Genuine, then.
Or at least enough so that her uncle believed it.
Elizabeth drew a steadying breath and inclined her head. “Very well.”
Mr. Philips turned. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, may I present Mr. Darcy of Pemberley.”
The formality of it was almost absurd, for they had been introduced already by Sir William, and before that by mud, gold, and a cellar door. Yet Elizabeth curtsied as though this were their first true meeting, which perhaps, in some ways, it was.
“Mr. Darcy.”
“Miss Elizabeth.” His bow was correct, but his voice was not so steady as his manner. “I am grateful for the introduction.”
Charlotte, still beside Elizabeth, looked from one to the other with open curiosity, though she was too well-bred to comment. Mr. Philips, having accomplished his errand, excused himself with the air of a man who trusted Elizabeth to manage the rest.
For a breath, neither she nor Mr. Darcy spoke.
Then he said, “I hope you are quite recovered from your indisposition after the assembly.”
Elizabeth lifted one brow. “It has been several days, sir. I should hope a headache would not last so long as that.”
His gaze did not waver. “Sometimes the cause of a headache may linger if it is not properly attended to.”
Her heart gave another strange little movement.
“I am very sorry,” he continued, quietly enough that only she and Charlotte could hear, “for whatever caused yours.”
There it was. Not a direct confession, not with Charlotte present and half the room within reach, but an apology all the same. It was grave and careful, and there was enough regret in his expression to soften some part of the hurt she had tried very hard to turn into disdain.
Elizabeth looked at him for a moment before answering. “Everything is quite well now, Mr. Darcy, so long as the cause does not recur.”
“I do not think it shall.”
The simplicity of it did more than a longer speech might have done. There was no excuse in his tone, no attempt to laugh away the offense, no expectation that she must pretend it had never mattered. Only regret, and the promise, understated but clear, that he would not repeat it.
Charlotte’s gaze moved between them again, sharper now. “Eliza, is all well?”
Elizabeth turned to her with a smile that was only a little too quick. “Perfectly. Mr. Darcy and I are merely agreeing upon the dangers of unattended headaches. I find him very sensible on the subject.”
Mr. Darcy’s mouth twitched, so slightly she might have imagined it had she not been watching him too closely.
Charlotte did not look convinced. “I had not known headaches required discussion at parties.”
“Everything requires discussion at parties, if one is sufficiently determined. Health, weather, music, dancing, the moral perils of quadrilles—”
“You do not dance the quadrille here,” Charlotte said.
“Then its moral perils remain happily theoretical.”
Mr. Darcy’s almost-smile deepened by a fraction, and Elizabeth felt the foolish warmth inside her brighten further. It was astonishing how much encouragement could be contained in half an expression from a man generally so severe.
Before Charlotte could pursue her inquiry, Lady Lucas’s voice carried across the room. “Miss Eliza! You must begin the music for us.”
Elizabeth looked toward the instrument, where Lady Lucas had seated herself with the air of a general arranging troops. The pianoforte was open, and several young ladies had already gathered nearby, all hoping someone else would be first.
Charlotte smiled. “There. You see? It is your turn to be teased by society.”
“I am always teased by society. It is one of my principal occupations.” Elizabeth turned to Mr. Darcy and curtsied lightly. “You must excuse me, sir. Duty calls in the key of G.”
