a long diatribe once about how Miss Bingley decided what fabric to have her gloves made of. She had given it a lot of thought. She said that many women wanted gloves that matched their dresses, made of the exact same fabric, but that she did not like this look, that it drew too much attention to the gloves and that gloves shouldaccentuate the dress by fading out and providing a frame for the eye.
It was dull, however, I seem to have remembered it rather faithfully, and truthfully, I had found myself noticing women’s gloves, and she was right. A simple glove did make a woman’s dress more prominent to the eye.
What Miss Bingley seemed to fail to grasp about a conversation was that it should be about finding common ground between people, not simply taking turns talking at each other about things the other person did not care about.
But for a half hour, I answered her questions and she prattled on, and then finally, I was set free to go and hide in the corner for the rest of the ball.
Mr. Bingley found me there, and he regarded me with an expression more serious than I was used to seeing on his face. “You had quite a conversation with James.”
“James?” I said. Who was it that we were addressing by first names in this place?
“Mr. Bennet,” he said. “The heir to Longbourn. The brother of the girl you said was tolerable.”
I winced. “Oh, yes, that was not my finest of moments.” I cleared my throat. “Here it is, Bingley, I am sorry I have been so sour about the ball. Truly, what I should have done is simply been plain with you. I disliked the fact that you misrepresented so much of this excursion. You made it out to be this large group and it is only you and me and your sisters.”
Bingley looked me over. “All right, then.” He adjusted his cravat. “So, to be clear, you would not be enticed by the prospect of being shut up in a house with only me?”
Why was this his response? What did it mean? If his tone had been different, I would have assumed he was affronted, but he seemed only genuinely curious, as if he were trying to ascertain something about me. “Now, see here,” I said, “I do notmean that I dislike your company in general, only that I was out of sorts because of the afternoon we had, rushing here, and then all of us sharing one valet, and everyone here loudly announcing my income whilst I am in earshot, and who told them that? Was it you who have been doing so?”
“Oh, come now, Darcy, everyone knows everyone else’s income and discusses it behind their backs. You know as well as I that men are never taken on their merit, not entirely.”
