"That woman's daughter?"
With those words, Elizabeth's mirth flared into mingled humiliation and aggravation. What an odious, arrogant man. He must be another one of those who thought her mother's behaviour, while rather countrified, beyond the pale. As if Mrs Bennet was the only brash, husband hunting mother in society. Elizabeth had seen older gentlewomen with even worse manners and unbridled tongues.
And why should he judge Elizabeth on account of her mother? No one since Caroline Bingley had made her feel as incensed by their obvious distaste for Mrs Bennet, and thankfully Elizabeth had managed to avoid Charles' sister as usual. The humiliation faded—she was used to that response when strangers were confronted with her mother's behaviour—but the astonishment and outraged disbelief on his face stoked her annoyance.
But then it returned so swiftly to a neutral, aloof mien that she might have thought she'd imagined it.
He bowed. "Miss . . . Bennet."
"Forgive me. I am so used to being addressed as Miss Elizabeth I forgot." Was that what it was, he thought she was attempting to deceive him?
But whatever for?
On the heels of that question came the of course. A handsome, wealthy (from Charles' hints) unwed man with aristocratic connections . . . it would not surprise her if he often found himself the object of machinations.
And then he surprised her. "Would you care to dance, Miss Bennet?"
Charles' eyes widened.
"I always care to dance, Mr Darcy, except when I do not." She relented when he stared at her. It was his second request, after all, and she should refrain from teasing men who took themselves far too seriously. Charlotte despaired of her ever marrying. "Yes, I would like to dance."
He took her hand and led her to the line, Charles' beaming smile a wind on her back urging her forward. He had spoken so incessantly of his friend from Derbyshire, Elizabeth had begun to flee the room when the subject of Darcy came up.
The dance began, and there was little opportunity for meaningful conversation. Just as well—something was bothering Mr Darcy.
"I hope you will forgive my ill thought words," he said finally. "I am not usually so boorish."
The apology, delivered with the sort of stiffness indicating he did not apologise often, softened Elizabeth.
Somewhat.
"Think nothing of it," she said.
"Bingley speaks of nothing but his wife, and his wife's sister, in his letters."
Oh, joy. "So you are as tired of hearing of me as I am of you." That did not come out well at all. Perhaps she should apologise.
His blue eyes glinted. "I am determining whether reality does fantasy justice. He has extolled your wit, your beauty, your kindness. Every fine quality one might desire in a gentlewoman. I have always found him to be optimistic."
Perhaps she would not apologise after all. "Reality rarely supports fantasy, Mr Darcy. For example, I find that many men like to add measure to their height. And it is always the short ones who make up for their perceived lack with prideful personalities."
"I assure you, I am under no illusions that I lack . . . height, Miss Bennet." The ghost of a smile, barely there and then gone.
She narrowed her eyes. There was a faint challenge in his tone, and the hint of an innuendo. "I am certain you are a judge of your own height, Mr Darcy. As I am a judge of whether or not a gentleman is proud."
He carried himself with the air of a man who thought himself superior to all other creatures—it was not the first time she had encountered his like.
"I wonder how it is possible to determine whether a man is proud based on so short an acquaintance as a ball, or a brief introduction," he said.
Because she felt she already knew him after months of listening to Charles' stories, and 'Darcy would say this'. She had found herself once or twice debating with a man who was not even present, by proxy of his friend. She found him alternatively fascinating and infuriating—and she had yet to even meet him.
"I read human nature quite well, I assure you," she said. "And it is always gentlemen of a certain situation who walk the earth with a heavy tread, convinced they are head and shoulders above us all."
"Perhaps I am head and shoulders above many when on a vertical plane, Miss Bennet," he all but purred, "but are not all men and women equal on the horizontal plane?"
"I would not know, Mr Darcy. I am not a philosopher, as apparently, you are."
Elizabeth met his gaze and decided to retreat while she still had the last word. When the dance ended, she curtsied and excused herself.
"May I escort you for a refreshment?" he asked.
She paused, nonplussed. He did not appear at all put off by her cool demeanour at all. "I am not thirsty, thank you. Good evening."
Elizabeth left, aware of his stare at her back. She had watched him stalk her throughout the evening, some instinct telling her it was she whom he sought. A more foolish woman would feel flattered, but men like him were only trouble and ruined reputations. A man like him would never marry a country miss like her, no matter how beautiful—and she could not afford for her reputation to suffer. Jane's marriage eased some of their burden as the poor daughters of an entailed estate, but not all of the burden.
She would do best to find a steady, quiet man with a modest but comfortable income and seduce him quickly.
Which meant she could not entertain herself with Mr Darcy, no matter how blue his eyes or rapier his tongue.
It was not that she was not happy for Jane, Elizabeth brooded. But sometimes . . . sometimes it was unbearable to watch her beautiful sister dance with her golden husband, the pair of them more lovely and glowing with life and laughter than any newlywed couple had a right to be.
And, of course, society turned their critical eye towards Elizabeth, wondering why she had not yet found a match when her sister was so well settled. What was wrong with Miss Elizabeth, the dark-haired daughter? The mocking one with the merry dark eyes?
Nothing was wrong with her, except that she could not be satisfied with a country bumpkin as her husband, or else she would have wed Collins when her mother tried to foist him off on her months ago. There was more to life than security.
What about fire in the blood when one's mind was engaged? What about the thrill of debate or the heat of passion? At least let her find a man who was not her intellectual inferior. Could she not just have an intelligent husband? Was that really so much to ask?
Unbidden, intent blue eyes dominated her mind. A subtle twist of sensual lips, and a deep voice that arrested her attention. She banished the image after a lingering moment and decided some evening air would shock the sense back into her. Since when was she attracted to arrogant, judgmental men?
Elizabeth, on her third or fifth glass of wine, left the ball in nothing but a light wrap, the chill in the air soothing some of her inner fire. The gardens were shedding their foliage this time of year, and they had been overgrown and unkempt anyway before Bingley came to stay.
But the solitude suited her purposes. Inhaling fresh air, she turned her head up to the night sky.
"Wit, strong character, a passionate mind," she murmured, "and I shall fall in love. Show me the man for me, and I shall marry him right away be he rich or poor."
A door opened and shut, and footsteps sounded in the distance, coming closer. She sighed.
"Lizzy?"
Elizabeth turned her head. Jane stood near, hands rubbing her bare upper arms. "I saw you leave. You have been out some time."
"I wanted some fresh air. The ballroom is stifling."
"Well, come in now. You will catch a cold."
Elizabeth arched a brow. "And is that not a way to catch a husband?"
Jane laughed. "I would not recommend that tactic. I was dreadfully ill."
"Yes. I'll be in soon." She held out her empty glass. "Be a dear, though, and send someone out with punch. When I finish it, I will come in."
Jane sighed and accepted the wineglass. "You are drinking too much lately. Papa noted it, but he thinks you are too sensible to let it get out of hand."
Elizabeth shrugged. "I am bored, is all. I don't have my sister to run the countryside with anymore."
"You have other sisters, Elizabeth Bennet."
She snorted. "Quite. My punch. Go."
Jane shook her head and left. Elizabeth settled onto a bench to wait, listening for the door some time later, and footsteps following.
"Thank you," she said, holding out her hand without turning.
"You are welcome," a deep voice replied.
She glanced at the unexpected voice, then rose. "I told my sister to send me a servant—and here you are."
Mr Darcy held out the glass, ignoring her needle. "I intercepted her. I was seeking air and quiet and offered to relieve the footman of his duty."
Elizabeth accepted the glass, though she realised she had no desire to drink. She'd come out into the fresh air to clear her head, feeling muddled from too much wine. Her body was insisting she retire to her room.
"Why are you following me?" she asked, aware that if her tongue was not already loosened from the wine, she would not have asked such a question.
He regarded her coolly, though a half smile curved his lips. "There is little enough to do. I am in no mood to dance, and I despise small talk."
"And yet here we are." She shrugged, already feeling restless even after so brief a respite. "Tell me, what do you think of Bingley's choice of a wife?"
"It is not my place to think at all. No matter how I might have advised him, the deed is done."
Elizabeth stared at him, then laughed. "What an unflattering response. I should be furious, but I have had too much wine. Is my sister not the loveliest, most sweet-natured, graceful lady in the room?"
"You have been reading Bingley's letters."
She chuckled. "No, rather I have been listening to him since they wed. Their happiness is . . . infectious."
"Somehow I do not think you mean that in a good way."
"Of course I do." She stepped forward, stumbled a bit, and stopped. Darcy, closer than she had thought, reached out to grab her arm and steady her.
She grimaced at him. "I have had too much to drink. It makes me clumsy."
He stared down into her face. "You are jealous. Of your sister. Did you want Bingley for yourself?"
"God no!" She shuddered. "He is far too happy for me. When he is happy he talks, and he is always happy. And always talking. Can you imagine a houseful of little Bingleys?"
"You are blunt. Is it the wine, or your nature?"
"Will you be staying with Bingley and Jane long? You'll see more of me and find out." Her lips quirked. "You'll find I am honest, though I try not to say what I am thinking half the time, as it does no one any good. And frequently gets me in trouble."
A thumb caressed the side of her jaw, the caress unexpected. Elizabeth's face was chilled enough now that she almost didn't feel it. But the intensity of his gaze warmed her rapidly chilling skin as their stares clashed.
"So open," he murmured. "No artifice in your eyes. Astonishing. As if you have no idea how beautiful you are in the moonlight."
"Am I ugly in the bright light of day then?"
"We will find out in the morning, will we not?"
Elizabeth inhaled sharply. His head lowered, and he took her lips in a kiss. A searing, brief caress, his fingers clasped around her jaw.