Darcy inclined his head. “Then allow me to amend the oversight, Miss Elizabeth. Might I have the honor of this dance?”
There was a beat—half a breath too long—and something unreadable passed behind her eyes.
Then she dipped a curtsy with perfect grace. “You may.”
Darcy offered his hand, and she laid hers upon it, cool and composed.
The moment she touched him, he knew it had been the right decision.
Not because she softened—not yet. But because she did not. She gave no pretense. No flattery. She walked with him to the forming set with the calm assurance of a woman who had nothing to prove and nothing to gain.
It was remarkably liberating.
And, somehow, entirely disconcerting. As they took their places in the line, Darcy became keenly aware of Miss Bingley’s eyes on him from across the room. Her fan had stopped fluttering. Her expression, behind the veil of a smile, was thin and brittle.
He ignored it, and instead he focused his attention on the beguiling woman in front of him.
Miss Elizabeth.
∞∞∞
The violins began again, and the dancers stepped forward. Elizabeth moved with easy confidence, the hem of her worn gown swaying just above the polished floor. Darcy mirrored her steps precisely—his form impeccable, his expression unreadable.
They exchanged no words for the first figure.
Elizabeth had no intention of speaking first. She knew very well he had asked her in the wake of some private decision, perhaps even as a corrective for his earlier remark. But if he imagined her grateful for the condescension, he would be sorely disappointed.
The dance was a lively one, requiring frequent changes of partner and quick footwork. Elizabeth moved through the first figures with practiced ease, speaking briefly with the young Mr. Perry as he passed her in the pattern. But when she came back to Darcy, he remained silent.
At last, she gave in, unable to bear the silence any longer. “Do you speak at all, Mr. Darcy, or do you find conversation as distasteful as country society?”
His gaze flicked toward her. “Not distasteful. Merely… dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“Words, Miss Bennet, have a way of wandering. Especially when spoken in public halls.”
“Ah,” she said. “Then I must suppose your earlier words have wandered quite far indeed.”
He flinched, just slightly.
Elizabeth arched a brow. “But perhaps they have already returned home again, where no one minds their sharpness.”
“I regret them.”
Her eyes widened. His voice was low. His face remained composed. But he had said the words as though they cost him.
“Do you often speak words you regret?” she asked lightly, though something in her chest tightened.
“Not often,” he said. “But I find… I am not at my best in unfamiliar company.”
“That is honest, at least,” she said, allowing herself a small smile. “And here I thought gentlemen of ten thousand a year were never uneasy.”
“Ten thousand pounds does not teach one to dance in a room of strangers.”
“But surely it can buy a better temperament.”
This time, she saw it: the corner of his mouth quirked upward. Almost a smile. Almost.
