and in that moment Darcy couldn’t help but picture her in Pemberley’s library, settled comfortably before the fire as they discussed countless subjects, many of which very few ladies of his acquaintance were prepared to discuss with any level of intelligence, never mind interest.
Though Elizabeth’s wine glass was nearly full he reached for it, gratified when she surrendered it willingly. Darcy set it down upon a nearby table beside his own, far emptier glass. He was about to offer her his arm and escort her to the window seat, where he had every intention of boldly confessing his ever-increasing admiration of her, when they were suddenly joined by her father. The grim, almost hostile expression on Mr. Bennet’s face wiped the complacent smile from Darcy’s with the efficiency of a bucket of ice cold water.
The master of Pemberley recov ered quickly, however, and offered the elder gentleman a cordial inclination of his head. “Good evening to you, Mr. Bennet. How do you do?” Despite his disappointment and irritation at being thus interrupted, Darcy’s tone was civil. Whether Elizabeth’s father’s address would be equally so, remained to be seen.
T wo
Mr. Bennet observed no pleasantries beyond a curt nod in Darcy’s general direction before addressing his daughter. “I daresay you’ve entertained Mr. Darcy long enough, my dear. It's time to let Sir William’s other guests have an opportunity to enjoy his company.”
Though Mr. Bennet’s volume was discreet enough that his neighbours were unlikely to overhear him, Darcy had no such difficulty, and couldn’t decide whether he was more appalled by Elizabeth’s father’s assumption that he’d desire a reprieve from her society, or by the man’s complete disregard for her sensibilities by actually giving voice to such an insinuation.
Darcy assured Mr. Bennet that nothing could be further from the truth. “As a matter of fact,” he added, directing his attention to Elizabeth, “I’m unable to recall ever passing an evening so agreeably. Will you not take mercy upon me, Miss Bennet, and indulge me a while longer? I find I am loath to part ways so soon.”
“You see, Papa,” she said, placing her hand upon her father’s arm, “all is well. There is nothing to fear.”
But neither his daughter’s words nor Darcy’s assuaged Longbourn’s master, whose disinclination to indulge the couple was evident by his rigid stance and disapproving glare. “Be that as it may,” he said tightly, giving Elizabeth a pointed look, “I believe it is in everyone’s best interest that Mr. Darcy rejoins his friends now. He has neglected them this evening, and I have little doubt they’re regretting the loss of his society acutely. I have it on good authority that Miss Bingley, in particular, desires to see him safely returned to his party. According to Jane, she is an intimate friend of Mr. Darcy’s sister, who I understand is but fifteen years old.”
Abruptly Elizabeth withdrew her hand from her father’s arm and turned aside her head. Darcy’s keen eyes did not miss the heavy rise and fall of her breast, the hard set of her jaw, or the way her fingers curled into fists as she perceived the rest of her family on the opposite side of the drawing room, seemingly oblivious to the exchange taking place between father and daughter.
Mary, Elizabeth’s middle sister, was seated primly at the pianoforte, fumbling her way through a doleful dirge while the two youngest conversed energetically with several red-coated officers. Their mother, who forever encouraged their forwardness, attended them with an indulgent smile. Bingley was with them and Elizabeth’s eldest sister Jane, predictably, stood at his side. To Darcy’s surprise, however, Jane’s eyes were not demurely downcast as Bingley prattled on about whatever topic struck his calf-eyed fancy at the moment, but fixed intently upon Elizabeth with an
Terry Ravenscroft, Ravenscroft