Page 6 of The Slipper Scandal
She tipped her head to one side as she assessed him for a moment before securing her mask in place and stepping forward.
He offered her his arm, and she took it.
They strode to the threshold of the ballroom, but neither of them moved forward. The doorway yawned before them, the light of hundreds of candles spilling over the polished floor, the swell of voices rising and falling like the tide.
Darcy felt Miss Bennet’s fingers tighten ever so slightly on his arm, and though she wore her Athena’s mask with confidence,there was no mistaking the tension in the way she held herself, as though bracing for impact.
He understood.
She was proud. She would enter the ballroom with her chin high and behave as though she was entirely untroubled, even though she already knew they would become a spectacle the moment they stepped inside. Titters and leers would greet them. Eyes and whispers would follow.
Darcy glanced down at the slight woman at his side, taking in the determined lift of her chin, the flicker of apprehension in her gaze before she forced it away.
He had seen the same look before, typically on gentlemen at the gaming table when the stakes were high and ruin imminent. But they had been to blame for their own misfortune. Miss Bennet, in attempting to avoid ruin, had stumbled into it. Even he owned more fault than she for their predicament, for had he returned her shoe to her at once rather than using it to instigate a conversation, they might have avoided the worst of Lord Ellington’s insinuations.
“Courage, Miss Bennet.”
She turned her head, her dark eyes meeting his. There was a question there. A flicker of doubt. But then, quite suddenly, her mouth curved, just a little, just enough to turn her wariness into something else. Darcy recognised it for what it was—defiance. He inclined his head in the barest fraction of approval, then turned forward once more.
Together, they stepped into the ballroom.
The crowd was like a shifting sea of colour and motion. Candlelight reflected off silks and satins, the flickering light twisting masked figures into something almost otherworldly. Laughter and music swelled together, rising to the gilded ceiling, but beneath the revelry lay something darker. It was theunmistakable hum of gossip, slipping through the air like a draft through the space between a window and its frame.
The masks made it all worse. There was no way to tell friend from foe, no way to know whose whispering lips were shaping a scandal and whose were employed in their defence. Fans lifted as he and Miss Bennet passed, concealing knowing smiles, heads bent together in swift, eager exchanges.
Eyes gleamed behind golden filigree, behind swaths of lace and absurdly exaggerated noses. Some masks were grotesque, some elegant, some deliberately misleading, but all carried the same unsettling effect—the illusion that no one could be seen, and yet everyone was watching.
The music never faltered, nor did the dancing, but the rhythm of the night had shifted. A new piece had begun, one that required no instruments. Only whispers.
Darcy’s name was on too many lips. So was hers.
He had hoped this could be avoided. He had dared to think that his own reputation for honour might protect them both. But he hadfearedthat this would be the result and had been considering what must be done if Lord Ellington and his hyenas were successful. He located Miss Bennet’s party with ease. One benefit of being tall was that he could see over the heads of most in attendance. The Abernathys were already watching them expectantly.
Without pausing, he led Miss Bennet towards them.
Mr. Abernathy’s brow lifted in question.
Darcy inclined his head. “Abernathy. Might I have a word?”
Before the man could reply, Darcy continued, just loud enough for the nearest spectators to hear. “Miss Bennet has accepted my offer of marriage.”
The silence was immediate. Then—
“Oh, Lizzy!” Miss Abernathy cried, seizing her friend’s hand with a delighted squeal. “How wonderful! What thrilling news!”
Lizzy. Her Christian name must be Elizabeth.
He liked it. And though they had only met this evening, he likedher.
Darcy turned just in time to see Miss Bennet’s expression morph from stunned disbelief to righteous fury. Her mouth opened, and he could see the precise moment she found her words, but she never had a chance to speak them. Miss Abernathy, a glass of champagne in one hand and her friend’s arm in the other, spirited her away, already loudly declaring that she wanted the entire story of the proposal.
Darcy allowed himself the briefest moment of satisfaction. Miss Bennet would undoubtedly have many, many words for him later.
Strangely, he believed he would enjoy hearing every single one.
Elizabeth had been angry before. She had fumed when Lydia remade her favourite bonnet without permission, she had seethed when her mother thrust a suitor in his thirties upon Jane when she was but fifteen, and she had bristled when Lord Ellington leered at her across the ballroom this evening as though she were a tea cake set upon a platter for his consumption.
But this was a new level of wrath.
