It can only be his clerical garb, he surmised as he watched in amused fascination, that keeps the indulgent smiles upon the faces of the others in the set. All, that was, save Elizabeth. Her face offered no such charity to her cousin. Humiliation suffused her being, and when Darcy unwittingly caught her eye in a turn, the force of it rocked him. His responding impulse to go to her aid was so strong that only his doubt of her welcome of his intervention prevented his taking more than one step in her direction. That step was subtly redirected, and Darcy strolled down the line of dancers, feigning a nonchalance that he rather wished he truly did feel. The emotions Elizabeth Bennet had stirred within him this night were unfamiliar and supremely unsettling in their power. Distance was called for.
He reached the other end of the room and turned round just in time to witness another faux pas of Elizabeth’s absurd relative. The dance ended, he abandoned his partner and proceeded to present his apologies to the other members of the set, leaving her without escort off the floor. The look she directed to his back would have singed his clerical collar to a ring of ash were it possible. And you would deserve it, stupid man!
Darcy considered his plan of surprising her into accepting his hand and despite his uncertainty, still found it, the most likely to answer his objective, but not yet. He would only draw her fire. Let her recover from the clergyman. Then…One of Forster’s lieutenants brushed past him and advanced upon Elizabeth with determined strides. Darcy waited long enough to watch her accept him for the next dance before beginning a search for Bingley amid the swirling gowns, polished brass, and competing waistcoats.
“I believe you may safely rate your ball a success, Bingley,” he told him, upon finding his friend between dances. “Mayhap too successful!”
“Too successful? A crush is what you really mean.” Bingley laughed back at him. “To be honest, I could do with a few less officers who seem to have nothing better to do than dance attendance upon women with whom I wish to converse!”
“Women? Bingley.” Darcy swept a speaking glance about them. “From the look of it, you are well supplied with any number of women who would gladly —”
“Woman, Darcy! Confound you; do not pretend to misunderstand me!”
“Bingley, I understand too well.” Darcy dropped his voice. “You opened the ball with her and danced the entire set together. Anything more will be remarked upon to such a degree that the whole shire will expect to hear the banns announced on Sunday.”
“Well, at least I have danced — and I expect to do quite a bit more — while you have done nothing but stalk about being civil or stare at Elizabeth Bennet.” Bingley paused to nod and smile a return of a greeting from a newcomer. “And do not poker up at me, for it won’t wash. I know you too well, my friend.”
“Slings and arrows, Bingley, slings and arrows quite misflung. I do, indeed, mean to dance this evening, when the time is right.”
“When the time…Darcy!”
“Ask me no questions —”
“And you’ll tell me no lies.” Bingley shook his head despairingly. “When will the time be right? At the twelfth stroke of midnight? What are you planning, Darcy?”
“A surprise attack, Bingley, and more I will not divulge.” Darcy moved off before his host pried too closely into his plans. The music was almost ended for the country dance that separated the sets, and he would need to reach Elizabeth before another red coat whisked her off. A shiver of apprehension traveled down his spine as Darcy remembered his valet’s fears and predictions for the evening, and he looked briefly at the waistcoat Fletcher had pressed upon him. Well, we shall see, shall we not, my man.
When he reached her, Elizabeth was once again engaged with Miss Lucas and not aware of his approach. At Miss Lucas’s discreet “ahem,” Elizabeth whirled about, almost into his chest.
“Miss Bennet.” He bowed quickly and, barely waiting for her curtsy, pressed an advantage that was all he could have wished for. “Would you do me the honor of standing up with me for the next set?”
Elizabeth’s mouth opened and then shut, her discomposure satisfyingly evident in her every aspect. She stared at him, then looked to her friend. Darcy waited patiently.
“I did not…that is, I was going…sitting…” She looked up into his eyes. He lifted an inquiring brow. “Yes,” she assented in a tight, little voice. Darcy bowed his appreciation and strode away, savoring the wonderful confusion of her mind and the impending realization of all his planning. Just before attaining his former post at the edge of the floor, he chanced a backward glance, and with it all satisfaction fled. She was clearly agitated. In growing apprehension, Darcy watched her from under hooded eyes as she spoke furiously to Miss Lucas, a high flush on her face, her eyes darting about the room. The sight continued to baffle him as he approached to claim her hand for their set, driving his weeklong anticipation of pleasure to the edges of his consciousness. He bowed stiffly; she curtsied. He extended his hand; she placed hers in it but would not look him in the face. Any ease he had ever felt in her company deserted him as he led her to their places.
The murmur of surprise that swept the room as they faced each other, while expected under the circumstances, only served to impress upon him what a fool he was making of himself over a woman who was, even now, regarding him with indifference. He had imagined her flustered; he had imagined her piqued. But in all his imaginings she had quickly and prettily turned into an engaging partner. The creature before him exhibited no such dulcet inclinations. What had happened to the lovely, beguiling Eve?
Darcy favored Elizabeth with the most formal of bows, bending deeply. As he rose, he trained his eyes past her left cheek, but not before flicking over her a surreptitious glance. “To have thee by my side…” He stifled the thought. There was not a hint of pliancy from the stone maiden before him. Come, fool, complete your folly! he growled to himself, feeling the familiar coldness grip his chest. They joined hands and turned, facing the near end of the ballroom. Her tension, communicated to him through their conjoined fingers, increased perceptibly as they stepped forward into the pattern of the dance. Though he dared not look, Darcy could sense that she was peeping up at him. With what object, he could not guess and, until he knew something of her mind, decided that silence was his best course. Whatever solace he might derive from her company would, it appeared, be found only in the heady touch, release, and cradling of her gloved fingers. It must needs suffice.
Elizabeth’s hand stirred slightly in his grasp. “This choice of dance must seem rather out of fashion to one accustomed to St. James’s, Mr. Darcy.” In equal parts encouraged and alerted by her sudden bid for conversation, he looked down upon his partner. Whatever had caused her complaint of him she now seemed willing to overlook, but knowing her as he did, he was not confident of her true intent.
“As I told Sir William, I do not dance at St. James’s and, therefore, do not know what is considered dernier cri,” he replied cautiously. “The choice is well enough, in my opinion.” The pattern separated them for a few moments, but the respite afforded Darcy no inspiration. He rejoined her in silence.
“It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy,” she advised him pertly. “I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.”
Darcy peered down into her face with relief. Here, now, was the Elizabeth he knew. “Miss Bennet, pray instruct me! Whatever you wish me to say shall, on my honor, be said.”