Page 26 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
The left side of her face hurt. No. This would not do.
She clenched her teeth and forced her gaze away from the looming shadows. These morbid thoughts served no one. There was no use in dwelling upon their misfortune when there was naught to be done but wait.
Elizabeth sought distraction and asking impertinent questions seemed the best way to accomplish it. “Charlotte told me that Rosings belongs to your cousin Miss de Bourgh.”
Mr Darcy’s low voice answered her. “It does.”
“Then—forgive me—why did you not ask her?”
“Ask her what, Miss Bennet?”
“About the folly. Why argue with your aunt when your cousin could make the decision?”
Mr. Darcy did not answer right away. “I . . .” He huffed, was quiet, then shook his head. “I could say that the argument began before Anne came into her inheritance, or that Anne would never gainsay her mother, and both might well be true. But it is equally true that I never thought to ask.”
He groaned, and Elizabeth tensed, fearing he was in pain. Yet it was not a physical injury that troubled him, at least, no more than it already did.
“I have been as foolish as my aunt, have I not?” he said, his voice heavy with self-reproach. “I presumed myself superior to Bingley and offered advice for which he never asked. And I thought myself wiser than my aunt—only to realise I have been arguing with the wrong de Bourgh.”
Elizabeth watched as his expression darkened and his shoulders stiffened. This would never do—she did not intend for him to take on the gloom she was attempting to shed. She was sorry she had posed the question and quickly conjured another that might distract him as well.
“Why do you not like to dance?” she asked abruptly. Her voice was too bright, too firm, but she could not allow him to descend further. If they were to keep their wits about them, they must both engage their minds elsewhere.
Mr. Darcy turned his head towards her, one dark brow lifting. “You thinknowan appropriate moment for such an enquiry?”
She let out a breath, willing herself to be amused. “Is it not better than fretting?”
He regarded her a moment longer before acquiescing. “Very well.” He exhaled slowly. “I do not dislike dancing. Not in itself.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “Then why do you avoid it?”
“In London, a dance is rarely only a dance,” he said, his tone weary. “Every step is scrutinised, every turn analysed. A single set with a lady is an indication of interest, an invitation to gossip. It is tiresome.”
She frowned slightly. “But you do not dislike dancing?”
He glanced at her sidelong. “I enjoy it on occasion. Though I only had that honour once with you, as I recall.”
She snorted, recalling the assembly. “That was not my doing.”
He smirked, the expression faint but present. “Nor mine.”
Mr. Darcy’s enigmatic reply was just what she required to divert her mind. “What do you mean?”
“You accepted a dance with me only upon my third request.” He chuckled wryly. “I do not believe I have ever been denied a dance when I have asked for it, and you refused me twice.”
Elizabeth searched her memory. “When . . . do you mean when Sir William forced you into it?”
“No one can force me to ask a lady to dance. Ask Fitz.”
She found herself smiling. “Am I then to understand you were not mocking me when you asked me to dance a jig at Netherfield?”
“It would have served Miss Bingley justly, do not you think?”
She laughed softly in surprise, and he smiled.
“I made one comment about fine eyes, and she was forever teasing me about it. Not in the way you do—her teases were but a sad disguise for bitter mockery.”
“Oh, and may one ask whose eyes you were admiring?” Probably Jane’s, for she had the loveliest cerulean eyes. They were quite remarkable. “Not Miss Bingley’s, I presume.”
