And yet – he had asked. There had been deliberation in it. Not mere politeness. A consideration she had not anticipated. She had seen the effect upon Charlotte. And she had seen the effect upon him when she looked at him afterwards.
Her cheeks warmed again.
During the dance – when movement had softened the severity of his expression – she had thought him handsome. Not merely so. Striking.
The thought had come unbidden. It had stayed.
She straightened slightly, as though correcting herself.
It would not do to rewrite a gentleman’s character because he moved well through a country set.
And yet…
Elizabeth drew a steady breath and reached for her gloves. The evening was not concluded. Neither, it seemed, were her impressions.
And for the first time since she had met him, she wondered whether she had judged too quickly – or too eagerly.
She extinguished the extra candle and returned to the noise of the room, carrying with her a composure that was no longer quite the same as before.
***
Darcy left the supper table under the pretext of air.
The noise had grown oppressive – Miss Lydia’s laughter, Mrs. Bennet’s animation, Collins’s reflections upon music. He required a moment’s distance.
The corridor toward the small library stood in relative shadow. He had nearly reached the door when another figure detached itself from the darker end of the hall.
“Darcy!”
He stopped.
Wickham approached without haste.
He had spent the greater part of the evening in the card room, where fortune had proved less obliging than the company. His pocket was lighter – a circumstance that did nothing to soften a temper already strained by repeated affronts. When the game dissolved for want of players, he had risen with an easy apology and stepped into the corridor in search of air.
He had not been seeking Darcy. But when he saw him at the far end of the passage – alone, composed, in all his finery, untouched by humiliation – something in him hardened.
The refusals of the evening returned at once: Miss Elizabeth’s cool dismissal, Mr. Bennet’s quiet obstruction. Each, in its way, an insult. And behind both, he perceived the same influence.
His blood rose. He moved forward slowly, deliberately. The smile he arranged was practised. The light in his eyes was not. “Darcy. You avoid me with remarkable consistency,” Wickham observed.
“That is because I do not wish for your company,” Darcy replied evenly. He stepped into the library.
Wickham followed. “How admirable. Yet, you are not my master, Darcy.”
“Why would I want to see you, Wickham? After our last parting, you should not wonder.” He observed him closely. “You had much to drink. Go home, Wickham.”
“You will not dismiss me. I am a guest here.”
“Then do as you please – but take it elsewhere.”
“You interfere where you have no right,” Wickham continued. “At Meryton. Tonight. Even Mr. Bennet appears suddenly vigilant. You carry influence conveniently.”
Darcy’s voice did not alter. “You overestimate yourself.”
“Do I?” Wickham’s tone sharpened. “You have always been jealous.”
Darcy’s gaze hardened, but he did not rise to it.
