She had just begun to enjoy the brief respite when she noticed that Mr. Darcy was once again standing nearby. Not close enough to speak—heaven forbid—but just near enough to observe the room, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Elizabeth lifted her chin.
Let him look. She had already decided what to make of him.
“Darcy,” said a cheerful voice. Mr. Bingley had appeared at his friend’s side, flushed from dancing and grinning ear to ear. “I must have you dance. There are many agreeable young ladies here—and you are wasting your height leaning against that wall like a sconce.”
“You are dancing with the only handsome woman in the room.”
“Look, there is her sister sitting just behind you,” Bingley replied, motioning toward Elizabeth. “She is very pretty, and I daresay I can ask my partner to introduce you.”
Darcy turned his head slightly. His gaze swept over Elizabeth—once, quickly.
“She is tolerable, I suppose…”
∞∞∞
“She is tolerable, I suppose…”
Darcy stopped.
The words, spoken low and half-meant, caught unpleasantly in his throat. Bingley was already turning toward her again, his smile unwavering, but Darcy felt the weight of what he had just said—and more, the weight of the gaze he had just brushed aside.
He looked again.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet was seated just behind him, a lemonade in her hand, cheeks still pink from dancing. A lockof dark hair had come loose beside her ear, curling against her neck. She was looking down at her drink, her pinks tinging slightly.
Darcy shifted his stance and looked away, discomfited.
He had not meant the phrase cruelly. It was merely habit—social armor, the kind he had worn for years without thinking. He had never danced at public assemblies. He had no intention of doing so tonight. His discomfort with strangers, his distaste for being paraded before them, was nothing new.
And yet—
There was something about her. A lift to her expression. A liveliness to her posture. With her dark hair and green eyes, there was something that struck him as strangely familiar.
Lady Catherine.
He narrowed his eyes.
Dark hair. Green eyes. An expression of contained, proud amusement that suggested she might speak with withering clarity if pressed. It was not Georgiana she reminded him of, nor Anne. No—there was only one other woman he had seen with that same expression, half-defiant and wholly self-contained.
Lady Catherine.
Younger, of course. And lovelier. But the resemblance was undeniable.
It arrested him.
He drew a long breath and heard his own voice speaking—almost before he realized he meant to answer differently.
“Yes, Bingley,” he said quietly, “I would like to be introduced to her.”
Bingley gaped at him. “You would?”
Darcy gave a single nod, his gaze still fixed.
Recovering at once, Bingley grinned. “Come, then! I shall have my partner make you known to her properly. MissElizabeth is pretty and light-footed and, I daresay, if she is anything like her sister, very agreeable as well.”
Bingley’s partner was fetched, but she began to perform the introductions, the dark-haired girl gave a tight smile. “Yes, I believe we were introduced by Sir William earlier, though we did not exactly speak.”
