Page 7 of The Heroic Mr Darcy's Bad Manners
“And may I enquire whether my assumption that you are known to me holds any bearing?” he continued.
“We have previously encountered each other, yes,” she allowed but did not give any further detail.
“Intriguing,” he mumbled before he left her side to position himself opposite her in the line.
The first dance was a lively reel that did not allow much conversation. However, the second was a minuet, which was a slow-paced couples’ dance. They circled each other, and Mr Darcy approached her from behind, seized her hands, and twirled them around. Elizabeth’s step faltered, and her back accidentally touched his chest. She tightened her grip on his hands and hoped that he had not noticed. His support brought her steadfast and unwavering through the set, and when it ended, she was uncommonly out of breath.
“I deprived you of your glass of ratafia when they called our set, so I believe it is only fair that I provide you with another,” Mr Darcy suggested in his low, rumbling voice.
“Certainly. It would be quite ungentlemanly if you did not,” Elizabeth retorted with a parched throat.
Mr Darcy escorted her seamlessly to the refreshment table. His height and character parted the sea of dancers to allow them a quick departure. He filled two glasses and looked about him.
“It is rather warm and crowded. Would you like to take some fresh air?”
“Yes please.” Elizabeth took a sip of her ratafia and accepted his offered arm. He guided them through the supper rooms and up a flight of stairs. He turned left, and suddenly they were out on a balcony overlooking the street. They were not alone, but the balcony ran the length of the entire building, so no one was standing too close.
“I hope you do not mind the balcony. I would not have you ruin your dress and slippers in the mucky street,” Mr Darcy explained.
“Not at all,” she admitted, looking down on the busy thoroughfare.
“You are not too cold?” he asked with concern.
Elizabeth chuckled; she was warm from the dance, the crush, and Mr Darcy’s close proximity. “Not in the slightest,” she replied, making the gentleman smile.
He did not look at her but gazed upon the moonlit sky.
“You do not have an accent, so am I correct in surmising that you are from town?”
The seemingly innocent question did not fool Elizabeth. She knew exactly what he was about. “No, I am country born and bred.”
“And the name of your father’s estate?” he enquired.
“That, I shall not tell you, even though I doubt you are familiar with it. It is modest compared to yours, but then again, most estates are,” she retorted enigmatically.
He turned to her then. “You have visited Pemberley?”
“No, but I have relations who have more knowledge about it than I. But I was so fortunate as to be invited to tea by your esteemed mother once, at the Rose and Crown in Lambton.”
It was as much of a hint as she was willing to offer. The rest he must determine without further clues. A shadow crossed his face, and he bowed his head.
“You said that we had met before, but it does not count if I was not present.”
“You were, but it was not at Pemberley.”
“I wish I knew who you were, but I am at a loss,” Mr Darcy admitted dejectedly.
“It is bad manners, my heroic Mr Darcy, to admit that I left no lasting impression. I would rather have assumed that I did.” Which was the absolute last hint she would give him before the clock struck twelve.
He studied her intently whilst rubbing his chin. His eyes were dark pools in the faint moonlight, and she was captured in his steady gaze.
“Your eyes are uncommonly beautiful. I should have remembered you from that feature alone,” he admitted, sending frissons down her back.
“You are cold.” He misinterpreted her slight quiver and escorted her back to the ballroom. “Do I ask too much, or would you honour me with a second set?”
“Certainly, Mr Darcy.” She acquiesced readily, delighted that he had deigned to ask.
Their delicious banter continued through their subsequent dances; she had never been more entertained in her life and did not wish the evening to end. Elizabeth glanced at the clock; it was ten to twelve. In just ten minutes she would have to reveal her face. Would he be disappointed she was no one but the foolish girl he had once rescued? Or worse, disappointed by her looks. Perhaps he hated freckles; the sun had unfortunately left a light dusting on her nose.
