Charlotte Lucas is the devil!
Of this Darcy was certain. He had come to this conclusion over the course of their brief encounters. This evening proved no exception. In fact, it only confirmed his suspicions. What other explanation could be had? She did knowingly and deliberately thrust Miss Elizabeth Bennet into a situation that would surely capture his notice. He was certain of Charlotte Lucas' deceit. Devil woman. Deep in his thoughts, Darcy recounts the Lucas devil's crimes. She must have known of my mortifying thoughts about those eyes and that figure and that easy playfulness of manner. Charlotte Lucas knows it and she commenced to torture me. First, she caught his eye as she and Miss Elizabeth were speaking. She seemed to provoke the lithe little minx to engage him in conversation. There he was, content to walk about the room and observe Miss Elizabeth from an easy distance, beneath her notice. And then Miss Lucas catches him in her eyes. So concerned was he that Elizabeth Bennet was speaking to him, he muttered a surely unsatisfactory response to her borderline impertinent remark about teasing another man. Does Forster harbor feelings for Miss Elizabeth? Is such a gathering a way of announcing his intentions? Is Miss Elizabeth amenable to such a scheme? These thoughts and other swirled in his head for a matter of seconds. Thus he completely missed that which served as the second confirmation of the Charlotte Lucas devilry—inducing Miss Elizabeth to perform. As he watched her sing, swelling her song with her breath, in her playful manner, eyes twinkling with amusement, he was lost in her. He heard the sounds that she emitted and was not displeased. In fact, he would count himself as an admirer of her performance, though it was not to the standard of those he had heard in the parlors of the ton. The ease with which she delighted the audience gave him pause. It annoyed him that Miss Elizabeth had so easily slipped in under his notice and taken something from him. He knew not what, but he wanted it back. He remembered with a satirical fondness his initial assessment of her beauty, his search for imperfections during their subsequent encounters, his unkind recitation of her faults to his friends, and his hopeless surrender to his admiration of her physical quirks. Perhaps all of this reflection on the beauty of one person is his mind's way of telling him that he wants for business to dispense.
There, he thought, he had resolved it. He must apply himself more assiduously to helping his friend. After all, that was the reason for his affirmative answer to help Bingley. It most certainly was not the amusement provided by his sisters. Vapid creatures. He observed them briefly, tittering in the corner, whispering to one another; most likely about the sub-par company, no doubt. They are not wrong. The lack of pleasant company at present served to distract him from the other faults to be found in town. He is here now in the country. It is best to forget London, the last time he was there. Certainly, to forget him. Demmit! He has stolen my pleasure again, simply by his presence in my thoughts.Thus his thoughts went until the opportunity for Miss Lucas to perform her final bit of devilry. Miss Elizabeth' willingness (though he could not really call it such given her multiple attempts to refuse) to perform invited her pompous younger sister to do so as well. The titters from the Bingley/Hurst corner increased. The eye rolls from the younger Bennets became more pronounced, the level of discomfort heightened. And then suddenly, the air became lighter, undoubtedly helped by Miss Mary's play of Scotch and Irish songs.
Darcy presently began to imagine Miss Elizabeth taking part in the frivolity, with him. He imagined her sparkling eyes, her smile directed at him. His reverie was broken by Sir William Lucas, surely the partner to his daughter's evil, for what he did next did more than all of Miss Lucas' evil schemes up to that point. Sir William pushed Miss Elizabeth on him, extolling her virtues of beauty, grace on the dance floor. The hand held by Sir William must have been wet with worried perspiration. Their hands were inching closer, his with hers, guided by the sorcerer himself. His heart thudded in his chest and then it tightened. His cravat felt as if it were choking him. Then came a euphoria of sorts. She smiled, eyebrow arched, as she flatly refused to dance with him. He wondered if the smile was for herself or for him. The turn of her heel confirmed it was for herself—a show of politeness to her neighbor, to soften the blow of her refusal. She seemed to be more apologetic to Sir Lucas than she was to him. He was the one perspiring like a schoolboy asking his first lady to dance. He was the one choking on a cravat that was too tight! He was the one suffering what was sure to be an apoplexy! Yet, somehow, some way, however, it was Sir William Lucas who received Miss Elizabeth's heartfelt smile of non-concordance!
Wicked imp.
As she walked away, he stared for a time more than was polite. The almost imperceptible sway of her hips was hypnotic. How could such a tiny creature betray such liveliness of movement? His thoughts veered towards to the mortifying. To prevent Sir William's discovery of his physical reaction to Miss Elizabeth's form, he bowed abruptly and made his way over toward an outward facing window to cool his thoughts, to relax his tensed gut, to readjust his mental faculties from its Elizabeth-induced gaze.
You are not a 15-year-old schoolboy, you brute! You are a gentleman.
He looked away from the crowd, stared absently into imaginary space, willing his body to calmness it did not, at that moment, possess. Finally able to face the room, he watches with barely concealed disdain as the revelers line up. He contemplated for a few moments, the feeling of being so free and innocent. It was almost libertine, the feeling of disconnectedness—devil-may-care non-concern. From the corner of his eye, he saw smaller Lucases running about. He heard Miss Lydia's loud squeal of delight. There is a child that could use some manners.
With a stupid grin on his face, he fails to notice the quietude of the Bingley/Hurst corner. Caroline Bingley has made her way over to him, sidled up next to him, exuding hauteur and too much perfume, sporting disdain and ridiculous headdress. She is exhausting, that woman. He promptly puts on his Caroline Bingley mask and endures her snide remarks, her sly smiles. When she ventures a guess as to his thoughts, he surprises her and himself by being truthful about them.
Damn you Charlotte Lucas! This is your entire fault, my current state!
Miss Bingley's surprise at his confession is both mocking and self-satisfied, as if he had handed her some secret insight into his soul that she will barter away to another bidder, bit by torturous bit. She was readying her talon-tongued barbs for his benefit. The harpy. He was uncertain how long he would be expected to endure it. She turns on her heel and Darcy is unmoved, relieved even when she leaves, sniggering as she makes her way back to her empty-minded sister. How is it that one woman of his acquaintance tortures him by her distance and another tortures him by her proximity?
He settled a bit. His breathing regularized. His eyes undilated. He felt normal. Then, she laughed and his body betrayed him. AGAIN!
Lud! I must return to Netherfield before I embarrass myself.
With that thought came the beginnings of a headache.