Charlotte’s gaze flickered toward Mr. Darcy before returning to Elizabeth with a knowing arch of her brow. “That is a question which only Mr. Darcy can answer.”
Elizabeth smirked, considering. Should she provoke him as before? Of course but—this time, she had an advantage, and she intended to use it. When he drifted closer, she seized the opportunity.
“Did not you think, Mr. Darcy,” she asked, her voice light with amusement, “that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?”
Darcy regarded her with careful neutrality, though his eyes held the faintest trace of something deeper. “With great energy, Miss Bennet. But it is a subject that often inspires such in a lady.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, feigning contemplation. “Indeed? Then perhaps you shall have to endure such energy again. We are quite determined.”
“It will be her turn soon to be teased,” said Charlotte, stepping in at just the right moment. “I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.”
Elizabeth turned toward her friend, shaking her head in mock exasperation. “You are a very strange creature by way of a friend—always wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable.” She turned her gaze back to Darcy, her lips curving ever so slightly. “But as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers.”
Charlotte, undeterred, gestured toward the instrument, and Elizabeth relented with an exaggerated sigh. “Very well. If it must be so, it must.”
She took her seat, her fingers poised above the keys. The knowledge of Fitzwilliam’s preferences, learned under Georgiana’s tutelage, whispered in her mind. A slow smiletouched her lips as she began to play—his favorite piece, one that she had practiced endlessly in their married life.
Darcy’s reaction was minute, yet unmistakable. His posture shifted, his expression briefly unreadable. She had caught him off guard.
Charlotte, watching, narrowed her eyes ever so slightly. Elizabeth knew that look. Suspicion. An awareness that something about her had changed—an awareness that Elizabeth had not been as careful as she thought.
Still, she played on, her fingers moving with practiced ease. If she was to relive this life, she would do so with intention.
Mary’s eyes lingered on Elizabeth longer than they ought. The realization sent a flicker of unease through Elizabeth, though she could not quite discern why. It was not Charlotte’s steady, knowing gaze that assessed without intrusion. No, Mary watched with a keenness Elizabeth had never before noticed. The music she selected followed Elizabeth’s own repertoire too precisely, as though she had committed her habits to memory. How much had Mary observed? How much did she understand?
Elizabeth let her fingers falter over a note. She should not have known this piece—she had never learned it before. But Mary, with her meticulous and tireless practice, had surely noted her familiarity. Mary said nothing, but Elizabeth could feel the weight of her regard as the final notes faded into polite applause.
Elizabeth did not dwell on it long, for she had other matters to consider. Her mind replayed the conversation she knew was going on between Mr. Darcy and Miss Bingley. The smug amusement in Miss Bingley’s voice, the sharp edge of her wit, and Darcy’s calm, unruffled replies. She smirked to herself, pleased in a way she could not fully explain. It was one thing to know a man’s thoughts; it was another to recall them before they were spoken.
And then, of course, there was Sir William Lucas. She knew precisely what he would do, and she had steeled herself for it. But the knowledge made her want to accept this time. How often had she thought of it? Had she not regretted declining before? Fitzwilliam had never held it against her, but she remembered—oh, how she remembered—that he had wished she had accepted. Could she? Should she? She had never made any promise to her family that she would refuse him.
So when Sir William, with all his usual delight in matchmaking, extended his gallant invitation, she hesitated. The words she had spoken before were at the edge of her lips, waiting to be repeated, but this time, she did not utter them.
Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested the honour of her hand once more. And this time, she gave into her desire.
The moment their hands met, she knew she had made a mistake. It was not regret, not truly, but a realization that this would be no simple dance. His touch, steady and warm, was unbearable in its familiarity. Her breath hitched—memories of how intimately she had once known those hands, how they had clasped hers in trust, in anguish, in devotion. Here, now, all was restrained, but the sensation sent a shiver through her. Did he feel it, too?
They danced, their steps measured, their conversation polite. She would not give too much away. Yet every glance, every brush of fingertips, was a quiet torment. She had wished for this, and now she could hardly bear it.
Darcy spoke, his voice low. "You surprise me, Miss Bennet. I had not thought you inclined toward dancing."
She forced a smile. "Nor I, Mr. Darcy. But one must allow for unexpected impulses."
"Indeed."
The pressure of his hand against hers sent another wave of heat through her. She should not feel this so keenly. She should not remember so much. Yet, with every turn, she was acutely aware that she had altered something between them.
When the dance ended, she curtseyed, her breath unsteady. He released her hand with reluctance—so slight, so fleeting, that another might not have noticed. But she did.
She turned away swiftly, unwilling to meet his gaze again. What had she done?
Chapter 7
The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt, and to a milliner’s shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions: their minds were more vacant than their sisters’, and when nothing better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and, however bare of news the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the head-quarters.
Elizabeth knew she should not let herself be drawn too deeply into the giddy chatter of her younger sisters, but how could she ignore it? The militia had arrived, and with it came all the excitement that would one day lead to disaster. Lydia and Kitty werealready enamored, speaking of red coats and handsome faces with breathless delight. Elizabeth had heard it before, but this time, she heard it differently.
She had once dismissed it all as harmless folly, blind to what lay beyond. Now, however, she knew precisely where such unchecked enthusiasm would lead. She could not prevent the militia’s arrival, nor could she change the nature of her sisters, but surely, surely she could find some way to prevent the calamity to come.
