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Darcy looked away from Elizabeth’s gaze a moment after it caught his own. Seeing her with Greymore had been a trial. Watching her with his cousins was torture.
At his side, Lady Cressida spoke sweetly. She was a talented and clever conversationalist. Well-versed in art, history, science, and current events, no subject seemed beyond her.
But he could not help noticing she was something of a dilettante, with no real depth of understanding. Which could not be helped, really, as she was only seventeen. In another five or ten years, she would be brilliant.
As much as he enjoyed speaking with Cressida, his gaze kept wandering to Elizabeth. Why had he not asked her for the supper dance? He had let those puppies at the club discourage him. Yet he did not care what they thought. He cared only for her reputation.
Perhaps, in his desire to protect her, he had been overly scrupulous. Surely one dance could not hurt. He had been avoiding her all evening. It was not only rude—it was unkind.
“Mr. Darcy.” Lady Cressida recaptured his attention from the pair of fine dark eyes across the room. “I understand your cousin Mr. Joshua Fitzwilliam is writing a book of sermons.”
Darcy blinked a moment, regaining his bearings. This lovely girl had a dozen suitors trailing wherever she went. He had engaged her companionship, and now he was neglecting her. He must do better. In answer to her question, he said, “He is.”
“Does he subscribe to a particular moral philosophy? That is, beyond the usual teachings of the Church?”
Darcy refilled her wine, and his own. “He believes that the best way to lead a moral life is to find a pursuit that brings happiness and contentment. In that way one can avoid the temptations of idle pleasure.”
She picked up her glass and took a delicate sip. “He is not what I would call a studious type.”
“No indeed. No one likes to laugh more than Josh.”
Cressida’s eyes turned from Darcy to Josh, and back to Darcy again. “I see he is keeping Miss Elizabeth Bennet entertained.”
Darcy’s face heated. Earlier in the evening, he could have warned his cousin away from Elizabeth. Josh had provided the perfect opportunity. Instead, Darcy had called her a dear friend. What a dunce he was!
He thought Cressida’s lips curved up slightly before she spoke. “She and your cousin seem compatible. Do you think they are a match in the making?”
“Certainly not,” he said, then realized he had spoken more emphatically than he ought. He did not offer an explanation, as he had none, other than his own preference for Miss Bennet. Fortunately, Lady Cressida did not ask.
Instead, she continued, “Mr. Joshua Fitzwilliam is an eligible man. Do you believe him opposed to matrimony at this particular time of life? I would think a clergyman would want to marry as soon as possible, to set an example for his flock.”
Darcy looked into her beautiful green eyes. She was not speaking idly. Was she trying to arouse some jealousy in him towards Josh and Elizabeth? Or did she herself have designs on his cousin?
“I believe, ma’am, that he is not particularly inclined to marry at the present moment. But he might be persuaded in that direction by the right woman.”
“And what sort of woman would that be?” While her tone conveyed boredom, he suspected her feelings were quite the opposite.
“Obviously, her character must be above reproach.” Darcy set down his fork and gave the subject some thought. “Beyond that, she must be educated and intelligent. Not attached to worldly pursuits. Kind and generous, and eager to do her part to help his parishioners.”
“And does that describe Miss Elizabeth Bennet, do you think?”
He considered a moment. “It does. But then, it also describes you.”
A blush touched her cheek—the first hint of emotion he had seen from her all night. So that was the reason for her interest. She wanted Josh for herself.
If her brother would allow it, it would be an excellent match for Josh. But was his cousin interested? Josh’s heart was not engaged elsewhere, not really. It ought to be easy enough to turn his attentions to Lady Cressida.
When the supper party broke, he led her in the direction of his cousin and Elizabeth. Cressida curtseyed to Josh and gave him a coy glance. He did what any red-blooded male would do, and asked her to dance.
Darcy met Elizabeth’s eyes and forced himself to speak. “You look well this evening. But then, you always do. I hope you have been enjoying the dancing?”
“I have, I thank you. I noticed that you have exerted yourself, and danced every set.”
He hated having this conversation. He should have asked her to dance. Or at least explained why he had not. But how could he tell her what the rumourmongers were suggesting? That she would soon become his mistress?
Instead, he said, “It has been a trial, I assure you. But I learnt my lesson during my time in Hertfordshire. I was schooled on the rudeness of leaving ladies unattended.” He gave her a teasing smile, which she did not return. Clearly she was upset with him for avoiding her earlier.
He must undo this. He pressed her hand. “Did you receive the roses I sent this morning?”
“I did. White roses. The colour of newly fallen snow.”
“The colour of perfection.”
She blushed and pulled her hand away. “I am far from perfect, as you well know.”
“I know nothing of the sort.”
The orchestra began to play. His heart sank in his chest. He wanted to continue this conversation, but it would have to wait. “Excuse me. I am to escort Miss Peabody for the next dance.” He bowed and sauntered off.
With every step he took away from her, he cursed himself. The colour of newly fallen snow. After his behaviour that evening, she now thought him cold. And why should she not? Everything in his demeanour had sent that message.
It was time to be honest with her. He was hopelessly in love. His uncle’s family and the rest of the ton had already accepted her. Why was he holding back?
She was a woman who spoke her mind. She hinted at the passion within her, like a vein of lava flowing just beneath the surface. He wanted that ardour—not the placidity of Lady Cressida or Caroline Bingley.
Or worse, the silly prattling of a chit like Miss Peabody.
He approached the girl for their second dance of the evening. He noted again that her face was pleasing enough. Her bright blue gown became her, and the white flowers looked pretty in her hair.
Darcy tried to pay her the attention he ought. She was in her first season, after all. He did not wish to hurt her feelings.
“What a splendid evening this is!” she cried as the dance got underway. “I am desolate that we will have to go six weeks without a ball during Lent. Does that make me very wicked, do you think?”
“Not at all. You may regret those words, however. In the height of the season, you will attend parties every night. You may miss the quieter pace leading up to Easter.”
“I cannot imagine I would.” The dance parted them a moment, but she continued as she returned, “I adore parties! How could anyone want to stay home, when so much is going on?”
“I daresay your brother Wayne would.”
“Oh, Wayne is a stodgy old man.”
“Old!” Darcy grinned at that assessment. “He is but a couple of years older than me.”
“It is not his age so much as his manner. He would rather read a book than watch a play. Can you imagine?”
“I can. I suppose it depends on the book, and on the play.” The dance took them in opposite directions, but they soon came back together. “Who is your favourite playwright?”
She knitted her brow. “I cannot remember all their names. Who wrote The Beggar’s Opera?”
He stared. “You have seen The Beggar’s Opera?”
“Rolf took me, before Wayne came to town. Wayne would never allow it. But oh, how I laughed! I do enjoy a comedy, do not you?”
Darcy nodded, but his mouth formed a grim line. What was Rolf thinking, taking his seventeen-year-old sister to such a play? She had just come out. A girl that age was impressionable. He would not expose Georgiana to such entertainments until she was at least twenty.
When the dance broke up, he handed his partner over to Lady Wayne. As Miss Peabody’s mother was no longer living, her sister-in-law was her chaperone. The young viscountess, however, did not seem to keep a very good eye on her young charge. Darcy made a mental note to speak of the matter to the Countess of Matlock.
A wave of exhaustion rushed over him. He could not do this anymore. He could not prance around making conversation with foolish girls. Or even exert himself to be pleasing to sophisticated young women like Lady Cressida.
He had found the wife he wanted. She was in this very ballroom. Why not propose? He could do it tomorrow.
He could do it tonight.
No, that was not rational. He should sleep on it. It was two in the morning, for heaven’s sake. He was not exactly at his best mentally. Doubtless, neither was she.
But Elizabeth would accept him, would she not? As much as she liked to spar with him, they were friends. At least he thought they were friends.
In truth, he had not behaved as a friend that night. He had been too concerned about convincing the world he was not in love with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Under the circumstances, he had to admit, he had not done much to endear himself to her.
But she must marry. She must marry a wealthy man. And he was a wealthy man.
As, of course, was nearly every other man in the room.
What a fool he was! His greatest fear was that Elizabeth’s only reason for marrying him would be his money. Yet he assumed his money would be the only reason she needed. If he wanted her, he would have to court her. To shower her with attention the way Bingley did Jane.
And that was precisely what he would do. He would ask her for the next set. He would—
But as he spotted Elizabeth, Rolf Peabody stepped towards her. Darcy’s blood roiled. In three short steps, he was by her side. “I beg your pardon,” Darcy said to Rolf, “but Miss Bennet has promised this dance to me.”
Darcy swept her towards the floor before she could object.
He did not meet her eye, just kept walking. The waltz music began before they could take their places. Darcy’s skin heated.
He had not realized it was a waltz. Holding Elizabeth so intimately through an entire set would be a grave temptation. But there was no getting around it now.
They got into position, his hand on her waist, hers at his shoulder. This dance had been designed with the intention of torturing a man. He kept a respectful distance despite the raging desire to pull her body to him. To press his lips hard to hers. His body strained against the ache.
Elizabeth’s eyes flashed at him as the dance got underway. “I do not recall your engaging me for a waltz this evening, sir.”
He met her intense gaze and barely contained a shudder of longing. “Forgive me. I had to get you away from Rolf Peabody. He is a blackguard and a fortune hunter.”
Her brows arched, and a wry smile curved her lips. “If he is a fortune hunter, then I have nothing to fear from him.”
The words cut him. He hated the reminder that she had no dowry to speak of, as if that made her less desirable. She was as brilliant a jewel as he had ever seen.
But he could not let that distract him. He must keep this conversation practical, and warn her of the dangers Rolf posed. “He would as happily take a woman’s virtue as her money.”
She stiffened, and her cheeks flushed. “Do you think my virtue so freely given?”
He swallowed. Clearly she felt insulted, inferring a meaning he had not intended. He explained with a grave tone in his voice, “What is not given, Rolf might take by force.”
Her eyes widened as she seemed to comprehend his meaning. “Surely he is not as bad as that. Otherwise he would not be permitted into polite society.”
He wished that were true. Her country upbringing did not serve her in this instance. “His father was a viscount,” Darcy said, “and got his son out of any number of scrapes. The old man doted on Rolf and never believed the stories about him. But I have seen with my own eyes that he is as bad as that.”
Elizabeth turned silent. The strains of the music stretched between them. He left her to her thoughts. At last, she said, “Then I shall take you at your word.”
“Thank you.” The tension in his shoulders eased. He recognized the compliment she offered. It was no small thing to win the trust of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
The air was heavy for a few beats before she said, “It is I who should thank you. I have danced with many fine gentlemen this evening. None, though, are as fastidious as you in selecting partners. Your willingness to dance with me raises my value.”
His mouth grew dry. She was teasing him, and he did not much like the way it felt. Especially when her words were justified.
With an overabundance of feeling, he declared, “Any man who cannot see your worth must be a blockhead.”
Her lips parted, and some emotion flashed in her eyes, but he could not read it. The next moment, it was gone. “You did not seem to think so when you first came to Hertfordshire.”
A fact that testified to what a blockhead he had been—though he dared not admit that to her. Not when her violet scent was driving him mad, and his lips ached to kiss her.
“There is a goodly crowd here tonight,” Darcy forced himself to say. “But the floor is comfortable enough for dancing. That will likely change after Easter. It will be a great squeeze.”
He sounded an absolute dolt. Could his words be any more insipid? He hated nothing so much as small talk. Yet he could not say the things he longed to say, nor do the things he longed to do.
As they danced, she fit perfectly in his arms, and their feet moved in harmony, as if they floated on a cloud. He wanted to feel her softness against him, to trail kisses down her neck.
This was madness. He must have her. He could not endure a month-long courtship, nor waiting for the banns to be read. With a license, they could be married in a matter of days.
Would this infernal waltz never end? He was moments away from throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her off to have his way with her. How was a man to bear this agony?
He could not speak. He could not find words. A confession of love was on his lips, and all other thoughts had flown from his mind.
Elizabeth leaned towards him and said, “Mr. Darcy, I perceive there are eyes upon us.” She nodded in Miss Bingley’s direction. “Should we pretend to be enjoying ourselves?”
Her words were like cold rain. Was she not enjoying herself? Was he?
No, he was sullen and distracted. He ought to be giving this woman all his attention, and instead his brain was fogged by lust.
What could he say? “I am your humble servant, ma’am. If you wish me to prattle stupidly, I shall be happy to oblige.”
She let out a soft laugh that sounded like bells. “I do not believe a man of your intellect could do anything stupidly.”
“You might be surprised.”
Her eyes danced enticingly. “Why Mr. Darcy, that is the first self-deprecating thing I have heard you say.”
“You think me insufferable.”
Her hand caressed his shoulder, and he bit back a curse at the wave of desire rushing over him.
She, apparently, had no idea how her touch plagued him. She said, “You set high standards for yourself, and live in fear of not meeting them. But no one likes perfection in another. It makes us feel our own imperfections more acutely. Others might tolerate your foibles better, if you tolerated them better yourself.”
Whoever had invented the waltz should be drawn and quartered. He could not escape her penetrating gaze. “You take liberties with your observations.”
“I do. Ought I to apologize?”
“No.” He lifted his brows. “I should thank you for your wisdom.”
“And yet I perceive you do not.” Her voice held a laugh.
This time, he was able to smile at her teasing. “Perhaps the wound has hit too close to home, and is too fresh to be appreciated.”
The music came to a stop at last. Inwardly, he praised Jove for it. Outwardly, he bowed and smiled and led Elizabeth back to the chaperonage of her aunt. With a few polite words, he left her in that lady’s care.
He must get a grip on himself. A ballroom was no place to decide whether to make an offer of marriage. He must wait until the morrow, until his head was clear.
In the meantime, he would remain in torment.
