“I shall hope,” Sir William continued, lowering his voice only enough to suggest discretion while ensuring half the room might still overhear, “that we may often be gratified by such an exhibition – particularly when certain very desirable events shall render these meetings even more frequent.”
His eyes travelled meaningfully toward Jane and Bingley before returning, with unmistakable implication, to Darcy and Elizabeth.
Elizabeth felt the colour rise again, though whether from amusement or vexation she could not immediately determine.
Darcy, however, did not start as he once might have done. He had been too long in society to be unacquainted with exuberant speculation. He merely bowed. “You are most obliging, sir.”
Sir William beamed, entirely satisfied with the effect of his own gallantry. “Pray do not allow me to detain you from such bewitching conversation.” He withdrew at last, leaving behind him a wake of smiles and whispers.
For a brief moment, the set faltered in its rhythm.
Elizabeth ventured, quietly, “Sir William’s imagination is… energetic.”
“It is rarely restrained,” Darcy replied evenly.
But though his tone remained composed, there was no irritation in it – only awareness.
The music resumed its authority over them. They took their places once more; the interruption dissolved into movement. And this time, when their eyes met across the narrowing space of the figure, neither looked away.
***
They found themselves momentarily alone near the far end of the room; Bingley gave Darcy one of the glasses in his hands. Bingley was watching the dancers with unconcealed contentment.
“Thank you. You have done very well tonight,” Darcy observed, his tone deliberately neutral.
“In what respect?” Bingley asked, though he knew perfectly well.
“You have made yourself… conspicuous.”
Bingley laughed. “Have I? I hope not offensively so.”
“That remains to be seen.”
Bingley turned to him more fully. “Darcy, she could be the one.”
Darcy did not immediately reply.
“I know what you will say,” Bingley went on quickly. “That I admire her for her beauty. And who could blame me? But it is not that alone. There is something in her manner – her steadiness. She listens. She considers. I like her. I think she likes me, too.”
Darcy studied his friend’s face – open, earnest, entirely unguarded.
“She is not like the London ladies,” Bingley continued, lowering his voice. “They smile, they flatter, but they never quite take me seriously. No matter how much money I possess, I am still a novelty to them. With Miss Bennet, I do not feel so.”
Darcy’s expression softened, though only slightly. “You believe her regard sincere?”
“I do. I do not think she could pretend even if she wanted to.”
“That is essential.”
Bingley hesitated, then added with sudden curiosity, “Why did you not dance with Caroline?”
Darcy’s brows lifted faintly. “Was I expected to?”
“She is quite put out.”
“I imagine she will recover.”
“You have always stood up with her before.”
