The words, repeated in his own mind, tasted bitter now.
Surely she could not have heard? She had been only a few paces away, sipping her punch. And yet, her civility since then seemed almost too effortless, too even. No trace of wounded pride. No hint of disdain, except for one moment.
He frowned at the memory. The assembly again. He had spoken carelessly about her dog—some dismissive remark about pets and overindulgence. Her reply had been swift, almost sharp, her eyes alight with mischief and something fiercer still.
…you would find my dog far more forgiving than I.
At the time he had dismissed it. But now, lying awake in the dim light, the words returned with new weight.
Had she heard him then?
He turned upon his side, staring into the faint shimmer of dying embers. If she had heard him, if she had truly understood, then he had wronged her more deeply than he wished to admit. And civility from a woman so spirited would only mean one thing: she pitied him enough to disguise her contempt.
That thought stung.
Perhaps he would find a way to discover the truth. And if she had indeed overheard, then he must make amends. An apology—not merely out of propriety, but from something quieter, less definable, that unsettled him whenever he thought of her.
He closed his eyes, meaning to dismiss the image at last, but his mind betrayed him again. Her laughter returned, her voice soft in recollection, and behind them, the eyes he could never quite meet for long. They were not the prettiest eyes in England, nor the most striking, but they held something that disarmed him entirely.
Fine eyes, he thought unwillingly but honestly. Far too fine.
And with that reluctant admission, sleep finally came—light, uneasy, and filled with dreams he would never confess.
CHAPTER TEN
Longbourn – November 1811
TWO MORNINGS LATER, the Bennets and their cousin were gathered at breakfast when Hill entered the room, a letter neatly folded upon a tray.
“A letter from Netherfield, ma’am,” said she, with a respectful curtsey.
Mrs. Bennet, who had just been declaring her belief that Mr. Bingley must surely call again soon, clapped her hands together. “Oh! Perhaps it is to announce a visit! I knew he would not keep away for long.”
“It is for Miss Bennet,” Hill replied.
Jane reached for it, but Mrs. Bennet waved her hand impatiently. “You must read it aloud, my dear, that we may all know its contents.”
Mr. Collins, ever eager to insert himself into family business, straightened with importance. “Indeed, that would be most proper. Lady Catherine always advises that unmarried ladies, no matter their intimacy, ought not to exchange private correspondence without a respectable party present. I am happy to offer my oversight.”
Elizabeth fixed him with such a look as would have checked any man less impervious to subtlety. She said nothing.
Jane, blushing a little, broke the seal and began to read.
“My dear Miss Bennet,
We much regret that we had so little opportunity for conversation during the assembly, for my sister and I are greatly desirous of improving our acquaintance. Our brother, Charles, speaks of you with the warmest admiration, and we should be most happy if you and Miss Elizabeth would take tea with us at Netherfield this afternoon. The gentlemen are to be engaged with hunting and billiards, so we shall have the pleasure of an entirely feminine party.
Yours most sincerely,
Louisa Hurst.”
The table was instantly in motion.
Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands again. “Gracious heavens, what a delightful invitation! I declare, my dear Jane, this is everything I could wish for you. Tea at Netherfield! With Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley themselves! Oh, what happiness!”
Kitty sighed, half envious. “I wonder why they did not invite all of us.”
Mr. Collins nodded solemnly. “It is very proper that they did not. A smaller, select company encourages refinement. Lady Catherine herself often says that too many young ladies gathered together make for an ungovernable noise.”
