Page 29 of The Longbourn Bloodline

The corner of his lips turned up as he nodded. “I should not expect otherwise, for you see, Miss Elizabeth, you are quite certain that you are not in need of improvement, and I tend to agree.”

“Surely, you mock⁠—”

“Ah, but you do not know my character. Perhaps some improvement in judgment is warranted?”

Elizabeth did not have a chance to retort because Mary came streaming toward them. “Mr. Darcy, Mamma does not wish me to demonstrate my dancing accomplishments and is ordering me to play the pianoforte. Everyone already knows my pianoforte is the best of all my sisters and⁠—”

“I shall play,” Elizabeth said. “Mary has worked hard to learn the figures, and I find I am not in the mood for dancing this evening.”

She arranged herself behind the pianoforte, feeling the weight of Darcy’s attention pressed on her back. Her father, however, shot him a look of male camaraderie which annoyed her further. He still believed Darcy wished to marry this particular daughter.

“Very well, Lizzy, if you insist on being stubborn.” Mrs. Bennet recovered with the resilience of a flexible matchmaker. “Jane, you shall dance with Mr. Darcy. Kitty, with the Colonel. Mary and Lydia together. Lizzy, a lively air, if you please.”

“I shall not dance with Lydia,” Mary announced. “She leads when she ought to follow and treads upon my feet with the regularity of a metronome.”

“And I shall not dance with Mary,” Lydia declared. “She counts aloud. It is mortifying.”

Mrs. Bennet pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Then Kitty and Mary. The colonel and Lydia. Jane and Mr. Darcy.”

Kitty’s face fell, and Mary made no move to her side. Colonel Fitzwilliam, meanwhile, gallantly offered his arm to Lydia, who accepted with a shriek that made the candle flames waver.

But Darcy—and Elizabeth watched this from the corner of her eye while arranging the first page of a country dance—stepped forward and addressed Mary with a bow so correct, so grave, so entirely without condescension that even Mrs. Bennet fell silent.

“Miss Mary, would you do me the honor?”

Mary stared at him. The silence lasted three full heartbeats, and then Mary’s chin lifted, her shoulders drew back with the new posture the deportment mistress had been cultivating, and she placed her hand upon his arm with a composure so complete it could only have been astonishment wearing its best dress.

“You are very kind, Mr. Darcy.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with it. You have been studying the steps with admirable discipline, and I wish to see what you have accomplished.”

Jane, of course, took Kitty’s hand and patted it. “You shall get your chance with either gentleman. I will dance with Lydia or Mary as needed. In these cases where gentlemen are scarce, we must be willing to share.”

Elizabeth resisted the urge to roll her eyes and struck the first chord. Jane would be as calm if the French had crossed the Channel and were burning down Brighton. She had wished to observe which of the two gentlemen her elder sister favored. It had to be one or the other, because Jane had not been so happy for quite a few weeks.

And so, she played a lively country dance, one of the new ones the dancing master had provided, and her fingers found the rhythm with a quickness born of solitary morning rehearsals. The notes filled the drawing room—bright, spirited, and quick enough to demand attention from the dancers but steady enough to carry them through the figures without stumbling.

And she observed the dancers as she did not truly need to read the music.

Darcy danced silently with Mary. Neither spoke, but they mirrored each other’s motions precisely. Mary counted silently, her tempo correct, and her footwork accurate. She appeared to enjoy the dance, and so did Darcy, who danced as though she was a diamond from the ton, with honor, dignity, and the attention she deserved.

Mrs. Bennet, having lost her preferred configuration, did not sit idle. She circled the room offering commentary at a volume designed to reach every corner, including several corners in the adjoining rooms. “Very good, Kitty, although your elbows are rather high. Mary, dear, do try to smile; no, perhaps not, you look rather frightening. Colonel Fitzwilliam, how handsomely you move! One can see your military training.” She paused before the pianoforte, leaning toward Elizabeth with the conspiratorial air of a woman who believed herself subtle. “Lizzy, you might play something slower. A waltz, perhaps. Mr. Darcy and Jane ought to waltz.”

Elizabeth ignored the suggestion, opting for a reel for the next set. And so it went; she watched Darcy dance with all her sisters. With Lydia, he was gracious, tilting his head as he listened to the fifteen-year-old narrate every step as if a moment of silence was a moment wasted. He corrected her gently when her enthusiasm led her offbeat and steadied her without making her feel clumsy.

With Kitty, he was patient, correcting her turns with a touch so light that Kitty did not feel it as instruction. She was upright and flushed, her new posture holding even as her feet faltered, and the look on her face—shy pride and tentative delight—made Elizabeth miss a note. Kitty had never looked like that before because no one had ever given her reason to.

And then… finally, Mrs. Bennet’s objective was in sight as she inserted Jane between Kitty and Darcy. “It will not do, Mr. Darcy, to ignore my eldest daughter, and if I may say, my most beautiful and accomplished daughter, Miss Bennet.”

“Mrs. Bennet.” Mr. Bennet’s voice carried from behind his newspaper. “Let the girls dance. Let Lizzy play. And do sit down before you direct someone into the fire.”

Jane bowed her head, her cheeks coloring with mortification, but Darcy whispered to Kitty, who nodded, and then he bowed formally to Jane, requesting the pleasure of a dance in that deep, warm voice of his.

Jane took Darcy’s hand. And Elizabeth, pressing her fingers into the keys of a slower air, watched from behind the music she could play from memory.

They moved well together. Elizabeth had observed this during the greenery gathering, had seen the easy height match, the natural grace of two handsome people in motion, and had told herself she was observing for Jane’s protection. She told herself the same now. Jane’s cheeks were pink, her eyes bright, her hand resting in Darcy’s with the trusting lightness of a woman who had forgotten, for the duration of a dance, to be guarded. Darcy moved with the careful precision he brought to everything—controlled, measured, correct—but his attention appeared genuine. He spoke to Jane as they danced, too low for Elizabeth to hear from the pianoforte, and Jane’s smile widened, and the brightness Elizabeth had noticed at the frozen pond bloomed across her sister’s face like dawn. The brightness—the same way Jane had smiled at Mr. Bingley, sweet, serene, and accepting. She was letting Darcy know in a way only a woman could that she welcomed him, appreciated him, and perhaps…

Elizabeth’s fingers faltered on the keys—a minor slip, she hoped, not enough to trip the dancers. Darcy’s eyes found hers, for naturally she had been caught staring, and she nearly missed another note. Rather than the disapproval or scowl she expected, his gaze was like balm, letting her know all was well. Then he turned to the figure with Jane, and Elizabeth caught herself staring.