She had scarcely time to brood on the matter before her first partner approached. Mr. Collins, beaming and stiff, claimed her for the first two dances, as he had done before. His conversation—such as it was—proved unchanged in character, though less florid in compliment than formerly, which Elizabeth chose to interpret as a hopeful sign. Still, she could not quite escape the idea that he simply spoke what most aligned with his own view of the world, and noticed little outside it.
Charlotte Lucas stood nearby, and Elizabeth, seizing a moment when Mr. Collins paused for breath, drew them together.
"Mr. Collins, may I present my particular friend, Miss Lucas?"
Charlotte curtsied with propriety, and Mr. Collins, startled but gratified by the attention, offered a ponderous bow. Elizabeth observed them with a satisfied air. Though her own engagement to Mr. Collins must never come to pass again, she could not resist the thought that Charlotte—so sensible and accommodating—might yet find comfort in such an arrangement.
Her next partner was an officer, Mr. Forthright, newly stationed with the militia. He was young and pleasant-mannered, though inclined to flatter.
"I confess, Miss Bennet, we were all greatly disappointed to learn Mr. Wickham would not be in attendance this evening. He is much admired amongst the regiment. Such affability—such openness of temper."
Elizabeth forced a smile. "Indeed, he is affable—to a fault."
He looked puzzled. "You do not admire him, then? But everyone speaks so well of him."
"Do they?" she replied, her tone light but pointed. "Then I daresay he has been most diligent in the management of his reputation. A skillful gentleman indeed."
Mr. Forthright blinked, uncertain whether he had received a compliment or a censure. "I had thought—he seemed most agreeable—"
"As agreeable as one who tells you all that you wish to hear, and nothing of what you ought."
He laughed nervously, and turned the conversation to the weather. Elizabeth sighed inwardly, regretting her sharpness, but unable to suppress it.
She became aware, then, that Mr. Darcy stood not far off. His countenance was stern, his gaze unwavering. In the shadows of the ballroom’s candlelight, his eyes were dark and searching, his brows drawn with grave intensity. Yet, though the severity of his expression might have discomposed another, to Elizabeth it was painfully familiar—this was the look he wore when troubled, when disappointed, when forced to repress emotion for the sake of honour.
His handsome features, ever marked by a certain noble austerity, were now clouded by an emotion she could not read—was it jealousy? Disapproval? Pain? She wished, not for the first time that evening, that she could take his hand and lead him to some quiet corner to say, "It is not as you think. I love you still."
But he had not yet earned those words—not in this life. And she had not earned his trust.
Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, before she turned once more to her companion and resolved to finish the set with as much cheer as she could muster.
When she returned to Charlotte, her friend was quick to question her sudden introduction of Mr. Collins. Elizabeth only smiled and said, "I thought you might get on well."
Charlotte raised an arched brow. "And Mr. Darcy? He has been watching you with far too steady an interest for a man of mere acquaintance."
Elizabeth, caught off guard, had no answer ready. Indeed, she was still attempting to frame a reply when Mr. Darcy himself approached—his countenance grave, yet undeniably striking beneath the soft glow of the chandeliers. He bowed with the utmost propriety, and applied for her hand in the next set. So startled was she by the request that she accepted without thought, and he was gone again almost before she realised it.
She remained motionless for a moment, the murmuring crowd and strains of the pianoforte fading as her thoughts rushed inward. What could she say to him? Whatoughtshe to say? Her mind, usually quick and witty, was now clouded with doubt and longing.
Charlotte, ever perceptive, began to speak again, but Elizabeth, distracted, missed her counsel entirely. The musicians struck up anew, and Mr. Darcy returned to claim her hand. Charlotte, uncertain of Elizabeth’s feelings, leaned close and whispered encouragement. Elizabeth groaned softly, mortified by the wordhope. If he heard it, no wonder he would deem Meryton mercenary.
They took their places. For a time they danced in silence, the music weaving around them, the candlelight flickering across polished wood and fine attire. Elizabeth could scarce bear the silence, her thoughts racing with all she could not say.
At last, she spoke. "I am surprised you asked me to dance, Mr. Darcy."
He looked down at her with his usual inscrutable expression, but his eyes searched hers.
"I know I confuse you," she said, quietly, earnestly. "To confess, I confuse myself. I wish I could tell you... I long to tell you what you seek—but I am afraid."
His brow furrowed. "Is someone harming you? Threatening you? If so—"
"No, no! It is not that," she interrupted quickly. "It is not something one would dare believe."
His expression darkened, puzzled, yet softened by concern. "Miss Bennet, you puzzle me exceedingly."
She almost laughed—indeed, it bubbled to her lips—but restrained it. It would only confound him more. Instead, with a lightness that belied her turmoil, she said, "I could wish, Mr. Darcy, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either."
A slight smile touched his lips. "But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity."
