“Very well,” she relented. “But we must not terrify the room.”
“Oh, let us terrify it a little,” Lydia cried, already drawing her toward the forming set. “The Bennet sisters require no assistance!”
***
Darcy had not intended to remain where he stood. He had meant to move – to seek Bingley, or at least to disengage himself from observation. Yet the sudden motion near the centre of the room arrested him.
Miss Elizabeth.
She had been drawn – almost bodily – into the forming set by her youngest sister. He recognised Miss Lydia’s animated gestures at once; there was no mistaking that exuberance.
He watched as Miss Elizabeth laughed – not the composed, measured smile she wore in conversation, but something freer. Unrestrained. She bent slightly toward Miss Lydia, speaking a word of mock caution, and she answered with theatrical defiance.
The music began.
Miss Lydia entered the steps with fearless enthusiasm, her energy just within the bounds of propriety. Miss Elizabeth matched her in spirit. She guided where she must, yet never with visible restraint. If Lydia hurried, Miss Elizabeth steadied her; if Lydia faltered, Miss Elizabeth recovered the figure with quiet competence.
More than once, laughter escaped her – unguarded and genuine.
Darcy found himself unexpectedly still. This was not wit directed at him. Not challenge. Not argument. It was affection.
There was nothing artful in it. No desire to attract attention. Indeed, for several moments, she appeared to have forgotten the room entirely.
He had seen her lively. He had seen her composed. He had not seen her thus.
When the figure brought them opposite one another across the set, Miss Lydia flashed triumph toward the spectators. Miss Elizabeth only smiled – but it was a smile warmed by indulgence rather than display.
Darcy became aware, with a clarity that unsettled him, that what most distinguished her was not animation. It was attachment. And that quality, he reflected, was far rarer.
Darcy became conscious, too late, that he was no longer unobserved.
“Mr. Darcy,” came Caroline’s polished voice at his shoulder, “you appear quite absorbed.”
“It is very easy to lose oneself in the enjoyment of two sisters in their dance. Miss Elizabeth’s manner is particularly engaging when she forgets herself.”
Caroline followed his eyes, and her mouth became an invisible line at what she saw.
He turned. Caroline stood beside a tall, elegantly dressed lady whose bearing announced London before she spoke. Her gownwas of deeper silk than most present; her gloves immaculate; her smile measured.
“Miss Ashford,” Caroline said, “finds our provincial assemblies… instructive.”
Miss Ashford inclined her head with graceful composure. “I am always curious to observe local manners.”
Darcy bowed. “They reward close attention.”
Caroline’s eyes flickered toward the dance floor, where Elizabeth and Lydia were completing a lively figure.
Miss Ashford followed the glance. “How spirited,” she observed. “The country encourages freedom.”
“Perhaps,” Darcy replied evenly.
There was a small pause. Miss Ashford adjusted her fan.
“I find myself quite at liberty for the next set,” she said, lightly enough to pass for an accident.
Caroline watched him.
Darcy allowed the silence to extend a fraction longer than was comfortable. “I fear,” he said at last, “that I do not dance every set.”
