And she was not steering him toward Allegra. She was clearing the road to Elizabeth.
Nettle barked, encouraging him. Darcy hurled the ball the length of the garden and watched her barrel after it with the joyful certainty of a creature who knew exactly what she wanted and saw no reason to pretend otherwise. Neither did Darcy.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE ART OF BEING HUNTED
Elizabeth kepther chin level and her eyes forward, which was no small feat when Lady Harewood’s townhome seemed determined to blind every guest with crystal and gold. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, cornices gleamed, and the entire house shouted,You are not nearly rich enough.
Had Lydia been present, she would have already squealed aloud at the sheer, blinding expanse of Lady Harewood’s entrance hall while Kitty coughed and Mrs. Bennet demanded to know if the marble underfoot had been imported from Italy.
Thank heaven the less polished half of her family was ankle-deep in Hertfordshire mud, leaving Elizabeth, serene Jane, and rigid Mary to perform their polite greetings and perfect curtsies for the assembled aristocracy. At least no one here would be demanding the provenance of the marble.
She might have faltered, if not for Darcy’s arm—solid, reassuring, and, she admitted, rather flattering. He moved with the unhurried confidence of a man who had never once tripped over a carpet in public. Elizabeth let him steer her through the sea of acquaintances, matching his bows and nods with her own best imitation of a gentle-bred lady. The silks and feathershelped, but the raised lorgnettes and murmurs followed them like a flock of particularly judgmental geese.
“You are very quiet, Miss Elizabeth.”
“I am observing, sir,” she said, her tone a low murmur meant only for him. “A musicale requires careful study before one can properly satirize it. I am observing the expressions of the matrons near the door.”
“And here I thought we were here for the Clementi.” His mouth did that brief, tight thing that was not quite a smile. “Shall I find you a seat near the performers? Miss Mary looks as though she is preparing for a trial by fire.”
Elizabeth’s gaze darted across the sea of feathers and diamonds, finding her sister seated near the grand pianoforte. In her twilight-lavender gown, Mary looked small, her fingers restlessly smoothing her skirts. A familiar, fierce protectiveness swelled in Elizabeth’s throat, momentarily choking out her own anxiety.
Mary had been playing to indifferent audiences, but tonight’s audience would be paying attention, wondering about the sister of a woman worth fifteen thousand a year and whether she had had the proper piano master.
“My sister will acquit herself well,” Elizabeth said, her voice dropping an octave as she sought to convince herself as much as him. “She deserves to be recognized.”
“She will be,” Darcy replied, his tone steadying. “The company tonight may be fickle, but they know the difference between a schoolroom rattle and a true student of the instrument. Miss Mary has nothing to fear from them.”
They circled the salon, hunting for a seat near the front. Conversations adjusted as she passed by, and Elizabeth noticed fans lifting and matrons adjusting their Lorgnettes.
“Fifteen thousand a year.”
The whisper cut through the low hum of the room, distinct and sharp. It was a woman’s voice—aristocratic, drawling, and yet possessing the exact, heavy cadence of Mrs. Bennet’s daily recitations at Longbourn.
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened on Darcy’s sleeve. “It seems my name has been legally changed to a sum of currency, Mr. Darcy. Do you suppose if I am short a few pence for a ribbon, I might simply clip a piece from my hem?”
“Ignore them,” Darcy muttered. He did not look toward the whisperers, but his shoulder shifted, imperceptibly pivoting to block her from the view of a particularly rapacious row of matrons. “They are accountants wrapped in lace, Miss Elizabeth. Their minds are terribly small, and their ledgers are entirely empty of wit.”
For the first time, Elizabeth wondered if Darcy had felt the same suffocation at the Meryton assemblies. How many times had he stood frozen in a corner while her mother shrilly designated Mr. Bingley as “five thousand a year” and Darcy himself as “ten?” No wonder he had taken one look at her family and seen exactly what she was looking at now: small minds, empty heads, and mouths that opened only to chant the value of an estate.
She had called him proud, arrogant, insufferable—but had she ever considered what it felt like to be reduced to a sum on a ledger? Now, as Darcy guided her to a row of blessedly empty chairs, she understood all too well.
“How about near the wall? Close enough to see Miss Darcy and Miss Mary, but without an unguarded flank.”
“The benefits of being a wallflower. How strategic.”
“Mr. Darcy! What a pleasure.” A woman in puce silk intercepted them three steps from the chairs, trailing a young man with the resigned posture of livestock being led to market.
Excellent, Elizabeth thought.The first buyer has arrived to inspect the teeth.
“And this must be… Oh, I have heard so much… Miss Bennet, is it not? Mrs. Davenport. My son Frederick. Miss Bennet, he holds a vicarage in Suffolk. Frederick, do not slouch and do bow properly.”
Frederick bowed flaccidly, his eyes fixed firmly on the carpet.
“Mr. Davenport and I have something in common,” Elizabeth said archly. “I, too, have been subjected to a great many clergymen.”
And a mother who reminds her children not to slouch, she added in her mind.
