Charlotte, though startled, inclined her head with quiet dignity. “You are very obliging, sir.”
Elizabeth looked at him then – not merely with approval, but with a warmth that acknowledged what he had done.
Darcy felt the quiet satisfaction of a man who has chosen well. For such a look, he thought, he might willingly have repeated the kindness a hundred times.
“For a moment there, I thought you meant to refuse me. That would have made three in total.”
Elizabeth met his look calmly as they took their places opposite one another. “On the first two occasions, I had the impression you did not truly wish to dance with me.”
The set began to form; couples moved into line.
“In both cases,” he said, bowing as the figure commenced, “you were mistaken.”
She raised an eyebrow as they advanced and retreated with the line. “Was I?”
“I do not ask where I have no desire to be.”
They passed hands; he felt the light pressure of her fingers before the movement carried them apart again.
“At the Meryton assembly,” she said over her shoulder once they danced together again, “you appeared quite determined not to dance at all.”
For a moment, he considered an apology for his rude comment, but he did not want to embarrass her further. “I was unacquainted,” he replied. “And badly disposed.”
“Badly disposed?” She turned with the figure, skirts sweeping in a controlled arc. “How alarming. But no, no. This will not do. Mr. Darcy, all you had to do was ask Sir William to introduce you to any lady. You just did not want to. Admit it, Mr. Darcy.”
“You are perfectly right,” he indulged her.
They changed partners briefly; he watched her exchange a few words with the gentleman beside her, her smile polite but measured. When the figure restored her to him, her expression altered.
The smile she gave him was not the same. It was unstudied, warmer, and wholly unguarded. For an instant, her eyes met his with a frankness that left no room for irony.
He felt it before he understood it. There was something in that look he had not yet deciphered – approval, perhaps; or something more generous. He found himself, unexpectedly, wishing to know precisely what thought had produced it.
The colour rose swiftly to her cheeks, as though she too recognised the openness of the moment. She lowered her gaze and turned with the next movement of the dance, her composure restored.
As the figure carried Elizabeth from him once more, Darcy became aware of Caroline and her companion stationed with studied indifference along the wall.
He did not mistake the look. Expectation.
He had fulfilled that expectation often enough on previous occasions – standing up where he was placed, complying where compliance was expected. At Meryton, he had danced with Miss Bingley because it was required. It had been duty. Nothing more.
The set returned Elizabeth to him. He took her hand without hesitation and did not so much as glance toward the wall.
If Miss Bingley observed, she might also observe this: he did not dance from management; he did not dance from persuasion. And he would not be directed.
The music swelled; Miss Elizabeth’s step met his with quiet certainty.
Let them look. The choice was his.
This time, he gave his partner a smile that made her forget, for a moment, where she was meant to stand.
They had scarcely completed the next turn when a familiar voice intruded upon the measure.
“My dear sir! My dear Miss Eliza!”
Sir William Lucas had paused at the edge of the set, bowing with expansive courtesy. “Such very superior dancing is rarely witnessed in this neighbourhood. It is evident, Mr. Darcy, that you belong to the first circles – and your fair partner does you the greatest credit.”
Elizabeth’s composure held; Darcy inclined his head with measured civility.
