Page 91 of A November to Remember

“Miss Bennet.” Robert offered his arm, his voice solemn. “The music has commenced, and I find myself unable to appreciate it unless you do me the honour of standing up with me for the first two sets.”

Miss Bennet offered a warm smile. “I should be delighted, Lord Keathley.”

Darcy inclined his head to Miss Elizabeth. “Miss Elizabeth. May I request the pleasure of this dance?”

Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with joy. “You may, Mr Darcy. Though I should warn you, I have not brought a single apple with me.”

A smile broke across Darcy’s stern face. “I hope I will survive without perishing of famine, madam.”

Mrs Bennet was bouncing on her feet with concentrated excitement, and she clutched her sister’s arm. Mrs Philips clapped both hands over her mouth, her eyes wide with the thrill of witnessing two massive fortunes effectively secured in the space of thirty seconds.

“Oh, the music!” Miss Lydia shouted, standing on the toes of her slippers. “We must dance! Kitty, look! It is Captain Carter! He is coming!”

Captain Carter appeared through the throng, offering a hasty bow to all and sundry before sweeping the youngest Bennet sister away to the forming lines.

Miss Kitty stamped her foot, her lower lip protruding in a pout. “He did not even look at me! He only likes Lydia because he has no taste!”

Miss Mary stepped forward, her posture stiffening into a line of moral superiority. “Dr Fordyce would surely consider the pursuit of scarlet cloth the first step to eternal ruin. A woman of sense ought to avert her eyes from such vain, superficial displays of—”

Richard moved into her line of sight.

Miss Mary gasped, her mouth snapping shut.

Richard swallowed hard, his throat devoid of moisture. He tugged at the edge of his waistcoat, acutely aware of his large, clumsy hands. He looked down at her, at the severe brown gown that did nothing to flatter her, and at the beautiful, intelligent, gravy-brown eyes hiding behind the glass lenses.

“Miss Mary.” Richard executed a crisp, formal bow. “Will you do me the honour?”

She stared at his outstretched glove. She looked past him, her gaze lingering on the distant refreshment tables, before returning to his face.

“Are you quite certain, Colonel?” she asked. “I can see that the almond tarts are disappearing at an alarming rate. Perhaps we ought to secure a few before attempting a country dance. It is a long set.”

Richard’s heart elevated heavenwards. Her. Only her. Only she understood his fundamental need for supplies, and she was willing to forgo a dance at a grand ball to ensure he was fed.

He asked his stomach and the answer he got was I am not hungry, simpleton! Go get the girl!

“No.” Richard kept his hand extended, his voice thick with certainty. “Let us dance first.”

Miss Mary blinked, her lips parting in stunned surprise. Slowly, she placed her hand in his.

They took their places in the set, joining the long lines of couples. The orchestra struck up a lively reel, and the dancing commenced. Miss Mary was stiff at first, her movements precise, her attention concentrated on the footwork. Richard kept his hold on her hand firm and reassuring, guiding her through the turns with grace.

As they moved down the line, she relaxed and began watching the other couples.

“Mr Bingley has secured a partner,” Miss Mary observed, her breath coming faster as they joined hands for a turn.

Richard glanced to his left and saw Bingley dancing with Miss Harriet Long, a girl entirely swathed in lilac fabric. She was talking incessantly, her mouth moving at a dizzying speed. Bingley’s head was bobbing in a constant nod, his eyes darting around in search of rescue.

“He appears to be receiving a very thorough education,” Richard noted, chuckling as he moved back into the line. “I was under the impression the Long nieces were mute.”

Miss Mary met him in the centre. “I believe Miss Harriet has been saving her conversation for the past three years specifically for tonight and she is dispensing it all at once, lest it expire.”

Richard let out a loud bark of laughter, ignoring the startled glance of a nearby matron.

“Poor Bingley.” Richard grinned, catching her hand again. “He stares at her like a man who had asked for a glass of water and been handed an ocean.”

Her lips twitched, a wicked spark lighting her eyes. “Indeed. One fears he may drown before the dance ends. Though I suppose lilac is a rather cheerful colour in which to perish.”

Richard stared at her, utterly delighted. The pedantic, preaching shield of Dr Fordyce was gone, and in its place was her father’s daughter—a woman with a sharp wit who saw the absurdities of the world and found them thoroughly entertaining. She was brilliant. She was perfect.