A year had passed since Ramsgate. Outwardly, she had recovered. She laughed again. She played the pianoforte. She walked with her new governess, Mrs. Annesley, in the parks and accepted invitations she would once have declined.
Yet some injuries were not so easily overcome.
Her introduction into society was less than a year away. A prospect she had once anticipated with innocent eagerness now seemed only to alarm her. Wickham's words had taken deeper root than Darcy liked to admit. No argument of his had yet entirely succeeded in dislodging them.
This evening alone, she had declined every invitation to dance.
Darcy had hoped the quiet of the country might restore some measure of her spirits before that particular trialarrived. What he had not anticipated was being swept into a public assembly within hours of his arrival, with scarcely an opportunity to settle his sister comfortably before being obliged to escort her out again.
Bingley, naturally, was delighted with the arrangement.
Darcy was less so.
He stood near the edge of the room and surveyed the assembly. The evening appeared likely to proceed exactly as assemblies always did. The hall was warm and crowded, the musicians tolerable at best, and the company precisely what one would expect of a small market town upon an assembly night. Mothers with daughters. Daughters with expectations. And every eye in the room that was not already fixed upon the dancers had, at some point during the last half-hour, found its way to him.
He had no intention of encouraging any of them.
Miss Caroline Bingley had already made two attempts to secure him for a dance, approaching with an attention so studied as to be almost theatrical. He had declined both times with the civility the occasion required and no more. She had retreated without visible mortification, which suggested she had not entirely abandoned hope.
Miss Bingley fancied herself in love with him. Her elder sister, Mrs. Louisa Hurst, seemed equally convinced that her sister's success was only a matter of time. Darcy entertained neither belief.
He intended to disappoint her.
Darcy sipped from a glass of port he had no particular intention of finishing. The position he had chosen afforded him a measure of privacy, though not nearly so much as he would have preferred.
He was, he reflected, having a very bad evening.
His gaze returned to Georgiana at frequent intervals. She sat watching the dancers with an expression of polite interest that did not quite reach her eyes. He had withdrawn from her side in the hope that she might be induced to converse with some of the ladies present.
Seeing her so detached troubled him more than he cared to admit.
He did not press her. Society had become a trial she no longer met with enthusiasm.
A sweep of the room offered a welcome distraction. Two gentlemen of mature years stood in conversation together to his far left. Darcy could not immediately recall which was Mr. King and which Mr. Ashford. Bingley was dancing with the beautiful young lady, Miss Bennet, whose appearance had captivated him from the moment the Netherfield party had been introduced. Several matrons observed the proceedings with evident satisfaction, while a handful of younger ladies sat along the wall awaiting partners.
Few minutes later, Darcy had just taken another sip of his port when Bingley appeared at his elbow. He was flushed with exertion and good humour, evidently well pleased with both his partner and the set recently concluded.
"You really must dance, Darcy." Bingley procured a glass of port from a nearby table before moving closer. "It is most ungentlemanlike to stand about in this manner."
"I am perfectly content." The smile Darcy offered in return required more effort than it ought.
"You look as though you are attending a funeral."
"I am attending an assembly after a day in a carriage and scarcely an hour's rest. The distinction is slight."
Bingley laughed.
"Come. There are several agreeable ladies who have not yet been asked. Miss Bennet's sisters, for instance."
He nodded towards a small group of young women seated along the wall. "I am persuaded any one of them would be glad of a partner."
"I thank you, no."
"Darcy." Bingley lowered his voice, though his expression remained cheerful. "You have not danced a single set. The neighbourhood will think you insufferably proud."
"The neighbourhood is welcome to think as it pleases."
Bingley sighed, though not in the least discouraged. "Will you not at least consider it? Miss Bennet has a sister, the one in the champagne-coloured gown. She sat out this set. She is very pretty and, from all accounts, remarkably good-humoured. I dare say she would not bite."
