“You look entirely too serious, Mr. Darcy.” She attempted a smile. “Have I committed an unpardonable breach by allowing Sir Geoffrey to enter my uncle’s home? I was only curious to see what he was about—the coincidence and such. I thought it would be entertaining.”
Tugging his cravat, he cleared his throat. He was about to say something he found agonizing. There was no combination of words in the English language that could make this conversation anything other than excruciating, because the subject he needed to address was the physical vulnerability of a young woman.
“Men talk, especially men who believe themselves among friends,” he began. “They often brag, and they position themselves to warn other suitors away. Some men will use gossip to claim intimacies they are not entitled to.”
The color rose vividly on Elizabeth’s cheeks, and Darcy braced himself for a defensive volley. “I see. Are you saying I brought on this attention?”
“No, far from it. But he claimed to have heard of your preferences from Lady Prideaux. I highly doubt Sir Weston’s mother would brief a rival to her own son. Sir Geoffrey has likely seen you speaking freely to gentlemen on the promenade—the animation of your wit, or perhaps laughing too unreservedly.”
“You make me appear to be a flirt.” Her eyes flashed. “Why, Mr. Darcy, I cannot?—”
“Please, hear me out. I need to say this. It is a matter on which I should have spoken to Georgiana years ago, but failed to. Please.” His shoulders hunched as sweat broke on his brow. “Please.”
“Very well, I am at your disposal.” She folded her hands on her lap and waited for him to speak.
“The ball,” he said. “Lady Harewood’s, a week from Saturday. You will be dancing with gentlemen you have known for a fortnight, in a house you have never visited, among people whose characters are not fully established. The customs of London differ from those of Hertfordshire in ways that are not immediately apparent.”
“Differ how?”
“In Hertfordshire, you walked alone. You struck up conversations freely. You spoke with directness that was received as wit and candor. In London, the same behaviors carry different implications. A lady who speaks directly to a gentleman is considered to be paying him attention. A lady who walks with a gentleman apart from her chaperone is understood to be inviting a proposal, or—” He stopped. Reorganized. “Or something other than a proposal.”
“Something other than a proposal.” Elizabeth’s expression alerted.
“At the promenade.” His voice required considerable management. “When you removed your gloves to examine the scratch on my hand. The gesture was kindly meant, and I—I did not object to it. But every person within thirty paces observed an unmarried woman touching a gentleman’s bare hands in public, and the observation was not interpreted as medical concern.”
“How was it interpreted?”
“As intimacy.”
The word sat between them. Darcy’s ears were warm. Elizabeth’s expression underwent a rapid sequence of adjustments—surprise, realization, and a deep, flushing embarrassment.
“I did not know that,” she said.
“In Hertfordshire, such a gesture would be unremarkable. You have known your neighbors all your life, and the informality of long acquaintance permits what London etiquette does not. But thetondraws conclusions, and once they are drawn, they are not easily corrected.”
“What conclusions were drawn?”
“That you and I enjoy an understanding.”
“We do enjoy an understanding. You manage my trust. I manage your tendency to hover.”
The quip almost brought a smile to his face. “Thetondoes not mean a financial understanding, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth absorbed this. Her cheeks held color, but he detected no anger. “Very well, Mr. Darcy. I was ignorant, and I thank you for the correction. What else do I not know?”
There was no bitterness in her voice, just an acknowledgment that she lacked information, without her usual words of defense.
“Miss Elizabeth, I do not mean to injure.”
She leaned forward, almost imploring. “I am asking, Mr. Darcy. Plainly and without pretense. I grew up in the country.My mother’s idea of preparing daughters for society was to instruct us in the management of nerves and in identifying eligible men by their annual income. I did not have a governess. The assemblies I attended were rooms full of neighbors who had known me since I was in leading strings, and the most dangerous man at any of them was Lieutenant Denny, who danced on people’s feet. Tell me what I do not know about London.”
The directness of the request unmoored him. He had expected resistance, teasing, the bright parrying wit that was her primary mode of engagement. Instead, she was sitting across from him, asking to be taught—an act of trust so naked that his chest ached with the weight of it.
“There are men in London,” he said, and his voice came out rougher than intended, “who employ strategies designed to isolate a young woman from her companions. They offer tours of their host’s portrait gallery. They suggest a turn on the terrace for fresh air. They guide a lady toward an alcove or a library or a room where the door may be closed, and once the door is closed, the lady’s reputation is in their hands regardless of what occurs.”
“Regardless of what occurs?”
“Being discovered alone with a man behind a closed door is sufficient. The lady is considered compromised. Marriage becomes the expected remedy, and the circumstance overwhelmingly favors the man, because the alternative is the lady’s public disgrace.”
