Miss Bingley's Megrim, Part 13

~ Caroline ~

Caroline did not go down to breakfast the next morning. She did not leave her room, in fact.

She never should have had that third or fourth or fifth drink the other night. She never should have had the first one!

It was true that she felt much improved, but she had not been able to fall asleep early enough. She kept hearing odd noises. She even thought she heard Louisa cry out once or twice, but that was ridiculous. Whatever the case, it had been very late when she had finally slept. That, along with unpleasant dreams, had left her still exhausted upon waking. Well, she would stay right in her bed and nap as much as she liked!

In the afternoon, her maid gave her a note from Jane. Caroline suspected it had passed through Louisa's hands, for Jane must have been gone this hour or more. It had been that long since she had last heard any sounds that could be construed as preparations to leave. It would explain the delay if Louisa had offered to deliver the note, and the finger-shaped indentations on the sheet of paper seemed to prove it. It would be just like Louisa, having satisfied her curiosity, to go about with the note pressed tightly in her hand, distracted by several other things before recalling her errand.

Jane's note was sweet, just like its writer. It was also unexpectedly familiar. After expressing best wishes for Caroline's improved health, Jane went so far as to ask if there were any remedies Caroline found helpful. Was the girl only offering to ask Longbourn's housekeeper for some powders or special tea, or was Jane expecting to be on hand the next time she had a headache? With any luck, Caroline would not suffer another episode like this until well into the following year. She would be in London or Scarborough or perhaps even at Pemberley, and Jane Bennet would be at Longbourn, waiting for some other single man of fortune to lease Netherfield and offer hope to her and her dreadful sisters.

Jane's written sentiments were warmer than any thing Caroline had been used to hear from her own sister these last several years. It really was too bad such a pretty girl did not have a larger dowry or better connections.

She put thoughts of the Bennets aside. They were gone now, and she could fix her attention on Mr. Darcy and only Mr. Darcy.

That evening as Caroline went down to dinner, she passed her sister's room and heard Hurst's voice. If he had stayed back to help Louisa dress, as he did on occasion, they might not be seen for another hour. Why he thought his help was needed was a mystery. He was a fashionable fribble, true, but Louisa's maid was an excellent sort and always turned her mistress out creditably.

Well, those two could waste time over lace and jewellery if they wished, but she would not delay dinner for them. She was ravenous.

She descended the stairs slowly and carefully, not liking to make any quick movements after having been in bed so long and unwilling to do any thing to bring on another headache. She made barely any noise, therefore, which allowed the strange sound she heard to ring out that much more clearly.

Mr. Darcy was laughing. And on a Sunday evening at that!

A footman approached the door of the drawing-room to open it, but Caroline gestured for him to stand back. She crept closer, opened the door a tiny bit and waited, for the laughter was fading, and she wished to discover what had inspired it.

“I hope you keep your new sense of humour,” she heard Charles say. “It will make you much pleasanter as a brother. What did Lizzy do in just two days to work such a change in you?”

Mr. Darcy chuckled. “Oh, Elizabeth had been working changes in me far longer than that. She was simply unaware of it.”

“Can you believe we will begin the new year as brothers?”

Caroline let the door slip shut and felt her knees give way. The footman was at her side immediately. “G—Get—get me—” she gasped in a whisper while pointing to the stairs. She just wanted to flee. The man nearly lifted her into his arms as he hurried her back the way she had come.

She was on the landing and out of sight before she heard Charles and Mr. Darcy enter the hall. She was in her sitting room before she heard Hurst and Louisa leave the latter's room to go downstairs.

Tears of rage and despair welled in her eyes. She sank onto the sofa. Crying would not help. Her head was already beginning to pound. Where had she gone wrong? What more could she have done? She had tried everything she knew, every respectable thing, and she had failed! She had been an exemplary hostess. She had been fashionable and witty and smart. She had been lavish with her compliments and unrelenting in her attentions. Despite all this, she had been unable to turn Mr. Darcy's polite notice into something more. Their every tête-à tête had been full of Eliza Bennet for weeks, and Darcy's admiring gaze, which she had long craved, merely glanced past her to land squarely upon that woman.

She had thought herself indomitable, but she was coming to think she had been too sanguine in her estimation.

In half a minute she heard a quiet knock. Her maid had gone down to the kitchens and would not be back for an hour or two unless summoned. She was too shaken to think longer on it and answered, “Come in.”

The door opened enough to reveal the face of the footman that had assisted her up the stairs.

“What do you want?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse with unshed tears.

“Ma'am,” he said in a low, calming voice, “please forgive me the liberty, but when my ma has a megrim, my pa rubs her temples. Always seems to help.”

Caroline stared at him. She did not recall his name. He was a local hire, a very recent one. What presumption it was to offer her advice! Or was it worse? Was he offering to assist her in such an intimate manner? Yet she was miserable. Her headache was returning, and she wanted relief so badly.

“Is any one else near?” she asked him.

He looked over his shoulder and turned back to her. “No, ma'am” he said.

She waved him in, and he shut the door. “Are you trying to say you are willing to help me?”

He visibly relaxed. “It would be my honour, miss.”

In half an hour, Caroline lay back on the sofa with a pillow under her head and the memory of large, warm hands caressing her temples and deft, soothing fingers moving through her hair. It had helped. She could have let him go on forever, but she felt her vulnerability, unexpected as that was, and she could see the hint of attraction in his eyes. It would have been neither wise nor fair to prolong the interlude beyond its purpose. She could only be grateful for his kindness, however, and she decided he should have a little extra in his purse on Christmas Day.

As she waited for dinner to be brought to her room, she thought about her prospects for marriage. She sat up slowly, pleased to note that she felt tolerable now. She had wasted too much time in a useless endeavour. There was nothing for it but to start again, and she might as well do so by seeking a man with the qualities she so admired in her former object. Mr. Darcy was wealthy, well connected, handsome, and clever. He was also taciturn, not particularly attentive to her, and in love with someone else. The latter qualities she could do without. She nodded in decision. After to-day, she was also decidedly in favour of a man in possession of strong, gentle, talented hands and the desire to use them on her. She smiled at the thought.

No, all was not lost. She was still young, close in age to Jane and Eliza. She would pay off every arrear of civility to those two. What else was there to do? Jane would be her sister, and Eliza would be mistress of Mr. Darcy's homes. She did not wish to be separated from her family or banned from Pemberley. Between Charles and Mr. Darcy, they must know somebody that met her requirements for marital felicity. If it was not the case now, surely it would be so in future. Charles, at least, was forever making new acquaintance.

Until Caroline found this paragon, she would be sure to summon her new favourite footman—discreetly, of course—should her head give her the slightest trouble.

---

The End

Miss Bingley's Megrim, Part 12

~ Jane ~

“Reading in the library, Darcy? How unoriginal!”

Jane glanced at Bingley and laughed to herself. She loved his teasing manner with his friends and how easily they bore it.

Lizzy, of course, laughed aloud—that is, until she caught Mr. Darcy's eye, and then she looked embarrassed, but also pleased, happy even. They were sat rather close, those two, and Jane began to wonder. In fact, Jane was so distracted by Lizzy's manner with Mr. Darcy that she did not catch whatever it was that Charles next said to his friend—something about letters, she thought.

“What, have you put your guest to work?” Mr. Darcy said in reply. “Miss Bennet wrote your letters for you? I can imagine no other way in which they would be completed both quickly and legibly.”

Lizzy looked at her in enquiry and then in delighted surprise. Jane was sure the matter was plain on her face. She had rarely been able to hide anything from Lizzy, not that she often wished to do so. Beside her, she heard Charles huff in annoyance as Mr. Darcy continued to await his answer.

Lizzy laughed and turned to Mr. Darcy. “'Tact', my dear Darcy,” she said, “is a small but invaluable word.”

Jane was not certain how tactful it had been for Lizzy to have spoken so.

Mr. Darcy did not seem to mind it, however. “Such as 'love'?” he asked Lizzy, leaning towards her. “Or 'kiss'?”

Jane heard that last part, though Mr. Darcy had whispered it. She stared as her thoughts spun. Mr. Darcy? But...but....Was Mr. Darcy going to kiss Lizzy? Lizzy? In front of them all? And Lizzy had spoken so affectionately to him! Flustered, she turned away to find Charles's face very close to hers. “Come,” he said quietly. “Let us leave my impudent friend to your impertinent sister.” He grinned widely as he led her from the room and into another, and she followed, hardly knowing what she did.

“Charles,” she said when they were alone in the drawing-room, without knowing what she meant to say next. He gave her a surprised, searching look, and she covered her mouth as she realised she had called him Charles and not Mr Bingley!

“Yes, Jane?” Charles said with warmth and a touch of amusement in his voice.

Jane was certain her heart had never felt as full. “I am so...happy!” she whispered between her fingers. 'Because of you,' she did not say but willed him to understand. She felt slow tongued and dull witted. Why could she think of nothing brilliant, nothing clever to say at this moment?

Just as she decided to make use of the uninspired phrase that had come to her, Charles startled her by kneeling.

After that, not much conversation was exchanged beyond a few crucial phrases (“hand in marriage” and “oh yes” among them), but Jane managed nonetheless to communicate her sentiments to Mr. Bingley.

Somewhere through the haze of delectable feeling floating about Jane's conscionsness came the notion that Mr. Darcy had been quite right. 'Kiss' was indeed one of those small but invaluable words.

---

Next

Miss Bingley's Megrim, Part 11

~ Hurst ~

(language mostly unintelligible and the rest not suitable for gently-bred audiences under 102)

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Next

Miss Bingley's Megrim, Part 10

~ Louisa ~

Louisa roused herself reluctantly. As she listened to the comfortable sound of the bed linen shifting about her, a sudden thought arrested her movement. “Do you hear that?” she whispered to her husband.

“What?”

“Hush!”

“But I heard nothing.”

“Exactly!” she murmured. “Caroline must be asleep. We don't want to wake her. You know what a handful she would be in such a state.”

“I have no objection to a handful in certain circumstances,” Hurst drawled, filling his hand in a way that pleased them both.

“In that case, neither can I have any objection,” Louisa breathed out while her utterings were still intelligible.

---

Next

Miss Bingley's Megrim, Part 9

~ Elizabeth ~

What had she done to him? He was the one whispering sweet nothings not in her ear, but at her breast!

“I should have known Romeo and Juliet could not have performed its office.” Darcy said, sounding almost sad.

“What office was that?” Elizabeth asked, trying and failing not to enjoy—rather, luxuriate in—the sensations she was feeling.

“My aim was to talk, or read, myself out of being in love. I had suspected it to be a futile endeavour when I began, but I knew it to be so the moment I realised you were in the room. I should have known it would end in my determining that all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay^[1] if you would but take...not just any other^[2] name in place of your own, but my name.” He sighed. “If only you had some noble connections or a substantial dowry, preferably both, I daresay I should not have attempted to reason away love.”

Immediately taking offence, Elizabeth was tempted to push his head away, but she refrained. Had he just hinted at a proposal and insulted her in one breath? The sting of the latter pushed the former to the back of her mind. She tensed and sat up straighter, which Darcy noticed immediately. “If only you had been less proud and disagreeable,” she said, “you would never have had such a mean thought, much less expressed it to me!”

He gaped at her. “Mean?” he said. “The thought was a natural one!”

Was he really so lacking in understanding, or was he so hardened in his conceit that he did not care? “It is mean,” she countered, “to hold against someone those circumstances that they cannot help. Did not you learn that from the play of which you are so fond? It would be one thing to take exception to my impertinence and argumentativeness. Those traits I might be able to control, no matter how often your own behaviour provokes me to exhibit them.” She tried now to master her anger, for she meant to say all that she wished. “I am a gentleman's daughter, Mister Darcy. I cannot be held accountable for my parents' lack of sons to soften the entail's effect any more than for their surfeit of female offspring.”

With an aspect more stiff than contrite, he said, “I can see you are offended, and I am sorry for it.”

“Would not you be, in my place?”

“I do not blame you for your situation. I do realise that even without the entail, with four sisters, you would be unlikely to have more than a few thousand pounds each. Still, you must allow that society would look askance at such an unequal match.”

“And you care so much for what people would say? I cannot but think that if you did, you would have married long ago. It cannot be so difficult to find a tolerable heiress among society's darlings, or even a handsome one with titled relations. There must be rich tradesman's daughters everywhere in London.” She raised an eyebrow and snickered when he grimaced at her allusion to their hostess. “Are there no favourite prospects that have been put forward by your family? No rich cousins, or cousins of a sort by marriage?”

He made a quiet exclamatory sound. “You are prescient, I swear. My mother's family is full of such ideas. My aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, has long wished for me to marry her daughter. My uncle's wife has similar hopes for her own niece. Neither young lady interests me in the slightest as a potential bride.”

“Then why throw society's dictates in my face when you have spent years refusing to bow to them?”

His expression changed five times or more, and he kept his eyes on hers while the silence persisted.

“That is a good question,” he eventually said, looking away.

This was hardly their first argument and surely would not be their last. It had turned out better than she had anticipated. She did not think she had fully persuaded him to her opinion, but he had apologised, and he had remained civil. Perhaps the stiffness in his manner had been due to lack of practice? Elizabeth imagined Mr. Darcy did not often apologise or concede the point.

She was so close to him. She could make out his individual lashes, appreciate the fine quality of his clothing, feel his warmth and solidity.

She was close enough to be affected by his faults, too: the flash of distaste in his expression at the mention of unequal matches and natural feelings, his officiousness, his lack of concern for the effect of his words.

She had no complaints regarding his looks. He was quite handsome, and she personally found his features attractive. It was his arrogance, not his appearance, that had set her against him. Yet today he seemed willing to make amends, and he was more intricate than she had given him credit for. Yes, he was high-handed, but he was also gentle. He spoke without tempering his opinions, but he listened as well. Then there was the most significant part of the business: she was only considering him so closely because it was undeniable that he had a serious, if surprising, interest in her.

Had someone told her yesterday that she would be sat in the library on Mr. Darcy's lap, completely improper but perfectly safe, and quite willing to be there besides, she would have been diverted, offended, or both, but mostly she would have been unbelieving.

“What are you thinking of?” He was staring at her again.

She blinked and said, “You.”

He looked as if her answer had not told him enough, but she did not want to elaborate.

She wished she could have the advice of Mrs. Gardiner at this moment. Her aunt would be scandalised by her current behaviour, but Aunt Gardiner would know just how to help her sort through her conflicting thoughts.

Thinking of her aunt reminded her that Darcy was unacquainted with the Gardiners. “You have met most of my family,” she said. “You know what they are, and I shall not waste time trying to defend them to you, or to explain to you that they should require no defence. Yet before you disdain my connections en masse, let me assure you that my uncle and aunt in London are at first glance genteel and fashionable, at second glance intelligent and amiable, and at third, fourth, and fifth glances in possession of many other pleasant qualities besides. They are great favourites with me—with all of us, really—and well worth knowing.”

It felt like ages before he spoke.

“Do you know,” he said at length, “I recall having used similar words—having wasted words, to be frank—in an attempt last winter to recommend Bingley to Lady Catherine's acquaintance. My grandfather Fitzwilliam was an earl, and his eldest daughter's rank is of great importance to her. She is fond of saying one ought not to pursue intimate friendships outside one's sphere. In her opinion, my friend's family is not ancient enough, which according to her definition would require Bingley's father and grandfather and great-grandfather to have owned land. There is no changing her mind on the subject. Yet Bingley is not, to use one of his own phrases, 'one jot less agreeable' because of it, and my aunt, unfortunately, is not made one jot more agreeable by her prejudices.”

Darcy took a deep breath. There was no sign of distaste in his expression now. “When will you introduce me to these treasured relations of yours?” he asked her. “Shall I meet them before Christmas?”

Surprised by his questions, Elizabeth explained that her uncle often brought his family to Longbourn in December, and Darcy might make his acquaintance if he planned to remain in the country some weeks more.

He visibly relaxed. Then, to her shock, he appeared farcically incredulous and said, “All that aside, you have the undivided attention of a most eligible bachelor, and you choose to spend your time arguing with him? Your mother must despair of you.” He continued to watch her, uncertainty creeping into his looks as the seconds passed.

Elizabeth parted her lips to retort more than once. At last, she closed her mouth with some force.

Darcy's resultant smile stretched wide, seemingly with as much relief as happiness. Then with a gleam in his eye, he asked, “Do you bite your tongue at me, madam?”^[3]

Elizabeth furrowed her brow and then began to shake with silent laughter as she understood his meaning. “No, sir,” she said in clipped tones, suppressing a smile with great effort. “I do not bite my tongue at you, sir, but I bite my tongue, sir.”^[4]

“You leave me no choice but to bite back.” He shifted their positions a little and commenced to nibble tentatively at her ear. “Especially as there is no Benvolio to part us.” Despite their having just quarrelled, the feel of his mouth on her and the vibration of his voice against her skin portended a thousand delights.

Elizabeth concentrated hard to keep her wits about her. “Our B-Benvolio,” she said with a stammer that embarrassed her, “doth lie upstairs with a headache, I believe.”

She felt a puff of air on her face at Darcy's quick laugh. “Ah,” he said. His nips turned to light kisses as he continued along her jawline. “A convenient thing it is that she is offstage, for I could imagine her declaring us fools and approaching with a paper knife or any other suitably sharp implement to hand.”

“That,” Elizabeth said in a breathy whisper, “would be unfortunate.”

“Indeed.” Darcy reached her lips at last and pressed his own against them, manoeuvring and gently parting them. And with this intimacy, those thousand delights burst upon them both.

---

1. Text in italics from Act II Scene II of William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet
2. Text in italics from Act II Scene II of William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet
3. Text in italics from Act I Scene I of William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet
4. Text in italics from Act I Scene I of William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet

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Next

Miss Bingley's Megrim, Part 8

~ Darcy ~

Darcy's eyes opened wide. Elizabeth's eyes were shut tight.

It was his fault, and well he knew it. He ought to feel ashamed of himself for what he had begun. He had wished their closeness to exist, physically exist, outside his imagination. He had wished for more than a fleeting brush of cloth upon cloth at a crowded dinner party.

He should have known an independent young woman like Elizabeth Bennet would never tolerate the man's having things all his own way. She would make her own move rather than stand—or, in this case, sit—idly by. Yet he had quite literally limited her possible moves by putting her in this position.

So if he was left wishing they had progressed past all this to the part of their lives where they were cosily situated on a sofa not at Netherfield but at Pemberley, where it would not signify in the least how boldly Elizabeth's hand roamed his lap, he had no one to blame but himself.

She looked so beautiful.

There were several ladies he had met who would be considered more beautiful than Elizabeth Bennet, the eldest Miss Bennet included. However, Darcy had never encountered one that appealed to him in all the ways Elizabeth did. With each meeting, each newly glimpsed facet of her character, she had somehow become dearer, and that fact had cast its own immutable charm over her already pleasing features.

He pulled her hand from between them, placed it on her knee, and briefly pressed it. Then he gently shifted her to the side so that her legs were draped across his own, and he could better see her face. He reached over to caress her at the waist. He would have let his hand rest there, but she was not composed. Her eyes remained closed, her lips parted, and she took shallow breaths.

He knew his intentions were not nefarious, but did she? Her eyes would tell him. He reached up and touched her face, running a thumb across her cheek.

Elizabeth did open her eyes then, and he knew. She was afraid, but he would swear there was no fear of him in her look. She was afraid of herself.

“I am shocked by my behaviour,” she said very quietly, confirming his thoughts. “I do not know what to say.” Her eyes glistened.

“Oh, my dear,” he said. He had almost called her his love. He wanted to tell her not to cry. His experience in saying that to Georgiana in moments of distress, however, had long ago impressed upon him the futility of the command. He could handle a few tears. As for his own feelings, he felt like grinning. Unsure whether he would be able to keep a smile from breaking out, he decided not even to try to suppress his feelings. “If,” he asked, “I were to assume from your words that you do not often find yourself in situations like this, that perhaps you have never found yourself in a situation like this before, would I be correct?”

She swallowed and said, “You would.”

He said, “Then maybe you will believe me when I tell you this is a rarity for me as well.” He wiped one of her tears. “Your eyes are pretty even when you cry.”

“You must say that to all the ladies who sit on your lap in libraries.”

“Yes, all one of them.” He lifted an eyebrow and watched her blush. “I have less experience in these matters than you might think. Bingley is always going on about my fastidiousness. He is not wrong.”

“You make me curious.”

“As long as I do not make you uncomfortable.” His voice had gone up at the end, making it more question than statement.

“Not in an unpleasant way,” she replied after a palpable silence. She regarded him with a serious, steady look, as though waiting for more. “I am still curious,” she said at length.

He never talked to people about his private business, but this was Elizabeth, the woman who was very quickly becoming his private business. And he liked talking to her. “Do you truly wish to know?” he asked.

She nodded.

“When I came of age, my cousins grew weary of merely teasing me about my innocence and decided to introduce me to an acquaintance who might...relieve me of it.”

“Oh.”

“Things did not go according to plan that evening. In the strictest sense, I returned home as innocent as I had been when I arrived. I found, despite adequate temptation, that I did not wish to share a woman with one of my cousins. I did not even know if my cousin was still in the habit of visiting her. When I admitted this to the lady, she was kind. She agreed to explain certain matters to me and even answered my awkward questions so that my time would not be wasted.”

Darcy was quiet then, remembering the woman who had neither ridiculed nor resented him when he was vulnerable, and who had apparently been so discreet that his cousin never knew a thing.

“And after?” Elizabeth asked.

“There was no after. I had fleeting thoughts of finding another widow, someone unacquainted with my family, but I never did. My father fell ill. Instead of spending my money on mistresses, I spent it travelling between London and Pemberley. Rumours of my father's health circulated, and I withdrew from society to a degree. I did not have the time or patience to fend off fortune hunters. I had a sister to care for.”

“What of your mother?”

“She had died years before.”

In an inkling, he was lost in memories: the late Lady Anne Darcy—Mother—a woman with an almost regal bearing and a distant air, who nevertheless conveyed warmth and affection when she smiled at him; escapades at Pemberley in his youth; carriage rides with his parents and baby sister; the great pleasure his maternal grandfather took in calling him Fitzwilliam and treating him as if he were his heir simply because he bore the family name; riding to the far reaches of the estate with his father; visits to Rosings and the inevitable, lingering pity for Anne, whose mother was not nearly as pleasant as his own.

He was brought out of his musings by the gentle touch of Elizabeth's hand on his face. He looked into her eyes. Why had he ever thought he would be able to forget her? Those eyes of hers would always have drawn him back. He had felt his danger this morning, but now he was entirely lost. There was nothing for it.

His uncle would rant. His aunts would be in high dudgeon. Lady Catherine, in particular, would spew her fiery anger like an ill-bred volcano.

He was going to have relations in trade, near Cheapside.

He would be brother to those giggling geese, Misses Catherine and Lydia Bennet.

He could not bring himself to care about any of those things, and that fact astonished him.

Darcy looked at the woman with whom he wanted to share not just the remainder of this day, but as many days as possible for many years to come. He leaned into her and nestled his head against her bosom. “Sweet Elizabeth,” he whispered. “What have you done to me?”

---

Next

Miss Bingley's Megrim, Part 7

~ Elizabeth ~

When Elizabeth entered the library, she was unaware she was not alone. Her ignorance did not last long.

A familiar voice emanating from the corner of the room murmured a barely comprehensible string of words. The experience was frustrating for three reasons: the voice belonged to Mr. Darcy; the voice had a rather appealing tone despite the unfortunate identity of its owner; and the volume was too low for Elizabeth to make sense of what was being said.

She came to a stop near him. He was so absorbed in his reading that he had not heard her at all, apparently. She feigned a delicate cough, and he started and rose. Muted greetings were exchanged.

Just after she had taken up a book and sat down, Elizabeth heard Mr. Darcy's voice again. She waited a moment for it to quieten. When it did not, she interrupted him. “Do you enjoy reading aloud?” she asked, drawing attention to the fact that she, too, held a book and hoping the expression on her face eloquently conveyed her feelings.

“I often find myself alone here,” he offered as an excuse.

“You are not alone now.”

“Pardon me, madam. I shall endeavour to contain my literary enthusiasm.”

Elizabeth smirked.

A few minutes later, she heard his voice again. This time it ceased quickly, and once more she immersed herself in her own book.

After checking her laughter for the third or fourth time, well entertained by Shakespeare's whimsy, Elizabeth stole a glance at Mr. Darcy and wondered how he would tolerate a taste of his own medicine, She read a line loudly enough for him to hear and was not disappointed with the result.

“I thought you did not approve of reading aloud in company.”

Elizabeth looked up. “Oh, did I ever say that, sir? Besides, when I do it, it does not keep me from concentrating on the words before me. Would you like me to endeavour to contain my literary enthusiasm?”

Mr. Darcy glared at her.

Elizabeth thought she heard a mumble that sounded suspiciously like “Exasperating woman!”

“Did you say something, sir?”

He did not answer.

“Is that your yes glare or your no glare?”

Mr. Darcy still said nothing, but the glare changed. Elizabeth could not determine what the change meant.

After a moment, Mr. Darcy lowered his eyes to his book.

They had been silent for some minutes when Mr. Darcy yet again lapsed into reading aloud. Elizabeth looked up in annoyance to find him already looking at her. So he had caught himself at it; all the better. She thought he would resume reading, perhaps quietly this time, but instead he got up and walked over to her.

“The only solution to this quandary,” he said, “is for us to read the same book.”

“Are you saying your solution must be the only solution?” Elizabeth retorted. “Why am I not surprised?”

“The other way is for one of us to leave, but on that point I fear you may be as stubborn as I.”

“If you think you will force me to leave because I would rather not admit to stubbornness, you are mistaken, You shall not be rid of me so easily as that.” Elizabeth was determined he would not chase her away. Let him leave if he felt separation necessary.

“As I thought.”

Elizabeth sat still, unwillingly enthralled. How could a man's smirk be repulsive and attractive at the same time?

Mr. Darcy opened his volume to the first page and held it out to her. “Will you not begin?”

Elizabeth continued to stare at him.

He hmphed, stared, and at last sighed and commenced reading aloud. Then he put the book into her hand and waited.

Elizabeth set the book down and picked up her own, turning to the beginning and reading the first lines of Twelfth Night.

“I wonder if I should bother to ask,” Mr. Darcy said, holding out his hand for her book when she stopped.

She gave it to him. “Had you not left for me the lines of that villainous Tybalt, I might have complied. You have read the best part of the play—that is, the prologue—with the exception of Mercutio's speeches. As for Romeo, I have no patience for him. First he loves Rosaline, and then he loves her cousin Juliet. It is a rather flimsy love that can be overthrown by one glimpse of a thirteen-year-old girl, in my opinion.”

“Perchance his was a...what did you call it? A thin sort of inclination, starved away by Romeo's own iambic pentameter.”

She watched the edge of his mouth twitch. She was hard-pressed not to laugh at his jest herself, and she imagined her eyes gave away her amusement.

His look softened. “Your choice is more entertaining.” He took a moment to find the place where she had stopped, and he continued from there, walking as he did so. Then he handed the book back to her.

She read more. They took turns, walking and stopping, eventually drifting over to the sofa.

The last scene of the first act was long. They decided to split it. With each turn, they lingered nearer after handing the book off. They went on that way, back and forth, through more of the play. Eventually they sat quite close, heads bent over the volume.

It was quite sensible what they were doing, Elizabeth thought. The words had been penned to be spoken before an audience. A full cast might have been ideal, but she and Mr. Darcy were acquitting themselves well enough. He even made each character's voice different—not dramatically so, but one could tell he had the talent for it. She could picture him reading to his young sister by the fire. Perhaps this was one of his accomplishments, a certain something in his manner of reading. She laughed, and he looked up at her and smiled before going on.

Spending time with Mr. Darcy in this way was far less unpleasant than Elizabeth would have imagined. In truth, it was not at all unpleasant.

It was lovely.

Elizabeth was pondering this revelation during one of their pauses when Mr. Darcy, instead of reading the next part, hesitantly said, “Miss Bennet, would you mind standing up just a little?”

The sofa was very accommodating. Elizabeth wondered why he needed her to move, but she did not question him. She began to rise and suddenly felt him sliding under her—and then he pulled her to himself until she was partially on his lap and in his embrace!

“Much better,” he murmured. He held the book in front of them both and began reading his part as if it were the most natural thing in the world for them to be pressed up against each other.

That sonorous, mellifluous voice, so close to her ear, made her shiver.

Was she mad? Was he? This was Mr. Darcy, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire! The tall, proud man who insulted her at their first meeting, who looked at all her acquaintance to find fault, held her close as if he had every right to do so.

She ought to object. She knew she ought. To her bewilderment, she realised she had no wish to do so. When her mind insisted that this...arrangement was improper, that she ought to remove herself from this situation, her body insisted just as vehemently that she had better stay right where she was.

His body seemed to agree. She detected less tension in him now than in all the time they had spent together in the library so far this day.

Elizabeth could not be at ease. In her nervousness, she reached behind her to smooth her skirt. As she ran her hand along the fabric, and by necessity between her person and that of Mr. Darcy, she heard a hiss. She turned quickly to look at him.

“Elizabeth!” Darcy whispered, releasing the book and grasping her arm carefully but firmly to stay her movement. “Take care.”

Later, Elizabeth would wonder what she had been thinking. In the moment, however, whether impelled by curiosity, defiance, or something she could not name, she simply moved a part of her that she could move. Her arm stayed where it was, but she slid her hand back and forth a little and heard Darcy's breathing change.

She did not know how she was going to look him in the eye ever again, but she knew she must.

Just not yet.

---

Next

Miss Bingley's Megrim, Part 6

~ Jane ~

“What do you think?”

Bingley had taken Jane about the house, favouring rooms she had not seen during her stay and being careful to avoid anywhere they might be heard from Caroline's rooms, of course. Oddly, they had not come across Lizzy or Mr. Darcy, but perhaps they, too, had been going from room to room, and they had all missed one another.

Now Jane stood in the middle of the back parlour, which she had just entered for the first time in more than a decade. During old Mrs. Thorne's residency, the room had been much plainer and, to Jane's mind, much more comfortable. Bingley had explained as they entered the room that the owner had given him leave to do whatever he liked with this parlour, for the wallpaper had been sadly worn. He had not needed to inform her that he had in turn given Caroline leave to do what she would, for her taste for splendour was everywhere in evidence.

Jane looked about her once more before answering Bingley's question. Her gaze flitted from one unappealing piece of furniture to another and lingered on the wallpaper for several seconds. “Rather ostentatious,” she said at length.

Bingley's eyebrows went up.

“Have I surprised you?” Jane asked him.

“I do not know that I have ever before heard you speak...well, slightingly”—at this word there was as much reluctance in his looks as in his speech—“about any thing.”

“I always speak what I think.” At least Jane believed so. Those eyebrows, however, made her wonder. She recollected a few recent conversations and frowned, considering what had been said and what had not. She was convinced she was open when confiding in one she loved, but she could not say the same when conversing in larger company. She did not lie on those occasions, but neither was she frank. That seemed natural, but was this the whole of it? Did she instead appear sometimes to be dissembling?

Would she, more to the point, have been frank had Caroline been the one to ask her about the furnishings?

No. She would have chosen words that could not give offence, and she could not say she would have made her meaning clear to the listener.

“Perhaps I do not,” she admitted in a small, uneven voice, “and you are right to be surprised. I wish I knew myself better.”

“I do not mind surprises,” said Bingley. His voice was as soft as hers had been but quite steady. “And I also wish I knew you better.”

She turned to him and looked into his eyes for a long moment. What she saw seemed at once familiar and new. From the beginning of their acquaintance, there had been that in his regard which she had found pleasing. That regard now had the added allure of possibility: not feather-light flights of fancy, but sober, careful consideration of what might be. Sober—what a word to associate with the ebullient Charles Bingley!

They were not smiling at each other, but Jane felt a lightness of heart all the same.

Bingley looked away, and Jane watched him in fascination, for he was far more interesting to observe than any thing else in the room. His gaze moved from one item to another. At last he gestured towards the wallpaper and said, “It is not quite...quite, eh?” He laughed a little. “I have seen worse in London drawing-rooms, to be sure, and in the homes of gentlemen wealthier than I. Caroline said she would manage the business, which suited me. I believe I looked in once after she had sent the workmen away, and at the time I congratulated her on the completion of her project. I do not know that I have stepped foot in this room from that day to this, and I certainly never gave a thought to my opinion of the alterations.” He looked again at some of the furniture. “That chair is not so bad, and I rather like the carpet, at least at second glance.” He turned back to her with a slight grimace. “But altogether it is a bit much.”

In the next moment he was smiling again and looking a little sly. “Let us start on those letters,” he said, “before something in this room puts you out of countenance and you change your mind.”

Jane laughed as she took his arm.

She had known men who would have used the opportunities this day afforded to take liberties with her. Bingley looked as if he wished to take liberties. His eyes communicated words he had not yet ventured to speak. He behaved, however, at all times as a gentleman, and she felt quite comfortable with him.

She could never wish Bingley to be ungentlemanly. But would she like it if he were to address her familiarly? Pull her close? Try to steal a kiss?

The way she was feeling at this moment, Jane feared he would not have to steal it. She might give it all too willingly.

Once in the study, they quickly got to work. Bingley dictated and paced, and Jane sat and wrote, until a neat stack of replies filled the space where the most urgent post had been. At length they began a reply to one of Bingley's relations. After some entertaining silliness on his part in which he sought to recommend 'the lovely Miss Bennet' with many flowery speeches to said relation rather than addressing the matter at hand, Jane took up her half-begun missive to throw on the fire and told Bingley that he must pen the reply himself.

As she moved aside for him, one thought warmed her. Of all the things she had begun to learn on this marvellous day, the most important might be that she loved this man, and he just might love her in return.

---

Next

Miss Bingley's Megrim, Part 5

~ Bingley ~

Bingley turned from the window, where he had been observing the swirling leaves and swaying boughs. His housekeeper had just completed her report on the latest measures taken to aid Caroline.

“Very good,” Bingley said. “I know you have been kept busy all morning. Be assured the extra work will not last much longer. Once Miss Bingley is able to sleep, she will rest most of the day and need little attention. Her maid is used to these infrequent bouts of illness and will seek whatever help is required.

“As for the rest of us, we shall shift for ourselves until tea or perhaps even dinner. Something simple shall suffice. Mr. and Mrs. Hurst may wish to dine in their rooms.

“All the staff are to have the afternoon off as much as possible, or at least to be in no hurry as they work. That includes you,” he said, smiling. “I wish you had better weather for this impromptu half-holiday. That wind looks fierce,” he said, nodding towards the window. Indeed, they could hear it on occasion.

Bingley dismissed the housekeeper and was surprised to see Miss Bennet peeking into his study. “Come in!” he said. He watched with pleasure as she nodded to the retreating servant and walked towards him, looking for all the world as if she belonged in this house as its mistress.

“Do you have any plans for the day?” Bingley asked.

“I was going to ask you the same,” she said.

“I should like to spend as much time with you as possible,” Bingley said.

Jane averted her eyes, and a slow smile spread across her face. The smile was suddenly checked, and she said, “I should not like to keep you from your work.”

He followed her gaze to the untidy collection of unopened letters on his desk and frowned. “I am a tad behind in my correspondence.”

Jane faced him and lifted her head a little, as if in resolution. “You have had to host my sister and me unexpectedly,” she said. “It is only fair that I help if I can—that is, if you do not find the offer presumptuous?”

“Not at all!” Bingley was taken aback but perfectly amenable to her suggestion. “I admit I am not quite ready to tie myself to a chair and write for the next hour. We just got up from breakfast, after all.”

“Shall we sort the letters first? Then perhaps we can find something else to do for half an hour before returning to compose whatever replies are required. I would be pleased to write at your dictation if you wish to be spared the trouble of writing yourself.”

“Do you mean it?” He had not believed there could be anything romantic about dispatching his business correspondence, but the sweetness of Jane's offer made him reconsider. “You are an angel, my dear!”

“From something Lizzy told me, I concluded that letter writing is not among your favourite things.”

“You are right. Did she tell you how Darcy and Caroline teased me about my style, or lack thereof, the other night?” He grinned when she nodded. “I am often in such a hurry to be done that my efforts look no better than a schoolboy's.”

“My handwriting is neat enough. Let me repay you for your hospitality.” Jane walked over to the letters and stretched out her hand but did not touch them. “Shall we begin? Unless there are some I ought not to see?”

“I cannot imagine there would be.”

With Jane by his side, the letters were soon opened and set in orderly stacks. Bingley could not recall having enjoyed the task more.

---

Next

Miss Bingley's Megrim, Part 4

~ Jane ~

Stood at the foot of the stairs, well satisfied with the good food and even better company at breakfast, Jane watched her sister disappear around the corner and smiled broadly. She knew her smile was not the one often seen at neighbourhood dinners and card parties. This smile filled her whole being, for it was born of sisterly affection. Lizzy walked in that light, energetic way that signified that she had not a care in the world, and Jane was overjoyed to see it. She herself was hale and happy again, no small thanks to Lizzy's care. Which other of her sisters would have crossed muddy fields to see to her welfare? Kitty and Lydia were not ones to walk three miles on a mission of mercy, though they would have come for the diversion of leaving the house as long as a convenient method of transport could be found. Indeed, they had treated their brief visit to her as a social call. Mary would not have exerted herself for anything short of an emergency. She was too practical to bestir herself over a trifling illness, knowing she was not adept at nursing. To be fair, Lizzy was not a natural nurse, either, but Lizzy was a natural sister. Yes! That was it: she cared, and she acted. She was never one to stand by and watch people suffer. Even when the suffering was due to a weakness in character, Lizzy tried to aid the person and correct what could be corrected. Lizzy was also clever enough to change tactics when necessary. She had taken to answering Papa's sarcasm with the same, for he rarely responded to plain speech with anything but amusement. Their mother was the opposite, for only the plainest speech could deter her from her own ideas, and sometimes even that did not succeed.

Jane recalled the reasonable objections she herself raised to Mama's plan last Tuesday and the ease with which her mother cast those objections aside. Mama had come to Netherfield see what her plotting had wrought, but only after receiving Lizzy's note. She had shown not the least remorse for having insisted that Jane ride on a day that threatened rain, or for having risked Jane's health, or for having imposed on their new neighbours. Once satisfied that her daughter would recover, Mrs. Bennet was exultant—distastefully so, it pained Jane to witness. Jane had felt so ashamed, and her only comfort was that her hosts knew she had one member of her family whose concern was both sincere and substantial.

All that was in the past, Jane assured herself, recent enough to elicit a blush but still over and done with. She was well and would soon be back at Longbourn. For the present, however, being at Netherfield felt wonderful, and she was no longer in a hurry to leave it. The cause was likely Mr. Bingley's pointed attentions at breakfast. He had begged her to stay, and, oh, the look in his eye!

With every conversation, she was more and more certain Mr. Bingley was just the sort of man she would want for a husband and the father of her own children someday. He was not easily put out by illness or inconvenience. He would be happy to see his family rather than be always shut up in his library. He had a kind word for everybody, no matter their mood.

There was something else, though, and it made her forgive her mother in full for having sent her through the rain to Netherfield. Jane was not fanciful, but she felt there was a difference in the atmosphere this day. There was a level of comfort, freedom, unreserve, generosity—any or all of them—that had been lacking before and seemed to have affected them all. She was tempted to credit it with Mr. Bingley's candidness and Lizzy's subsequent teasing, and even Mr. Darcy's slow smile at the spectacle she and Bingley made and the lack of that hunted look Mr. Darcy sometimes wore. When she thought of that look, she thought instantly of Caroline's assiduous attentions to that gentleman and the fact that her friend had not been there to pay them. Caroline had not been there to interrupt her brother's flirting, either. Nor had she been there to comment on Jane's manner of dress, or on her situation, or on the behaviour of some of her family, or on whatever Lizzy was doing at the time. That was fortunate, actually, because Caroline's comments, often echoed by Louisa, were sometimes not as kind as they could be, and not calculated to put Jane or any of the Bennets in the best light, as much as Jane was loath to admit it.

Was is wicked of her to be pleased that Caroline remained in her rooms?

Lizzy would not call her wicked. Lizzy had never thought highly of Caroline and Louisa. 'Their manners are not equal to his,' she had said after the assembly when comparing the ladies to their brother.

Lizzy was right, Jane realised. Nothing had changed this day except the absence of Mr. Bingley's sisters, and it was as if the air in the house were suddenly easier to breathe.

Jane would never wish Caroline ill, but she could not help but wish her a good, long rest. In accordance with that, she resolved not to go upstairs and risk making the slightest disturbance. Instead, she decided to seek Mr. Bingley's company.

---

Next

Miss Bingley's Megrim, Part 3

~ Bingley ~

Bingley had been dressed for some time before he ventured out of his room. He had heard footsteps outside his door again and again. Assured by the lack of any summons to himself that nothing of an alarming nature had occurred, at last he opened his door just enough to glance about.

The activity was centred down the corridor. At times there were moans coming from that direction. Caroline must have a megrim, poor girl, though a few of those moans sounded like something else entirely. In any case, that explained the flow of servants. It was always the same with Caroline: whenever her head pained her, she ordered one thing after another, rejecting half outright and the remainder after a moment's consideration. In the past, servants had learnt to complete their useless tasks as quickly and quietly as possible. They knew the bustle would not last forever. At length his sister would sleep, and the staff would release a collective sigh, no doubt. Caroline would rest well into the evening, take dinner in her room, and be perfectly recovered the next day. Bingley hoped it would be the same this time.

When the footsteps ceased to be heard, Bingley took a quick look down the passage, smiled at the emptiness of it, and made his way downstairs.

Breakfast had an unusually cheery aspect, which suited his feelings. Perhaps it was the sight of some of his favourites on the sideboard.

Darcy was at the table before him, and even his aspect was less severe than usual. He and Darcy had barely exchanged greetings when Jane and her sister entered the room, deep in conversation. They stopped to greet the gentlemen amiably enough, but they retained serious countenances.

“Does something trouble you, ladies?” Bingley could not help asking.

The girls looked at each other, and Bingley saw Jane nod at Miss Elizabeth, or Lizzy, as he thought of her, for that was what Jane called her.

It was Lizzy who spoke. “We wished to send a note to Longbourn to request the carriage today, but the servants all seemed unusually busy, and we did not wish to distract them from their duties.”

“I am happy to say I feel well enough to return home,” Jane added, looking directly at him and making his heart race. “I should not impose upon your hospitality any longer, sir.”

“But surely it is too soon!” Bingley cried as her words sank in. This would not do! “Are you certain you would not be risking your health?”

Jane—dear Jane—insisted she was well, and the more she did, the less Bingley could countenance her going.

“Miss Liz—Miss Elizabeth,” Bingley said, correcting himself, “your sister will listen to you, will she not? Do convince her to put aside any thought of leaving!”

“Oh, my dear sir!” said Jane, visibly affected by his vehemence. “I should not wish to cause you trouble. If it is inconvenient—”

“It is a matter of my sanity, not merely convenience,” said Bingley with a laugh. “My dear lady, if you care at all for my welfare, do not abandon me today of all days.” He smiled at her. She was such a beautiful woman, and not just because of her face.

“Today of all days?” Lizzy repeated.

“Caroline has a megrim. A rather bad migraine from the sound of it,” Bingley said in explanation.

“Does she?” Jane said at once. “I am a poor guest indeed! I had not even inquired about her. I hope her illness will not be of long duration.”

“She will rest soon enough, but I doubt you will see her today. You may not see Louisa either, for she is not fond of serving as hostess.” Bingley leaned closer to Jane. “If you leave just now, I shall have to follow you to Longbourn. The house will feel too empty without you.”

Bingley heard Darcy murmur something he could not make out. He glanced at his friend and saw him struggling to keep his remarks to himself. Then he happened to notice Lizzy's face. He almost laughed at the similarity of her expression to Darcy's. His angel, in contrast, looked upon him with the sweetest compassion.

“I suppose,” Jane said hesitantly, “it would be courteous to stay until I can take leave of my hostess properly and assure myself of her good health.”

“Mr. Bingley, I congratulate you,” said Lizzy, pulling his attention from her sister. “Jane is always firm where she knows herself to be right, and she considered it right to depart Netherfield now that she is well. Yet you have her grasping at excuses to stay.” Lizzy smiled a delightful smile. “Even I cannot convince her to change her mind once she has made it up. I would ask you what your secret is, but I suspect it would not do me any good.”

“Lizzy!” said an adorably mortified Jane. Bingley knew Jane was kind enough to genuinely care about Caroline, but Lizzy knew that as well, and Lizzy had implied there was more to Jane's feelings than kindness. So she liked him that much, eh? Perhaps by the end of the day, with no Caroline and Louisa in company to distract and disparage her or to contradict and cajole him, Jane would like him even more. Carefree by nature, Charles Bingley, in an uncharacteristic move, began to make plans in earnest.

---

Next

Miss Bingley's Megrim, Part 2

~ Louisa ~

Louisa Hurst sat on her bed in her dressing gown and frowned. She could hear the telltale sound, even with the door closed. Caroline always thought she was such a delicate flower of a woman, who never did such things as snore (she did), chew loudly (eating salad with her was not the most pleasant of auditory experiences), or throw the occasional tantrum (she would never admit her 'utterly justified complaints' were delivered in the same tone her spoilt three-year-old self had used when thwarted).

The low, mournful utterance Louisa now heard usually heralded a thoroughly tedious day. Caroline would have the maids and footmen running to and fro, she would be in no fit state for a good gossip, and that dreadful noise would continue throughout it all until her sister could manage to sleep.

All the same, how timely this illness was for Caroline, as it let her out of her hostess duties. Well! If Caroline would not entertain the Bennet girls today, neither would she.

“Are you going down?” asked Hurst from the connecting door.

“Be quiet!” Louisa hissed at him. “Do not you hear? Caroline has a megrim.”

“Bother!” said Hurst quietly. Then he approached the bed with a smirk. “On second thought, stay where you are. I shall join you. We might as well add our own moans, and to better purpose.” He began to disrobe. “We can ring for a tray in an hour.”

Hurst was tolerable. He was no Delicious Darcy, that was certain. Now, that man...! If Caroline ever did succeed in getting him to propose, which seemed less and less likely, Louisa did not know what she would do. She was not sure she could truly look upon him as a brother. Speaking of brothers, Miss Grantley's brother was a specimen of masculine beauty one did not come across every day! Her poor Hurst could not compare.

But that smirk on her husband's face had turned into an alluring smile. His eagerness to be with her was appealing, she had to admit. Spending the morning in the arms of an enthusiastic lover and enjoying breakfast in bed afterwards sounded superior to having to guard her tongue and watch her sister's interests in the presence of Charles, Darcy, and the Bennet ladies.

She removed her dressing gown and slid over to make room for her husband.

---

Next

Miss Bingley's Megrim

---

(2023)
Pride and Prejudice
During Jane Bennet's stay at Netherfield, Caroline Bingley awakens with a migraine and remains in her room for the day.

---

~ Caroline ~

Miss Caroline Bingley awoke in a most disagreeable state.

The insistent discomfort she felt must have drawn her out of her slumber. She opened her eyes a tiny bit and closed them again at once, moaning in pain. Keeping her eyelids down, she slowly turned her head from side to side. The way she felt immediately afterwards did not reassure her. She marshalled her strength and raised herself up on her elbows until the throbbing in her head was too strong for her to continue the effort. She slowly lowered herself back onto her pillow in consternation.

There was no doubt. Miss Bingley had a megrim.

Caroline had suffered migraines for several years. Many months would pass between episodes, so many that she was able to forget her susceptibility to them. She was rarely ever ill othewise.

What had she done to bring about this one? She recalled the evening before. Her attempts to gain Mr. Darcy's attention had been futile until she had the brilliant idea to use her rival's presence to her advantage. To her great satisfaction, she had drawn a compliment from Mr. Darcy, and in light of that, she could overlook the fact that the same compliment was paid to Eliza Bennet. Then everything fell apart, or fell back into its usual place, with Mr. Darcy and Eliza Bennet in conversation while she looked on, baffled once again at how quickly she had lost control of the exchange.

Playing the pianoforte had been a challenge. The urge to ball her hands into fists had nearly caused her to miss a note more than once. She played on, however, until the others were ready to retire. By the time she finished a second song, Hurst had awakened. He had been the first to leave. The others soon followed until she was alone in the room.

Caroline had been about to leave when she saw the decanter. Hurst had not emptied it for a change. She knew she ought not to indulge, but she was so angry! She poured herself one drink and then another. Perhaps she had had a third; she could not now remember.

And as a result, she had this blasted megrim.

If it were just any other day in the middle of November, she would have thought nothing of remaining in bed for the duration. It was not, however, any other day. It was a day in which Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy was under her roof, and so, unfortunately, were Miss Jane Bennet and Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

Jane, with her beauty and sweet disposition, was entirely too tempting to Charles. Her brother would not need an excuse to spend the day in her company and imagine himself more in love than ever. Caroline had been the one to moderate the growing intimacy between her brother and new friend: interrupting a tête-à-tête at the right moment; encouraging Charles to spend time with the other gentlemen in pursuits that did not include the ladies; mentioning discouraging details about Jane's situation and connections. Louisa would support her, but Louisa could not be relied on to take the lead in preventing such an unsuitable match.

Yes, Charles was a lost cause, at least for today.

So was her pursuit of Mr. Darcy.

Her one consolation was that Eliza Bennet had argued with Mr. Darcy again last night. The gentleman would soon tire of the lady's antagonism. To declare the man hated everybody! How ridiculous!

Well, to be fair to Eliza, Mr. Darcy did seem to hate quite a lot of people, or at least to tolerate them ill. If only he would love certain people, namely herself, she would not care whom he hated.

Thinking about Mr. Darcy only made her head hurt more. Fortunately, at that moment, her maid entered the room, took one look at her, and murmured that she would see that her mistress was not disturbed by the residents of the house and that the corridor was kept quiet.

After making certain her mistress was as comfortable as possible in the circumstances, the maid drew the curtains, built up the fire, and left Miss Bingley to the darkened room and the pounding in her head.

---

Next

Dancing Lessons, Part 5

~ Unreserved ~

“May I be frank?”

Darcy was astonished but pleased by the question Miss Lucas asked him. It was exactly what he had been on the point of asking her. “Please do.” he said, as he thought this evening could hardly become any more singular.

“What specifically do you wish to know about Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”

Darcy thought back over the last few minutes of the dance and wondered whether his attention had drifted to Elizabeth so completely as it had when he sat with Miss Mary. It probably had. “Has my interest been so obvious?”

“I would have noticed because she is my friend, but think about it. A young, eligible man, a stranger to Meryton society, walks into the assembly rooms of our humble town. He is clearly above us all in station. We can see it, and we know he agrees, for he seems disinclined to talk to anyone outside his party.”

The dance separated them for a moment, and then Miss Lucas continued. “Then his friend procures him an introduction to a local lady, and he asks her to dance not once, but twice.”

Darcy winced. Of course people would notice. That was why he never asked a lady to dance more than one set on any occasion—never until Elizabeth Bennet.

“Furthermore, when the gentleman sits out one set,” said Miss Lucas, “his eyes follow his erstwhile partner. When they both sit out,”—and here she looked distinctly amused—“his entire body follows her.”

Darcy could hardly deny it, and he was tempted to laugh. He had made a spectacle of himself. “And when he dances with her kind and accommodating friend,” he said apologetically, “his eyes once again stray to her.”

Miss Lucas smiled. “What can I tell you about Eliza?”

They had a refreshing conversation. Miss Lucas was good company. He wondered how long she had been out. She seemed closer to his age than to Elizabeth's. Perhaps he would return her kindness by encouraging Elizabeth to invite her to town and to Pemberley often, where she might meet more eligible gentlemen than were likely to venture through Meryton.

He was indulging in a flight of fancy, being presumptuous even, but he really was beginning to see it all now, or enough of it to move forward with purpose. He would be consistent and bold. Who was to gainsay him after all? He was used to being called stubborn and even arrogant. He would be intrepid, and he would be happy.

Darcy maintained his intrepidity, which was needed in ways he had not anticipated. It took several visits to Longbourn before he was comfortable with, or at least inured to, Mr. Bennet's sarcastic commentary. The sheer volume of silly exclamations that came from Miss Lydia, Miss Kitty, and Mrs. Bennet in the course of a day confounded him. The Phillipses could be a trial, especially when the wife was overfull of gossip. Mrs. Bennet loved to entertain, so his social powers were often stretched to their limits.

Wickham made a surprise appearance one November day on the high street in Meryton. Darcy heard that he was to join the militia, but he was delighted when the man developed a sudden aversion to the idea and fairly fled back to London.

Bingley was delighted with Darcy's altered manners. When he could be bothered to pay attention to someone other than Miss Jane Bennet, he laughed good-naturedly at his friend and pressed him even more frequently to join in the society of the neighbourhood.

Miss Bingley alternated between obsequious importunity and resentful silence.

Elizabeth daunted him the most. She had her own mind to make up about their future, and he could not rush her. Simply accepting that he had determined to pursue her was insufficient. She possessed a will of her own and thus had to determine to be caught.

Significant progress was made towards that end one afternoon at Longbourn. Darcy complimented Elizabeth on her looks—she was in excellent looks that day—as they sat near the pianoforte. She deflected the remark in her teasing way, except her reply was a little more flippant than usual, as if she were determined to avoid talk of all things romantic. The only other person in the room was Mary, who had been working on a new piece of music Georgiana had recommended to her. Mary stopped playing and stared at her sister. Darcy looked between the two ladies for a moment, and when the tension did not resolve, he excused himself.

As he left the room, he heard Mary mumble not quite under her breath, “Lizzy, I never imagined I would say such a thing to you, but I think you are a ninny for making that good man wait so long.”

Darcy smiled at Mary's defence of him, but he could not be easy. He did not know how Elizabeth would react. That question was answered in half a minute when her hand slipped into his and she tugged him along to someplace that afforded them more privacy than the hall.

“What is it you would have said of me that first night?”

“What do you mean?” Darcy wondered.

“At the assembly,” Elizabeth clarified, “before we had even been introduced.”

Oh. That was what she meant. He shut his mouth, realising belatedly that he had gaped at her. “I do not want to think of what I would have said then,” he admitted. Of course it was too late. He certainly was thinking of it and regretting it anew.

“But you will be so good as to tell me,” she insisted.

“It was not true, Elizabeth. I discovered that after mere minutes in your company.”

“Fitzwilliam, what was it?”

She had never called him that before. He understood now that she would have him, however unpleasant his revelation proved to be.

He was ashamed of what he had almost spoken aloud that night, but he held tightly to her hand and his courage and looked into her eyes. “I would have said something of this nature to Bingley: 'She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me, and I am in no humour to give consequence to ladies who are slighted by other men.' Horrible, is it not? And just as false.” He touched her face and caressed it, as if by so doing he could smooth away any vexation. He hoped his words would do the job better. “I saw, as you walked towards me with Bingley and your sister, that you moved gracefully and had a lovely figure. I had ample opportunity during our first dance to appreciate your features, your cleverness, and even your generosity, and you showed the prettiest look of astonishment on your face when I asked you to dance a second time. Besides that, it did not take me long to realise that the other men were engaged in dancing, and I myself had been the idiot slighting you.”

That made her smile.

“Do you want to know,” Darcy continued, “what else I would have said? Before we danced again, you asked me what I was thinking of, but I refused to answer. I have told you the one, so I ought to tell you the other.”

“Shall I like to hear it?” Elizabeth asked him with a softness that drew him closer.

“I hope you shall,” he said. The words came effortlessly as he considered how much she meant to him and how quickly she had come to mean so much. “I thought I should not mind repeating that dance over and over just for the pleasure of holding your hand.” He raised her hand and kissed it. “And now, dearest, I tell you that I would confess a hundred embarrassing wrongs and a hundred fanciful notions if you wish it. Just tell me you will grant me your hand for more than a dance.”

That evening Darcy left Longbourn very late and most happily engaged to Elizabeth Bennet. While there, he had been all smiles, exhilarated by the taste of success and the sweetness of his lady's kisses. He had even agreed to dance a reel when Lydia prevailed upon Mary to play one in celebration of the good news.

In future years, Darcy's friends were diverted by the ease with which Mrs. Darcy—with just a word, a look, or even, on occasion, a laugh—could tempt her husband to dance.

---

Dancing Lessons, Part 4

~ Insupportable ~

Miss Bingley was not slow in joining Darcy once he was free. This time, he did nothing to avoid her, for he suspected what she would be about—aside from hinting futilely at a request for another set.

“I have been inquiring into the situation of these Bennets,” she said.

He had been correct. She was an inveterate gossip, and she habitually collected unflattering intelligence regarding those she considered rivals. He would not even need to speak. She would require no prompting or response from him.

He learned that the Bennets were some of the principal residents of the area, and Longbourn, an estate generating perhaps two thouasnd a year, was their home. There was no son. Longbourn was entailed, and the mother constantly strove to marry off her five daughters.

Ah. That answered the question of why so many of them were out at once.

There was nothing to speak of in the way of dowries, which was unfortunate if unsurpising with an entailed estate. Still, he thought Mr. Bennet might have made an effort. Five daughters! He might have done it in stages, bringing out one or two of the girls at a time as money for their dowries accumulated, and as they were married, applying the small savings in household costs to the portions of the others.

There he was again, scheming to solve someone else's problem. He had enough of his own problems to solve, including this new one he had created for himself. He directed his attention back to Miss Bingley, who had proceeded to denigrate the Bennet ladies' looks in comparison with those of her friends in town. No wonder he had become distracted.

When Miss Bingley took a breath, he posed a question: “From whom were you able to gain so much knowledge of your new neighbours in such a short time?”

“Ah, Mr. Darcy, that is the best part!” She moved a bit closer, and he took a small step away once she resumed speaking. “Their aunt, sister of Mrs. Bennet, is the wife of the local attorney, who took over the business from her father. So Mrs. Bennet's father was in trade! The aunt—Mrs. Philips or Phipps or something—made an impertinent comment about you and the Miss Bennet you were dancing with, and she must have taken my appalled reaction for interest, for she rambed on without even waiting for an introduction, though of course she recognised me as one of Charles's sisters. How could she not? She even had the temerity to suggest I might encourage my brother towards the eldest Miss Bennet! As if I would! Oh!—there she is, waving at me as if we had not just met. Intolerable!”

Darcy did see, and he agreed. There was not much to work with: a precarious position in society, relations in trade—vulgar, forward ones at that—and no dowries. If Mr. Bennet had notable connections, they probably cut him when he married low. Perhaps there had been none high enough to object to his marriage to Mrs. Bennet. The poor girls! There must have been other relations or intimate friends of good character, if not good situation, with whom they spent time, for the manners of the two eldest were flawless, and Miss Mary's, if awkward, were endearing. True, Elizabeth had laughed at him, but that was no more than he had deserved.

How would his family support such a match?

Georgiana would not mind it. A girl who had been persuaded to consent to elope with a steward's son could hardly disapprove of his marriage to a gentleman's daughter. Surely not. The thought did make him wonder just how much, when the scheme was revealed to him, he had dwelt on Wickham's position as opposed to his perfidy. He hoped he had put more emphasis on the latter, but he would have to write to Georgiana and make the point clear. If only! If only....Those were useless words. That wretch had been given so much by the Darcys, and it had all been less than useless.

Wickham had taken up far too much of his time and thoughts of late. Darcy decided to put aside such musings and look about him, which was a good thing because Miss Bingley had moved closer again. He wearied of this game of inching round a ballroom or drawing room, but he would do what he must.

As Miss Bingley went on and on about what she did not like, Darcy thought about how often he had done the same. He had gone on in that manner with Bingley, listing all the reasons he had been dissatisfied with the assembly. It was sad, really. He did the same in town, complaining or agreeing with the complainers rather than excusing himself or finding some way to salvage the evening.

His departure from his usual behaviour, unwilling though it was at first, was proving its merit. It was refreshing to have something at a ball to challenge his mind rather than dull it. He would rise to the challenge. He intended to do this right; just because the act itself could be deemed irrational did not mean it had to be accomplished in an irrational manner. He would learn as much as he could about the Bennets in general and Miss Elizabeth in particular.

As had been the case in the company of Miss Mary, once again Darcy's eyes were drawn away from his companion and towards Miss Elizabeth. She was not dancing this time. She stood with a friend, a good one, if her manner was any indication. He believed the lady to be the eldest daughter of Sir William Lucas. Perhaps the friend would be another helpful source of information. Darcy began to move carefully in that direction whenever Miss Bingley sought to close the distance between them. It was much better to have a destination in view than only the goal of avoiding terraces, alcoves, gossips, Miss Bingley, and worse fortune hunters than Miss Bingley.

After some minutes, he was close enough to Miss Elizabeth to overhear bits of her converesation. Miss Bingley, having seen what he was about, had been frowning her disapproval and speaking only sporadically ever since, though she had kept pace with him. It was rather pitiful to have the lady trailing him like a puppy. He glanced at her and saw desperation along with determination in her eyes. He should have expected it. She probably feared he would petition Miss Elizabeth a third time. Did she think by standing nearby, she would prevent it? To be fair, he had considered the bold move simply to have at least four dances with Miss Elizabeth instead of three. That would be ill advised, however. Miss Elizabeth would refuse a third set, as any well-bred lady must, and for her pains she would have to refrain from dancing for the rest of the evening.

He did mean to dance once more tonight, however, and after a wistful look at the object of his interest, he turned his attention to her friend.

---

Next

Dancing Lessons, Part 3

~ The Boulanger ~

When the Boulanger was called, Darcy despaired. He would barely have five seconds together to speak to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. The good thing was that he would have little opportunity to speak with anyone else either. He decided perhaps it was for the best. He had not selected a topic of conversation, and knowing himself, he would end up staring at the lady until she broke the silence and left him tongue-tied again.

Some of the couples stood about talking while others gathered in their places. Darcy likewise gathered his thoughts into their proper place, or he tried to for about three seconds. As the fourth second ticked into oblivion, he found his efforts arrested by the inquiring look in his partner's eyes.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet, continuing to study him, said, “You look as if there is something particular you wish to say. Will you not share it?”

“I do not know if I ought.” Actually, he knew he ought not. Just as he ought not to have considered saying earlier that she was tolerable but not handsome enough to tempt him to stand up with her, he ought not to say now that he would dance this infernal Boulanger twice more simply for the pleasure of holding her hand. He had begun to anticipate returning to her side and watching her return to his, as if she belonged to him, as if she could not stay away, as if no other partner would do. He was being fanciful, he knew, but he could not help it.

Dancing was a commitment of but half an hour or less. He knew this, and he had been glad of it on innumerable occasions in London ballrooms. Rare and brief had been those instances when he had wished to extend time spent with one of his partners. Even rarer were times when he had wished particularly for more conversation from one of them.

He did not know precisely what he wished for at the present moment.

He only knew that he had found it.

It made no sense. This was only one evening out of his entire life. He could go back to Netherfield with his party and forget it had ever happened, or mostly forget. Henceforth he could greet Miss Elizabeth Bennet and her sisters as he would any new, inconsequential acquaintances, perhaps reserving for them a measure of warmth for their part in making his first foray into Meryton society so enjoyable. He could remain in the country several weeks, repelling Miss Bingley's tedious but predictable attentions, and then scour the London ballrooms and drawing rooms for a potential bride that would not raise an eyebrow amongst his relations and friends, a bride whose existence would banish all thought of this night to some dark recess of his memory.

He was fairly certain he could. But would he?

He had tried seeking a bride in the usual manner, and invariably he had been rewarded with ennui and vexation. He had tried not seeking a bride, and the reward for that had been increased badgering from Lady Catherine to marry Anne. He had tried waiting for Georgiana to grow up, only to stumble upon his young sister's plan to marry before him, quite disastrously and without his consent.

He could hardly do worse by trying to befriend and then woo an unpretentious young lady he happened to meet in the otherwise uninteresting assembly rooms of an unremarkable market town.

For, remarkably, it was here that he had enjoyed the most comfortable conversation he could recall having had in a ballroom, with a woman who had no designs upon him whatsoever. Here too was a modest, amiable, decorous woman admired by his friend, and likely beautiful enough to put thoughts of all other women out of Bingley's head for good. And here was the central and yet most tenuous element of the business: his intriguing, puzzling partner with the compelling eyes, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

Darcy thought of these things while he waited for the dance to begin and while he pranced this way and that and watched Miss Elizabeth do the same. Then it was their turn, and he found that he had been right. It was heady being paired with Elizabeth, and he thought not only could he become accustomed to it, he very well might wish to.

He knew so little of her, but he could not deny that he wanted to know more. He was heartened by the certainty that her character had attracted him and drawn his attention to her beauty rather than the reverse. That was better than feeling obligated because of a woman's looks or pedigree or dowry to find something to like and then failing utterly, coming away from the encounter disappointed and cross.

He felt more than a little reckless to be entertaining a notion so at odds with what was expected of him. It was liberating.

Was this how Georgiana felt when she agreed to run off with that fiend? He could sympathise with the desire for freedom from societal expectations, or even the need to have the whole matter over and done with. He felt a familiar surge of anger and annoyance. If Wickham had been a good sort of man...but it was of no use wishing for the impossible.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Miss Elizabeth staring at him, and he could feel his Wickham-inspired bad humour dissipating as quickly as it arose. It left him entirely the next moment when the young lady approaching them called out a silly remark to “Lizzy,” who looked decidedly embarrassed. The girl, for he could see up close that she was but a girl, bore some resemblance to Miss Elizabeth and Miss Bennet, though she was not as pretty as either. He even found a trace of likeness to Miss Mary. If she was yet another of the Bennet sisters, there certainly were several out at once!

Silently he enquired of Miss Elizabeth with a raised brow and a glance at the girl, and the silent sigh that was her answer convinced him his conclusion was correct. He gave Miss Elizabeth a sympathetic smile. After the events of the summer, he knew all too well how trying younger sisters could be. When Miss Elizabeth's eyes showed surprise rather than comfort or gratitude in response to his gesture, Darcy realised he also had caught her hand before it was necessary and intertwined his fingers with hers. He did not let go until the dance required it. At the conclusion of the dance and throughout the next, he was loath to let go of Miss Elizabeth's hand at all, and he knew then that he had fully given in to the madness of this inexplicable and rapid attachment to Elizabeth Bennet and her sisters.

---

Next

Dancing Lessons, Part 2

~ To Sit Down for Two Dances ~

Darcy was presented to Miss Mary Bennet, Miss Elizabeth's younger sister. Bingley joined them briefly to claim his partner for the next, and Darcy was left alone with Miss Mary.

Darcy complied with what he assumed was expected of him and asked this Miss Bennet to dance. He did not want to lose any ground he had gained with her elder sister or set himself up to be chastised again.

He was surprised to see that the young lady was more flustered than gratified by the request. “Oh,” she said, “I would prefer not to, but th...thank—” She looked straight at him and swallowed noticeably. “Thank you for asking.”

Feeling nonplussed by the rejection despite not having wished to dance either, Darcy took the seat next to Miss Mary.

The two looked awkwardly at each other for a moment, and then Miss Mary burst into speech. “I am not fond of dancing,” she said. “It is not that I cannot dance. It is the talking. Unlike my sisters, I am not good at making conversation while I dance.”

Darcy began to feel sympathy for this rather plain gentleman's daughter of no particular note. He would have called her absolutely plain if the vulnerability in her eyes had not softened her expression. Her lack of beauty had at least as much to do with the severity of her countenance as with her features.

Though he had little imagined they could have much in common, her words resonated with him. He watched her, her head down, her fingers drumming on her lap in time with the music, as if she were playing the tune on a pianoforte. He had to chuckle at where his thoughts led.

Miss Mary heard him and looked up.

Eager to reassure her that he was not making sport of her, he explained, “My sister does that,” and he pointed to her hand and mimicked her movements. “Do you play an instrument?”

“Yes.” Her face lit up, and all severity faded.

He could not help his answering smile. “I was just thinking it is curious that you should be Miss Elizabeth Bennet's sister when from your description, in character, you could very well be mine. My sister is very musical. She spends hours at the pianoforte. She is only fifteen and not out, so I cannot speak to her ability to converse while dancing. She is shy, however, and I cannot imagine she would feel comfortable doing so. I am not shy, but neither am I good at catching the tone of others' conversations. Your sister is quite adept at it.”

He turned to look for Miss Elizabeth among the couples and saw her smiling and talking with Bingley. He wondered if he would be able to draw a smile like that from her when his turn came. He wondered what they would talk of, whether her eyes would look kindly upon him, what it was exactly about her that appealed to him and inspired him to do uncharacteristic things such as solicit a second set from a lady, and how he could get to know her better without raising expectations. Then he wondered why the thought of raising expectations, just a little, suddenly seemed tempting.

He was determined, in any case, not to let her best him. If she drew forth that weapon again, he would meet it with his own. This time, he would leave her to stammer and stumble over her words if he could.

Then again, it might be more satisfying to establish some measure of goodwill between them. He found he did not wish to think of her always in opposition to himself, always defending herself from him. He wanted more than that.

What did it mean that he was thinking so much about a young lady, not quite of his sphere and not extraordinary in any obvious way, of whose existence he had been unaware as early as a few hours ago?

Minutes passed before Darcy realised he was completely ignoring his companion. He was made aware of the fact by Miss Mary's solicitude.

“Mr. Darcy,” she inquired, “did Lizzy say or do something to make you uncomfortable?”

'She is Lizzy to her family,' was his first thought. His second thought was that he had yet to reply to Miss Mary's question. “What makes you think that?” he said.

“You have been watching her for the last three minutes, but you do not look pleased. That is, unless it is your friend who has displeased you?”

If she knew that, then she had been staring at him for the last three minutes, and he had not paid the slightest notice. He turned away, reluctantly, from the dancing couples. “No, you are right,” he conceded. “Your sister did not upset me, as such, but what she said has made me reconsider my opinion.” That it was his opinion of Miss Elizabeth herself, along with some long-held and rarely challenged views about his future life, he did not say. “I apologise for my inattention.”

She looked earnest as she spoke. “I am not offended that your attention was engaged elsewhere. You asked me to dance, which is more than other gentlemen have done.”

Darcy concluded some of Miss Mary Bennet's disinclination for the activity might have developed as a response to her neighbours' neglect.

Darcy glanced again at the couples, but since he could not hear what Miss Elizabeth was saying to Bingley, he was unlikely to learn much more about her by watching her dance. “Would you like to talk of books, Miss Bennet?” he asked Miss Mary. They spoke in fits and starts, and after a few minutes the discussion flowed in a satisfactory manner. At first the lady was more eager to quote others' ideas than share her own. Darcy, as a much older brother—almost a father figure—to Georgiana, had no little experience in drawing out a young girl's thoughts, and he managed well enough with this new acquaintance.

Darcy was almost disappointed when the music ceased. This was how he would much prefer to spend his time in a ballroom, speaking of interesting subjects rather than the banal nothings or distasteful gossip his partners tended to introduce. Of further satisfaction was the fact that not one of the Bennet ladies had put herself forward. Miss Mary forgave his preoccupation with her sister. Miss Elizabeth, without the least concern for his good opinion, nearly delivered a set-down, and only after she was prompted—doing him a service, actually, by preventing him from causing offence where none was justified. Even the eldest Miss Bennet, who must be aware that her beauty eclipsed that of every other lady present, had been no more than friendly towards him; she had not sought his attentions, though she must have heard that his fortune was more than twice that of his friend.

People were moving about, and he saw one of the matrons coming towards them. “I am to dance the next with your sister,” he told Miss Mary. “Perhaps we shall speak again this evening, but if not, I thank you for the pleasant conversation and company.”

She blushed. “Thank you, sir.”

He had taken only a few steps when he heard someone address Miss Mary Bennet familiarly and scold her for “plaguing the gentleman with tiresome talk” and “keeping him from dancing,” or some such silliness. Was it the mother? He had forgotten about her. Alas, she was a fly in the ointment. He stopped and considered turning back to correct the woman, but he did not wish to embarrass her daughter by confirming in her mother's presence that he had overheard the mortifying exchange.

In his moment of hesitation, he was waylaid by Miss Bingley.

“There you are!” she said, taking his arm and moving them along. She leaned in and lowered her voice in that way she had, affecting a deeper intimacy between them than there was, or ever would be, for that matter. “Charles has found the prettiest girl as usual and danced twice with her. Miss Bennet is pleasant by all accounts, but I hope she does not think his singling her out at a country assembly means anything.”

“Pardon me,” Darcy said, disengaging himself, “but I must find my partner.”

“Your partner? Are you to dance with my sister again? No, Louisa would have mentioned it. Do not tell me you mean to stand up with another of the local young ladies!”

“Then I shan't tell you,” he said with a solemn look, and he left her to find Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

---

Next

Dancing Lessons, Part 1

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(2023)
Pride and Prejudice
Mr. Darcy is introduced to Miss Elizabeth Bennet at the Meryton Assembly and is surprised to learn that she suits his fancy after all.

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~ No Very Cordial Feelings ~

Fitzwilliam Darcy stood in one of the corners of the assembly room in Meryton and stared straight ahead at the approaching trio. He struggled to comprehend how things had so quickly gotten out of hand. One moment he had been rebuffing Charles Bingley's attempts to get him to join the dancing; the next, all his efforts had proved to be for naught.

Darcy had turned away from the lady Bingley suggested as a prospective dancing partner only to see his friend rush back to his own smiling companion, who was the lady's sister. Bingley must have taken Darcy's distracted silence for permission to make the introductions. Such presumption! Though to be fair, it may have been mere precipitance, for Bingley, always cheerful, disliked anything resembling an argument and sought to curtail it as quickly as possible. Furthermore, instead of attempting to coax Darcy into seeking out the ladies, Bingley had decided to bring the ladies to him. As they were all within sight of each other now, Darcy could hardly run away without appearing ridiculous, and he did not know whether to admire or curse his friend's perspicacity.

It had been the fault of the shorter lady of the two that Bingley now escorted. Well, fault was not quite the appropriate word, but it had been her doing. Her gaze had distracted him, and her behaviour had piqued his curiosity. Her figure had his attention now. It was light and rather pleasing, something he had not noticed before. When Bingley pointed her out where she sat, Darcy caught her eye and was just about to withdraw his own and state the extent of his disinterest when the lady's expression halted him. She raised her eyebrow and then, to his shock, she turned away from him. He saw the quirk of her lips before she covered her mouth with her hand.

The shaking of her shoulders could not be so easily disguised.

She had laughed at him. At him! It was not as if she had intended to cut him. It was somehow worse. That unknown woman, that country girl of no consequence, had dared to make him an object of ridicule!

The group was presently before him. Between Bingley and the eldest Miss Bennet, the introductions were made. As the second dance of the set began, Darcy found himself doing what he had just declared he would not: submitting to the punishment of standing up with a stranger.

At first, Darcy determined to remain silent throughout their dance. He owed this Miss Elizabeth Bennet no more than the barest civility.

The knowing almost-smirk of a smile that appeared on his partner's lips when they faced each other in the dance shattered his resolve.

“May I inquire as to the source of your amusement, Miss Bennet?” he asked when he could no longer suppress his curiosity.

“You may.”

He waited, but she only smiled more. She looked intelligent enough. Surely she could not have misunderstood him.

“Miss Bennet?” he asked again, irritation mounting.

“I did not say I would answer your question.” There was some movement of her shoulders that was not strictly required to execute the dance steps.

Darcy started to speak and, to his mortification, found himself stammering for an instant. Stammering! This Bennet woman was laughing at him again, albeit silently. He watched her move gracefully through the steps. In a moment she faced him, and he saw that she had schooled her features into a calm expression, though humour sparkled in her eyes. He glared, and she appeared to soften. “Oh, very well!” she said. “You may regret having inquired. I trust you will not hold the answer against me.”

He would make no promises to Miss Impertinence. “You will have to take that chance.”

“Will I? Then I shall. My courage rises at every attempt to intimidate me.”

She hesitated again. Just when Darcy was ready to remonstrate with her for sporting with his impatience, she told him. “You, sir. You are the source of my amusement. And your friend, of course.”

Well, that was frank. He must have looked as scandalised as he felt, because she laughed aloud. “It is nothing dreadful,” she assured him. “Listening to you and Mr. Bingley reminded me of Jane and myself.”

He had not expected that. He had not even realised she had heard him, but then he had taken no pains to be discreet. He did not have long to think on the matter. Miss Bennet elaborated quickly while the demands of the dance allowed for it.

“Jane, to whom you were just introduced, is very like your friend appears to be: generally happy and generally wanting others to be happy as well. She is relentlessly optimistic and determined to present every circumstance in the best light. I cannot count the times she has pressed me to adopt her kinder view of an acquaintance or give way on a trifling matter for the sake of family harmony. She herself requires no one to scold her into harmony; she is always at peace with everybody.”

Darcy could see how that might make her smile, but he did not understand why she laughed as she had. “This you found particularly amusing?” he asked.

“It was not just that. What I found especially entertaining was the look on your face as Mr. Bingley left your side. When Jane provokes me—or, rather, sweetly importunes me—beyond bearing, I am tempted to say something shocking to put an end to it. You certainly seemed on the point of saying something shocking and possibly unpleasant, based on your previous remarks.”

“And you turned away,” he said, remembering the moment.

“I thought it best not to give you an audience.”

He had been about to say something shocking and unpleasant, he admitted to himself. She would have heard his unflattering words, too, whether she had been looking at him or not. From the way she looked at him now, she was quite aware of that fact.

An audience, she had said? He believed a more accurate way of putting things was that she had thought it best not to provide him with a willing target.

How reasonable of her.

Darcy might have stopped where he stood and disrupted the figures had not his natural sense of rhythm and his penchant for order prevented it. He believed he had just been taken to task for ungentlemanly behaviour—during a dance, of all things! He concentrated so as not to allow his feelings to affect either his expression or his movements.

What was it about these Bennet women? The elder was apparently too sweet to offend; he could well believe it from the lady's continual smiles and pleasant manner. The younger was not what he would call sweet exactly, or rather her sweetness had an edge. There was a sharp weapon, currently sheathed, in that speech of hers. She had exposed it briefly and let him feel the tip of it long enough for him to know that she would wield it expertly if necessary.

Their conversation was not resumed during the dance, though his partner spoke a few cheerful words now and then to others near her. Darcy thought about what he should do, if anything. Would it be appropriate to apologise for a comment he had not actually uttered? Nonsense! Should he beg pardon for his initial reluctance to ask Miss Elizabeth Bennet to dance, considering that he had indeed asked her? Preposterous.

Concluding that he owed the lady no apology, he began to study her. He would have called her tolerable at best—that is, until he observed her displayed to advantage as she moved about, until he saw that lovely expression in her dark eyes, until he heard her cleverly address and dispense with the initial awkwardness between them. He had thought her not much worth dancing with because she had been passed over by those who knew her. That was before he had looked about him and noticed how few gentlemen were present compared to ladies. Her sitting out a dance was due to mathematics and nothing more. She was an ideal partner, really: proficient; decorous in manner; able to ease into the conversations about her with well-placed words; and not prone to flirting, at far as he could see, which he greatly appreciated.

She was certainly more than tolerable to him now.

The dance came to an end, and Darcy was surprised to discover he was sorry for it. He had not finished studying this new acquaintance. He could see Miss Bingley looking about, and he did not want her chatter to disrupt his contemplation. Besides, she often hinted at the desire for a second pair of dances, no matter how consistently he ignored such hints.

“Would you like something to drink?” Darcy asked.

“No, thank you,” his partner replied, “but do not let me stop you if that is your desire.”

Darcy felt dissatisfaction at the idea of their interaction ending there. Before he could reason himself out of it, he asked, “Do you have another set free, Miss Bennet?” He checked his smile at the look of astonishment on her face. He could see very well now why Bingley had called her pretty.

“Mr. Bingley asked me for the next set, but the one after that is free.”

“May I have it?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” he said in a most gentlemanly manner.

He wondered aloud what he would do in the meantime, and she must have heard him, for she looked about for a moment and then suggested, “May I introduce you to another of my sisters?”

“Certainly.” What harm could it do?

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Next