“Incredible! Lord Coke denied the supper dance, no less. But who is she, exactly?”
“Lady Sophia’s ward, I heard. A Bennet from Hertfordshire—the father is some manner of country gentleman, five daughters, I believe the mother is of trade.”
From further along the table, audible beneath the clatter of silver and china. “Gifted with properties and an income of fifteen thousand a year, my dear. The estate, the townhouse, and Lady Sophia refusing to explain the arrangement, which is precisely the sort of thing one does when the explanation would not bear scrutiny.”
Lifting the glass, she glanced at Darcy as if the whispers were merely wind, and she smiled at him. She drank the wine because it was excellent, and she heard Darcy’s low voice in her ear, asking her whether she preferred the lobster patties to the kidney pie.
“My son tells me she walks alone,” another voice behind the flutter of a fan. “Through fields. Mud to her petticoats. In Hertfordshire, of course, they have different standards, but in London one does wonder who she encounters on these rambles through the hills and hollows.”
A few careless words, and suddenly her beloved morning walks—her freedom, her Oakham Mount independence—became proof of looseness, of availability, of a country girl’s willingness to be found alone in places where a woman of proper breeding would never venture unescorted.
Her reputation was being filleted right under her nose, but Darcy, ever the gentleman, seemed determined not to notice.
“You have not touched the quail,” he observed. “Is it not tender enough for you?”
“I believe it is delectable. I am savoring it last, just like the waltz I shall remember of my first London Season. A partner who did not step on my feet. A supper companion who concernshimself with the quail.” She met his eyes and allowed herself, for one reckless moment, to let him see what she was feeling. “I find I want for nothing, Mr. Darcy.”
“Neither do I, Miss Elizabeth.” His expression was bright and contented, as if the two of them could exist in a bubble of happiness while darts and arrows flew around them.
And then, the doors of the supper room flung open, and an imperious matron swept through like a gale, followed by a younger lady wearing the finest silks but shrinking behind her mother.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy. What is the meaning of this?”
The entire table seemed to sit up straighter, their attention turned toward the newcomer, wearing black bombazine and a turban stiffer than any Mrs. Long dared to sport.
Darcy stood by reflex and bowed. “Aunt Catherine, Cousin Anne, I hope you are well.”
“We are most definitely not well, Nephew, and you have failed to secure seats for us.”
Darcy’s jaw set. “I was unaware you planned to attend. The supper is well advanced.”
“I arrive when I choose to arrive. I do not arrange my schedule according to your plans. Anne requires refreshment. She is fatigued from the journey and requires your attention.”
“Anne is welcome to join our table,” Darcy said, and his voice was measured in the way that Elizabeth recognized as the voice he used when he was furious and would not show it. “We may perhaps ask the footman to place a chair on the other side of Miss Bennet.”
At this indignity, Lady Catherine raised her lorgnette and glared at Elizabeth. “And pray tell who this Miss Bennet believes she is, occupying a position at a table clearly above her station.”
“Miss Bennet is my supper partner,” Darcy enunciated slowly. “It would be improper to abandon her at the table.”
“Anne will sit beside you, Nephew, as is proper. As her intended, you are required?—”
“Aunt Catherine, perhaps family arrangements should stay locked inside family vaults.”
Lady Matlock rose and inserted herself at Lady Catherine’s shoulder. “Catherine, dear, do sit down. The room is watching.”
She spoke smoothly, as the self-appointed diplomat, guiding Lady Catherine and Anne to a pair of empty seats. Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief as conversations resumed, this time focused on the sickly Anne de Bourgh and speculation about her marriage prospects. But Darcy had barely sat when Lady Matlock returned to his side.
“Fitzwilliam, dear, Anne is unwell, and of course, your aunt requires attending. Surely you can spare a few minutes and attend to them. They are exhausted from the travel, and well,” here she smiled at Elizabeth, “Miss Bennet will not object. Her constitution appears robust enough to spare you for the duration of a cup of tea.”
It was a trap worthy of Lady Matlock. Elizabeth watched it snap shut around Darcy: family duty, Anne’s frailty, and the impossibility of refusing an aunt in front of half theton.
“Go,” Elizabeth said. “I shall be well.”
He rose, his hand brushing her shoulder, a gesture of care, a touch that conveyed his apology and appreciation in the same measure.
Elizabeth watched him walk to the far end of the table, where Anne and Lady Catherine sat, already making demands of the attending footmen.
When she turned back to her plate, she found Lady Matlock seated in Darcy’s newly vacated chair.
