When at last she found herself beside Jane once more, Elizabeth leaned closer.
“Tell me honestly,” she said, keeping her tone light, “is there something amiss with my gown?”
Jane looked at her in surprise. “No, not at all. Why would you think so?”
Elizabeth glanced down at herself as if expecting to find a ribbon undone or a conspicuous stain. “I cannot imagine any other explanation. Either I have spilled something without noticing, or something about my expression invites particular scrutiny.”
Jane smiled, and for a moment the old warmth returned to her face. “You are imagining things, I think. People look because you are very pretty.”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “That is a sister’s prerogative, and I thank you for it. But something is wrong all the same. I am quite certain of it.”
Jane’s eyes softened. “You have nothing to worry about. If anyone is looking at you, it is only because you are new to them.”
Elizabeth wanted to believe her. It would have been pleasant to accept that London had taken notice of her simply because she stood out in some agreeable way. Yet the feeling did not match Jane’s explanation. This was not admiration. It was something else, something that sat oddly on her shoulders.
Still, she did not press the matter. Jane had enough on her mind without Elizabeth inventing additional anxieties.
Mrs Gardiner returned at that moment with a gentle question about whether Jane wished to sit for a time. Jane shook her head, smiling, and insisted that she was well. Elizabeth could see the effort beneath the words, but she also saw that Jane was trying.
With a little inward reproach, Elizabeth resolved to stop worrying about herself. She could endure a few looks. It was Jane’s happiness that mattered.
Her resolution made, Elizabeth made an effort to keep it. In any case, surely making every effort to enjoy herself would be a more sensible way to spend the ball than worrying about what she could not change. She had just begun to relax when a familiar figure appeared at her side.
Mr Darcy stood before her.
For a moment, Elizabeth was genuinely startled. She had not expected to see him in London at all, and certainly not here. She had believed him too proud, too reserved, and perhaps too indifferent to seek out such public assemblies unless he had a clear purpose. The surprise must have shown on her face, for he hesitated briefly before speaking.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he said, bowing, “might I have the honour of this dance?”
Elizabeth paused. It was not a long pause, but it was long enough for her to realise she was weighing more than the invitation.
There seemed a great many things to consider, her own pride not least among them. Most important of all were surely Mr Wickham’s accusations, which had seemed so certain and so damning when he made them, and yet which did not entirely fit with what she had seen of Mr Darcy’s character. And, petty as it was in comparison, Elizabeth could not deny that she was weighing her irritation at Mr Darcy’s past haughtiness against her curiosity about his present manner.
Curiosity won, as it often did.
“Yes,” she said, and placed her hand in his.
As they moved into the set, Elizabeth felt a strange certainty come over her.Somethingwas wrong, though she could not have said what. Mr Darcy’s attention was not directed entirely to her. He was polite, attentive in the correct ways, and his hand guided her with steady assurance. Yet his gaze moved beyond her shoulder more than once, his expression thoughtful and guarded, as if he were listening for something beneath the music.
Elizabeth followed his glance and caught sight of two ladies whispering together, their eyes flicking toward them with unmistakable interest. Another gentleman, not far away, looked at Mr Darcy with a faint smile that seemed to imply some private joke.
Elizabeth felt her earlier unease sharpen.
Just as at the Netherfield Park ball, Mr Darcy danced exceedingly well. His movements were precise yet unforced, as though he had never once had to think about where his feet ought to go. Elizabeth found the steps easier with him than with the gentlemen her uncle had introduced. There was a steadiness to his hold that made her feel perfectly secure, despite all her misgivings about the man.
It was inconveniently pleasant.
She wondered what he was thinking. Mr Darcy was not easy to read, and she suspected he preferred it that way. Yet tonight, he appeared more unsettled than she had ever seen him. Not flustered, certainly. He would never allow that. But his attention was divided, his composure held too deliberately, as though he feared it might slip.
“You seem troubled,” Elizabeth said at last, lowering her voice so that only he could hear. “Have you observed that people are behaving rather oddly this evening?”
Mr Darcy’s eyes met hers then, and for a moment she felt as though she had stepped unexpectedly into deeper water. His expression was difficult to read. There was something in it that suggested caution, and something else, too, that she could not name.
“I have noticed,” he replied quietly. “Your observation confirms my worst fears.”
Elizabeth frowned. “Your worst fears?”
He did not answer at once. The music carried them through the figure, and they turned, moved apart, and returned again, all with the careful ease demanded by the dance. When he spoke, he kept his voice low and controlled.
