Page 30 of The Longbourn Bloodline

“Lizzy! The tempo!” Her mother’s voice shattered the moment. “You are playing too slowly! The girls will fall asleep on their feet!”

The dance ended. Mrs. Bennet, who had been vibrating with suppressed maternal energy throughout, launched herself from her chair.

“Wonderful! Simply wonderful! Mr. Darcy, how kind you are to partner my girls. And Jane looked so well—did she not, Mr. Bennet? So very well. One could hardly tell she had not been dancing in the finest ballrooms in London. Now, Lizzy, stop hiding behind that instrument and come dance with Mr. Darcy yourself.”

“I am the musician this evening, Mamma.”

“Nonsense. Mary can play.”

“Mary wished to dance. That was the entire purpose of the arrangement.”

“Then Jane can play.”

“Jane,” Elizabeth said, with a patience she had been cultivating since birth, “has been dancing. Let her rest.”

“Nobody needs to rest! It is barely nine o’clock!” Mrs. Bennet turned to Darcy with the terrifying optimism of a woman who has scented an opportunity. “Mr. Darcy, do tell Lizzy she must dance. She is a perfectly adequate dancer when she is not busy walking through mud and arguing with everyone.”

Darcy looked at her, and Elizabeth kept her gaze focused on the sheet music. The silence between them contained multitudes—the rabbit, the blurting, the scratch marks on his jaw, the question he had asked by the pond that she still had not answered. What do you suppose, Miss Elizabeth?

“Miss Elizabeth plays beautifully,” Darcy said, addressing her mother while his gaze remained on Elizabeth. “I would not deprive the company of her music.”

It was the right thing to say, and kind. It released her from the obligation without humiliation and honored her choice without questioning it. Elizabeth felt a tightness in her throat she had not anticipated and turned the page to another reel, quick and bright, requiring all of her attention—before her face could betray what her voice would not.

What was the answer to his question? She did not know, and preferred not to examine it. He was not the man she expected, the one who made it easy to dislike him. And why did he speak in riddles? His sole purpose in coming to Longbourn could not be about her—the second daughter of a minor country squire—not particularly beautiful, not well-connected, with a propensity to speak her mind in all the wrong places.

But… oh, how aggravating it was to wonder what he meant by regarding her. As what? A competent steward of Longbourn? Or… and here her insides shook. Did he see her as a woman? If so, how could she bear the loss of whatever regard he professed?

At some point, after some number of dances, and Elizabeth stopped counting, Mr. Bennet folded his newspaper and rose, clapping his hands.

“I believe the exhibition is concluded. The performers have done themselves credit, and the musician has earned her supper. Mrs. Bennet, do cease rearranging the furniture. Lizzy, excellent playing. Mr. Darcy, Colonel, thank you for indulging my daughters. I trust they have not damaged your boots beyond repair.”

“On the contrary.” Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed. “I have not had a more diverting evening than any assembly in London could provide.”

“Infinitely more adventurous, too,” Mr. Bennet observed. “One seldom risks a broken toe at Almack’s.”

Elizabeth busied herself with the sheet music, her hands occupied, and her face turned discreetly from the door, where Mrs. Bennet was extracting promises from Colonel Fitzwilliam to return for a diverting evening of charades and games.

“Miss Elizabeth.”

She looked up to find Darcy leaning against the pianoforte. The candlelight caught the scratches on his jaw, half-healed and still faintly angry.

“You play with great feeling. I had not heard you play before.” The Darcy stare softened, still intense but with a gentler note, almost like a hound beseeching its master for a bone.

“You had not asked before,” she said, unable to move her gaze from his, certain her cheeks were red, so close to the flickering candle.

“Then I shall endeavor to ask more often. Miss Elizabeth.” He reached for her hand, bent his head down, and kissed her knuckles. “I wish you a good night.”

She felt his lips brush her skin, trailing a soft warmth, and then he was walking away. She stared after him with the unsettling impression that Fitzwilliam Darcy had just apologized—although for what, precisely, she could not have said.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A QUESTION OF REGARD

Elizabeth had never been reluctant to enter the bedchamber she shared with Jane, but tonight, she waited outside in the corridor, wondering if her sister was already asleep. She could not settle the image of her face brightening with the dancing and laughter. And she was glad for it—that she had played the pianoforte, thus allowing her sisters to discover the joy of dancing with two fine gentlemen in what felt like a fairyland of Christmas greenery.

She waited, hearing no sounds within, and gently pushed the door open. The fire burned low, but there was a single candle still lit on the nightstand between their beds. Jane was already in her nightgown, gently braiding her hair.

“Lizzy, you disappeared,” she said, her blue eyes regarding Elizabeth with concerned gentleness.