Page 8 of The Lost Prophecy

Mr Darcy followed his friend into the room. He bowed to Sir William, acknowledged the assembled company with a single, sweeping glance, and established himself by the mantelpiece, where his towering height and solemnity gave him the appearance of a brooding gargoyle placed there specifically to discourage theft.

Elizabeth accepted a glass of negus from Charlotte. “He has found another wall. I feared Lucas Lodge might contain none stout enough to support him.”

Charlotte directed a discreet glance at the mantelpiece. “Perhaps he needs a fixed position from which to observe the room without risking an ambush.”

Elizabeth took a sip of her drink. “He appears to require very little encouragement in that respect.”

Mr Darcy’s gaze had already settled on Elizabeth. He did not turn away when she recognised it, although his expression disclosed nothing beyond the grave, unwavering concentration he might have granted an unfamiliar legal document. Miss Bingley approached him and began speaking rapidly. His eyes moved towards her, but Elizabeth retained the unsettling impression that his awareness had not followed them.

The dancing began before Mary could successfully attack the pianoforte. Mr Bingley claimed Jane, while Elizabeth partnered a young officer with excellent spirits, uncertain timing, and enough blind confidence to survive both. She enjoyed herself despite his repeated errors and returned to Charlotte once the set finally ended.

Sir William moved through his guests like a benevolent general whose campaign depended on universal merriment. He congratulated the dancers, praised the exhausted musicians, and assured Mrs Long that the elegance of Hertfordshire society must surely astonish visitors from much larger towns. Mr Darcy’s stony refusal to participate presented an intolerable challenge to a man who regarded dancing as the primary evidence of human civilisation.

Sir William approached Mr Darcy and spread one hand generously to the room. “My dear sir, you cannot remain removed from such pleasure. A gentleman of your figure must command every advantage in the dance.”

Mr Darcy inclined his head a fraction of an inch. “You are generous, Sir William, but I have no intention of dancing this evening.”

Sir William turned and discovered Elizabeth standing perilously close enough to become useful. Deep satisfaction illuminated his face. “No intention can survive the proper partner! Miss Eliza, you must rescue Mr Darcy from his determination. I have often observed your superiority in the dance, and I cannot permit so much talent to remain unemployed.”

Elizabeth had opened her mouth to deliver a polite, devastating refusal when Mr Darcy left the safety of the mantelpiece and approached her. Pure shock prevented her from moving before he stopped at the exact proper distance and offered his hand.

He bowed slightly. “Miss Elizabeth, may I have the honour?”

His manner contained none of the haughty contempt she expected. He appeared serious, although brutal tension held his shoulders rigid under the dark fabric of his coat. His extended hand was steady. The room had not fallen silent, but Elizabeth became uncomfortably aware of Charlotte standing frozen beside her, Sir William beaming before her, and Miss Bingley several feet away, observing the exchange with venomous displeasure.

She lowered her eyes to Mr Darcy’s gloved hand, then lifted them to his pale face. He had refused to dance with her at the assembly because she had not been handsome enough to tempt him. If regret had finally overtaken him, he might endure the consequences long enough to express it properly.

She arranged her mouth into her sweetest, most dangerous smile. “You are very obliging, Mr Darcy, but I must decline. I did not approach you in search of a partner, and I should be distressed if Sir William’s enthusiasm led you into an engagement against your own inclination.”

Sir William attempted to protest this madness, but Mr Darcy understood her perfectly. His hand lowered slowly to his side.

He met her gaze without blinking. “I would not have offered through compulsion.”

Elizabeth lifted her chin. “Then I am glad we have both retained our freedom.”

A faint movement touched the corner of his mouth and disappeared before she could decide whether it had been genuine amusement or a trick of the candlelight. He bowed again, offering no offence, no argument, and no attempt to persuade her.

“As you wish, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

His acceptance disrupted the satisfaction of refusing him. Elizabeth had expected wounded aristocratic pride, chill displeasure, or some cutting remark confirming his low opinion of her. Instead, he granted her decision and stepped aside, leaving Sir William loudly lamenting an opportunity lost to excessive modesty.

Elizabeth turned aside and reached for the fan she had left on a nearby table. Mr Darcy moved at the same moment, intending to retrieve the item for her, and their fingers met across the carved ivory handle.

A cold so profound it felt unreal passed through her glove. It was not the crisp chill of an autumn evening. It was the biting cold of a forgotten crypt.

Elizabeth withdrew her hand before courtesy required it, her pulse racing. Mr Darcy secured the fan and offered it to her, his features far more guarded than before.

He did not meet her eyes. “Your fan, Miss Elizabeth.”

She accepted it without letting their fingers touch again. “Thank you.”

He returned to the mantelpiece, although his composure had altered. One hand closed tightly over the other behind his back, concealing the fingers that had brushed hers.

Charlotte waited until Sir William had transferred his hospitality to another reluctant gentleman. “You may laugh, Lizzy, but Mr Darcy appears deeply interested in you.”

Elizabeth snapped her fan open. “He has an unusual method of demonstrating interest.”

Charlotte glanced at him. “He watches you whenever you enter his vicinity.”