Looking back, he realized he should have known that an evening beginning as inauspiciously as this one had could never, once in motion, be recouped. They had arrived at the squire’s more than fashionably late due to some detail of Miss Bingley’s dress that displeased her at the very last moment. They were further encumbered by the unfortunate throwing of a horseshoe by the carriage’s team leader, necessitating a slower than usual passage through the countryside. The muskiness of Mrs. Hurst’s perfume, which seemed to pervade the carriage, was nigh on giving him a headache, so that by the time they had finally gained their host’s drawing room, Darcy was hard-pressed to maintain an even temper.

Insisting that he be the last of the party to make his bow to their host, Darcy paused a moment just within the door to clear his head and regain his equilibrium. Miss Bingley was heartily welcomed by the squire and then handed ceremoniously on to his wife, who, with the daughters of the house, returned her curtsy in awed silence. Visibly pleased with the effect of her entrance, Miss Bingley condescended to inquire after their health and soon thereafter was gratified to be the center of attention, consisting of clothes envy on the part of most of the ladies and appreciation for the drape of those clothes on the part of the gentlemen. The Hursts followed, and then Bingley made his bow, receiving also a great shaking of his hand as the squire apologized for the pressing nature of his duties, the urgency of which had denied him the pleasure of joining the previous day’s hunting at Netherfield. “You must tell me how you like your new weapon, Mr. Bingley. I have been considering the purchase of just such a model.”

“I would be delighted, sir, to tell you all, but would not a demonstration be worth a thousand words? You must come to Netherfield at your earliest convenience and try it for yourself,” Bingley generously proposed, the invitation further cementing his approval among the denizens of Hertfordshire. He moved on to make his bow to the squire’s lady and was received with much apparent pleasure by the good woman and her daughters.

Darcy then presented himself to his host. “Mr. Darcy, sir,” began the squire, “I hear you have a most accomplished hound. The word is that after it has presented you with your trophy, it gathers wood for a fire, unpacks your hunt bag, and prepares the game in the Italian style for your dinner!” The small group of gentlemen in their vicinity laughed appreciatively. “Sir, name your price! I must have this wonder.”

“My apologies, Squire, for you have been seriously misled,” Darcy replied. His lower lip twitched slightly but he did not cease his sober regard of his host. “The hound is but young and still in much need of training. I regret to say that the Italian style is quite beyond its capabilities, but as the hound insists on putting garlic in everything, your informant’s mistake is understandable.” Darcy’s understated humor was greeted with dead silence for a moment, then the squire roared with laughter and the others joined him.

“Well done, Mr. Darcy! I see more goes on in that brain-box than your face betrays. May I present my wife?” The squire did the necessary, and Darcy soon found himself free to join whatever knot of fellow guests he might choose. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were well occupied with admirers. Mr. Hurst was arguing the merits of Gentleman’s Pride against Gray Shadow in their last race. Bingley was ensnared in a hunting conversation that Darcy could plainly see he wished to escape, as every few sentences he craned his head around, looking about the long room.

Yes, where are the Bennet sisters? Darcy began to search himself. Dismissing the group around Miss Bingley, he began a perambulation of the room. He was about to move past some people gathered around a settee when the gentleman in front of him stepped back, nearly colliding with him. Sidestepping in time not to be trod upon, he suddenly found himself face-to-face with Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

“May I wish you good evening, Miss Bennet?” he began quickly, his bow to her as elegantly correct as if he were under the eyes of the queens of London Society. Her curtsy was his equal in correctness.

“You may, sir,” she said, paused, and then added somewhat distractedly as she looked up at him, “though whether it be good will depend upon ourselves, will it not?” Her lips curved into a perfunctory smile that appeared and then vanished in a moment, but not before Darcy was captivated by the sparkle that even such a slight smile could not help but put into her eyes. His confusion increased as she stepped to one side and peered around him, a slight frown creasing what he was forced to concede was a lovely brow. “If you would please excuse me, Mr. Darcy, there is something that needs my immediate attention.”

“Certainly, Miss Bennet,” he managed to say, if only to her back, as she hurried away. Taken somewhat aback by this treatment, Darcy first thought that she was continuing to pay him out his punishment for his ill-considered words on both of their last meetings and that her seeming avoidance of himself was part of her game. But as he watched her engaged in soothing the flutterings of her mother and “having a word” with a younger sister, he saw that her abrupt leave-taking had some legitimacy and that his suspicion was unfounded.

At dinner Darcy experienced some regret that he was not strictly within Elizabeth Bennet’s sphere of polite interchange, being seated across the table and two chairs down; but he was close enough to witness her easy and engaging manner with those fortunate enough to share her end of the table. With grudging admiration, he could not help but note her delightful way of teasing gruff, old Major ——— into good humor on the one hand and, later, assuring a shy, young country dandy that the knot of his neckcloth was “bang up to the mark” on the other. Whether she was exchanging wit or listening in sympathy, he marked the uncommon intelligence displayed in her beautiful, dark eyes and wondered that he had dismissed her so thoughtlessly at the assembly.

His opinion sought on a matter by a fellow guest to his other side, Darcy was a few moments before he could return his attention down the table. It happened that the conversation around Elizabeth Bennet had ebbed, affording her an opportunity to partake of some refreshment. She extended a slender, dimpled arm and grasped the stem of the wineglass between delicately formed fingers. Darcy watched, inexplicably fascinated, as with unconscious grace she slowly brought it to her lips. She sipped the wine, ever so slightly, and gently returned the glass to its place. As she released it and returned her hand to her lap, Darcy released the breath he had not realized that he had been holding. He quickly averted his eyes before she could notice his inappropriate behavior, directing them instead to his own glass of wine. His pulse somewhat elevated, his grip on his glass was not as sure as hers had been, and the wine sloshed dangerously in the bowl as he raised it. What is the matter with you? he scolded himself, then swallowed the contents without tasting anything.

The squire pushed back his chair from the dinner table and suggested, with a broad wink, that the gentlemen might enjoy a bit of something that his business agent had acquired for those of discriminating taste. It awaited them in his card room; would they be pleased to accompany him? Darcy rose along with the other gentlemen, at the same time anxious and loath to leave for reasons he preferred not to explore.

After accepting his glass of very illegal French brandy, he turned to discover himself being observed by an older man on whose countenance there played a look of interest. At Darcy’s involuntary stiffening, the look transformed into one of bemusement, and Darcy received, to his astonishment, a salute from the man. In puzzlement, he returned the salute, lifting his glass in like manner, and tipped a few drops down his throat. The brandy was excellent, and Darcy closed his eyes momentarily, the better to appreciate its warming glow. When he opened them, he beheld the beaming face of his host.

“Mr. Darcy, I venture to claim that even you have not often partaken of such a fine example of the distiller’s art!” The squire barely paused for Darcy’s assent before continuing, “I only wish that we could get American tobacco as easily as French brandy.”

“We could, if it were British tobacco again,” bellowed the major, coming across the room to join them. “I say, be done with all the palavering. Show them the business ends of our cannon in their capital’s streets and put an end to this nonsense! United States! Phaugh! Mark me, sir. They’ll be marching on Canada colony if someone at St. James’s does not mind more than the cut of his waistcoat. When I was there in ’seventy-nine…” Thereupon ensued a heated discussion of the impending war, from which Darcy happily excused himself.

He found a comfortable chair in a quiet corner and settled back into its depths with no more purpose than to enjoy the truly fine brandy. Holding up his glass to catch the light from the lamp at his side, he noted with approval its delicate amber color and how it glittered deliciously, scattering the reflected light. Before the thought could be stopped, he was comparing its display with what he had observed in Miss Bennet’s eyes. He swiftly brought the glass down on the table. Fool! he admonished himself under his breath as he shifted uneasily in the chair.

Wondering what had become of Bingley, he looked about, locating him near the fireplace conversing with the man who had saluted him and who thanks to his host he now knew to be Mr. Bennet. Darcy could well imagine how intensely Bingley was trying to gain the older man’s good opinion, for the earnestness on his face was almost painful to behold. Although Mr. Bennet appeared to be giving Bingley his equally earnest attention, Darcy thought he detected a glitter of sardonic amusement in his eye and was not entirely pleased. His sense of duty to his friend argued that he go to his rescue but, given his own curious exchange with the gentleman, Darcy felt a decided reluctance to intervene. He was only too thankful when the squire suggested that they rejoin the ladies.