Page 9 of The Slipper Scandal
And watching her with unreadable intent.
She could not forget it now, could not pretend that he was anything but what he was: a man born to command a room, to draw notice without effort.
He could not wanther. Impudent, irreverent Lizzy Bennet? She was the very opposite of stately.
Mr. Darcy stood apart from the masked revellers, his bearing impeccable, his expression impassive but watchful, and when his gaze caught hers, she felt it drawing her in.
Blast him.
She could not allow herself to be affected.
He had not asked for this any more than she. A man of his consequence could only have been seeking a lady of great fortune, of impeccable connections, not a gentleman’s daughter with only a meagre dowry and an inconvenient habit of speaking her mind.
How irritated he must be.
That, at least, was a satisfying thought.
Mrs. Abernathy guided her forward, and as they approached, Darcy inclined his head ever so slightly.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice smooth and measured. “May I have the honour of this dance?”
Elizabeth lowered herself into a precisely executed curtsy. “You may.”
A flicker of something she did not understand crossed his features before he extended his arm.
He did everything as good manners demanded. His touch was light, his manner assured but not overbearing, his expression betraying nothing. He was not cold; in fact his countenance displayed nothing but pleasure at their unexpected news.
And yet, she knew with complete certainty that he could not want this. Even less than she did, perhaps. He must have spent his life carefully choosing his associations, ensuring that every connection was advantageous, every friendship measured.
She could not wed a man who would never have chosen her on his own.
She would not be her mother.
As they faced one another, waiting for the music to begin, an idea began to form in her mind.
There was, after all, more than one way to remove oneself from an unwanted engagement. And if she had learned anything this evening, it was that Mr. Darcy valued propriety above all things.
A slow, mischievous smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Yes. That would do.
Chapter Three
Darcy had never enjoyed dancing.
It was a tedious exercise, an obligation thrust upon him by social requirement rather than honest enjoyment. There was no pleasure in mincing precisely, speaking politely, enduring the scrutiny of those eager to witness a misstep. And the expectations it created? Ludicrous.
And yet, here he was, standing before Miss Elizabeth Bennet, his sudden betrothed, with all of London watching them. Well, that might be an exaggeration, but it was certainly most of the ton.
Miss Bennet placed her delicate hand atop his arm with as little enthusiasm as possible while wearing a smile that did not reach her eyes. He wondered how long it would be before he would be allowed to witness one that did.
He led her into the first steps of the dance.
“Tell me, Mr. Darcy,” she said in a tone of cloying sweetness as they came together, “why did you not bother to tell me that a proposal was a part of your plan?”
He bowed to the woman next to her and moved through the figures. When he was again partnered with Miss Bennet, she said, very quietly, “I assume you are aware that such communications are to be made first in private?”
Darcy resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.
He had expected anger, of course, but he had not anticipated quite so much flippancy. He had hoped, though not expected, to be able to avoid offering for her hand. But it was clear the moment they stepped back into the ballroom that to ignore what had happened would be impossible. Surely, she could not have been surprised.
