“Precisely. My experience of these events is vastly different from yours.”
Elizabeth regarded him with a mixture of amusement and scepticism.
“I speak the truth.”
Elizabeth looked at him with polite disbelief.
Darcy continued, though without any attempt at drama. “Balls, for me, generally consist of being observed by a room full of strangers who have already decided what sort of man I must be.”
Elizabeth could not help smiling slightly. “And what sort of man do they decide you are?”
“A very proud one, usually. Sometimes disagreeable. Occasionally both.”
Elizabeth’s smile widened. “And you do nothing to discourage the impression?”
“Very little, I am afraid.”
They walked a few steps before he continued.
“My family name, my estate, my fortune – they are all known before I enter the room. Many people come already determined to like me, or to dislike me, without the inconvenience of discovering which I deserve.”
Elizabeth considered this. “That sounds rather uncomfortable.”
“It is tiresome,” Darcy admitted. “Particularly when I am expected to dance with ladies whose interest lies more inthe gentleman than in the dance. Tales are then created very quickly.”
Elizabeth considered this. It was true. She knew about his circumstances before they were introduced. “You are right. Our experiences are not the same. Yet my experience that evening was similarly uncomfortable. To hear a gentleman like yourself declaring me not handsome enough for a dance was not pleasant, Mr. Darcy. Could you not just simply tell your friend you were uncomfortable?
“Yes, that would have been the right thing to do. However, that would also have meant admitting a weakness.”
“Oh, you have just admitted it to me.”
“Before you, I do not mind so much.”
“Still, you must forgive me if I find your present compliments somewhat difficult to credit after all that.”
Darcy was silent first. Then he said calmly, “If you doubt my sincerity, Miss Elizabeth, you may consult Miss Bingley.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Miss Bingley?”
“Yes.” His expression remained perfectly composed, though there was a quiet amusement in his eyes. “In an unguarded moment, I once confessed to her that I admired your fine eyes.”
Elizabeth stared at him. “You said that to Miss Bingley?”
“I did.”
“And when was this astonishing confession made?”
Darcy answered without hesitation. “At Lucas Lodge.”
Elizabeth stopped walking. “At Lucas Lodge?”
“Yes.”
For some moments, she said nothing. Lucas Lodge. That had been at the very beginning of their acquaintance – when she had scarcely been able to tolerate his company and had taken particular pleasure in laughing at him whenever the opportunity presented itself.
“You mean,” she said slowly, “that you admired me even then?”
“Yes.”
