“I shall see you tomorrow evening at your aunt’s card party,” he said in a low voice meant for her alone.
Elizabeth met his gaze and inclined her head. “Yes.”
There was nothing more to be said. Yet as he mounted and rode away beside Mr. Bingley, she found herself watching longer than propriety required.
Only when Lydia began breathlessly recounting the morning’s triumphs did Elizabeth turn toward the house—aware that something, however slight, had shifted.
Chapter 21
Darcy had never found card parties agreeable.
The room was warm—overly so—with too many candles and too many voices. The tables had been drawn close together to accommodate the number of guests, and the constant shuffle of cards, scrape of chairs, and bursts of laughter struck his nerves in a manner he would not have admitted aloud.
Still, he did his best.
Mrs. Philips presided over one table with determined animation. Lydia and Kitty flitted from chair to chair in fits of restless excitement. Jane, though still pale from her recent illness, bore the evening with quiet composure. Elizabeth, seated across from him at the small fish table, seemed amused rather than overwhelmed.
Mr. Bennet had declined the invitation altogether. Mary, Elizabeth informed him, had also remained behind—along with Mr. Collins.
“She declared,” Elizabeth said dryly as she laid down her cards, “that an evening devoted to reflection and spiritual growth was more proper behavior than gaming, even when the stakes amount to nothing more dangerous than fish.”
Darcy’s mouth curved. “Mr. Collins agreed?”
“With enthusiasm. I suspect they are presently engaged in competing sermons.”
He nearly laughed aloud.
The door opened to admit a draft of cooler air and, with it, George Wickham, along with a handful of other militia officers. The younger man’s expression was bright, easy, and entirely at home in the noise. He greeted several acquaintances before approaching their table.
“Darcy,” Wickham said lightly, “you bear it bravely.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I endeavor.”
Elizabeth coughed softly and shifted in her seat. “It is rather warm.”
Darcy was on his feet at once. “You must allow me—”
“There is no need—”
“There is every need,” he replied, already moving toward the sideboard for a glass of water.
He did not return as quickly as he intended.
Mr. Goulding detained him with a question about Derbyshire rents. Sir William insisted upon recounting an anecdote. A matron he did not know well demanded to know whether Pemberley’s drawing room truly boasted Italian marble.
By the time he extracted himself, several minutes had passed.
When he reached the table again, he found Elizabeth in conversation with Wickham.
“…very surprised, I confess,” Wickham was saying, his tone pleasant. “I had always thought my cousin destined for a most strategic alliance.”
Elizabeth’s expression was polite, but Darcy detected a subtle reserve in her posture. “Strategic?”
“A society marriage,” Wickham clarified. “He is not known for… spontaneity.”
Darcy paused just beyond their line of sight.
Elizabeth tilted her head. “You have known him long?”
