Page 43 of The Servants’ Matchmaking

"Yes."

"May I ask you for the first two dances?"

"The first two are promised to Mr. Collins."

Darcy's face changed. It was stripped so thoroughly of its usual composure that she relented before he could recover it.

"We have no Mr. Collins at Longbourn, sir. He has not yet visited."

"You find this amusing."

"Enormously."

"Then I will ask for the next two."

"You may have the first two."

He bowed. Whatever satisfaction was in his eyes made the small formal gesture feel far more intimate than any bow had a right to.

From the house, Mrs. Bennet's voice carried out to them, announcing that tea was ready and had been ready for some minutes, thank you very much. Darcy offered his arm. Elizabeth took it, and did not examine too closely how naturally her hand settled there.

At the door a gust caught the loose end of her shawl and lifted it towards the wet stone. Darcy caught the fabric before it struck the wall, his fingers closing around the repaired fringe.

"Blue silk."

"Sarah's work."

"McKeever tells me her knots are stronger than his."

"They discuss rather more than books, those two."

"So do we," Darcy said, and released the shawl.

Elizabeth carried the warmth of that brief, accidental touch into the house with her, tucked somewhere just under her ribs. No servant had arranged that moment. No storm had forced it.

Choice, she was discovering, made for a far more dangerous pleasure than either.

CHAPTER 10

Mr. Darcy

By noon, every hand at Netherfield was labouring towards the ball. The house had taken on the particular chaos of an army preparing for a battle nobody had explained to it.

Footmen hauled chairs from room to room as though the furniture itself could not decide where it wanted to be. Maids carried candles in armfuls. The cook, somewhere below stairs, objected to the fishmonger's timing and to the musicians' supper arrangements. She objected with real feeling to a kitchen boy who had somehow misplaced two entire lemons between the larder and the kitchen table, a distance of perhaps twelve feet. Bingley crossed the hall six times in an hour and improved nothing whatsoever by any of it.

Darcy stayed in his room until McKeever brought him something worth hearing. McKeever came in without preamble, which was itself a sign of how serious the matter was. The man usually managed at least one remark about the weather first. "Sarah overheard Miss Bingley speaking with Mrs. Hurst, sir."

Darcy set down his razor. "Where?"

"Miss Bingley's dressing room. Sarah was clearing the adjoining closet on Mrs. Nicholls's orders. The door was not fully shut."

"What did she hear?"

McKeever's distaste showed itself in nothing more than the exaggerated care with which he folded a towel. A man expressing an entire opinion through linen. "Miss Bingley means to take Miss Elizabeth's blue shawl from the ladies' retiring room, sir, after the opening pair. She will wear it into the east saloon. Her maid is to bring you a message that a lady in blue requests a private word. Mrs. Hurst is then to bring Mr. Bingley along to discover you together."

Darcy stared at him. The scheme was crude. It was also, he understood at once, dangerous. Candlelight, a borrowed garment, a story told and retold could outlive whatever denials came after it.

"Why the shawl?"