Darcy favored Elizabeth with the most formal of bows, bending deeply. As he rose, he trained his eyes past her left cheek, but not before flicking over her a surreptitious glance. “To have thee by my side…” He stifled the thought. There was not a hint of pliancy from the stone maiden before him. Come, fool, complete your folly! he growled to himself, feeling the familiar coldness grip his chest. They joined hands and turned, facing the near end of the ballroom. Her tension, communicated to him through their conjoined fingers, increased perceptibly as they stepped forward into the pattern of the dance. Though he dared not look, Darcy could sense that she was peeping up at him. With what object, he could not guess and, until he knew something of her mind, decided that silence was his best course. Whatever solace he might derive from her company would, it appeared, be found only in the heady touch, release, and cradling of her gloved fingers. It must needs suffice.

Elizabeth’s hand stirred slightly in his grasp. “This choice of dance must seem rather out of fashion to one accustomed to St. James’s, Mr. Darcy.” In equal parts encouraged and alerted by her sudden bid for conversation, he looked down upon his partner. Whatever had caused her complaint of him she now seemed willing to overlook, but knowing her as he did, he was not confident of her true intent.

“As I told Sir William, I do not dance at St. James’s and, therefore, do not know what is considered dernier cri,” he replied cautiously. “The choice is well enough, in my opinion.” The pattern separated them for a few moments, but the respite afforded Darcy no inspiration. He rejoined her in silence.

“It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy,” she advised him pertly. “I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.”

Darcy peered down into her face with relief. Here, now, was the Elizabeth he knew. “Miss Bennet, pray instruct me! Whatever you wish me to say shall, on my honor, be said.”

Elizabeth acknowledged the gallantry of his remark with a curl of her lips into a reluctant little smile. “Very well; that reply will do for the present.” Darcy braved her devastating eyes until the last second as she circled him in the figure. When she reappeared on his other side, it was she who looked him a challenge. “Perhaps, by and by, I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones.” He reached for her hand as they both turned again to face the end of the room. “But now we may be silent.” The tension in her fingers was abated; they rested more easily now in his palm.

Darcy fully realized her condescension to silence was, in truth, a command to him to pick up the threads of the conversation. “Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?” he countered, indulgence in her little conceit being, surely, the safest response.

Her brows arched at that, and Darcy thought he detected a glint in her eyes that belied the return of severity to her lips. “Sometimes.” His instructress paused as Darcy circled her. “One must speak a little, you know.” This time it was her hand that sought the clasp of the next figure. “It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together.” She regarded him as if considering a point of logic. “And yet, for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.”

There was the sting of half-truth in that one! “Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case,” he parried, smoothly if not with grace, “or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?” The sharp little intake of breath by his partner told him the sally had found its mark, but a response was rendered impossible as the pattern separated them once more.

“Both,” she replied, to his complete surprise, when they were joined again. His astonishment was to increase. “For I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb.”

Darcy could not tell whether she was trying to provoke him to laughter or to ire. Again, he parried and feinted. “This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure.” He offered her the requisite demibow of the pattern, then waited, motionless, as she circled him. “How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. You think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.”

She returned to her place and took his outstretched hand. “I must not decide on my own performance.”

But I must decide upon it! Darcy thought to himself as they went down the dance, silent now by mutual consent. How strangely she behaves! Why? He glanced at her repeatedly as they worked their way through the figures, looking for some indication of her temper. Does she, in truth, think me such a curmudgeon? Or does she give offense merely for amusement? The more he considered her comportment toward him, the more he found his irritation growing. Is this, then, your vengeance for Meryton! Tit for tat!

With some acrimony, he moved toward his partner to regain her hand from the gentleman on his right, causing the paper in his breast pocket to rustle gently. Georgiana’s letter! All but forgotten, its contents now forcefully recommended themselves to his conscience, and for the sake of his sister’s regard for him, Darcy resolved to try once more to bridge the torrent of Elizabeth’s ill-use of him.

“Miss Bennet,” he began when she was secure in his possession for the next figure, “Bingley and I were on our way to Longbourn when we had the felicity of meeting you in the village last week. Do you and your sisters very often walk to Meryton?”

“Indeed, sir, we do.” She looked up at him closely. “When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”

Wickham! The anger he had felt upon seeing that face on the streets of Meryton returned in full measure: the insolence of his bow, the smirk on his lips, the knowing look in his eyes! Darcy’s jaws clamped tightly, and he looked fixedly ahead for some moments, unwilling to betray his disconcertment. At length, when sufficiently in command of himself to venture a response, he looked down into her countenance.

“Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends — whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain.”

“He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship,” she answered him heatedly, “and in a manner he is likely to suffer from all his life.”

Darcy’s mind reeled at her charge. Unlucky to lose his friendship! What could he possibly have to say for his infamous conduct? What monstrous falsehood was he peddling? Helpless to stop the roiling anger that again smote him, Darcy could give her no reply. The rest of their dance might have been conducted in silence if Sir William had not intruded on their separate reveries with fulsome admiration of their dancing.

“It is evident that you belong to the first circles, Mr. Darcy,” he complimented. “Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Miss Eliza, shall take place.” Darcy followed Sir William’s nod and found himself apprehending Bingley and Miss Bennet dancing together once again. His eyes narrowed in displeasure at Bingley’s complete disregard of his warning. “I appeal to Mr. Darcy — but let me not interrupt you, sir. You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young lady whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.”

At the mention of his partner’s eyes, Darcy recovered himself and turned to her, determined to take back the ground he had lost at Wickham’s hand, whatever the lies the blackguard had propounded. Perhaps, with prodding, Elizabeth would reveal them. He opened himself to attack. “Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we were talking of,” he confessed with a tight smile.

“I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have interrupted any two people in the room who had less to say for themselves,” she returned dismissively. “We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.”

She declines to continue the subject. What now? He cast about for some promising topic upon which to engage her attention toward himself and away from Wickham.

“Part of my soul, I seek thee…”

“What think you of books?” he asked quickly, smiling at the memory of the shared library that day.

“Books — oh! No. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.”

He almost laughed outright at her hasty denial. “I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions,” he pressed her.

“No — I cannot talk of books in a ballroom,” she insisted shakily. “My head is always full of something else.”

“The present always occupies you in such scenes — does it?” He allowed the doubt to seep into his voice.

“Yes, always,” she affirmed, her attention distracted by some thoughts of her own. And then, suddenly, “I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its being created.”