Page 3 of Fortuitous Encounters

“You are half-right. I am reasonably certain I am not a man, but I do believe I have a practical bent. To what do these questions pertain?”

He grinned again. Their repartee was so much more interesting than the typical insipid drivel that passed for conversation in most ballrooms. He suspected that if he could extract himself from her brown books, he might find her manners most pleasing, but he certainly was not in the clear yet.

After another turn around a circle, he gave her another lopsided grin, which was practically unheard of for him, but becoming easier with practice.

“From a practical standpoint, I suspect the production of gossip may not be best served if I keep calling you Miss Tolerable, and I suspect your sister's name will not suit our purposes either.”

Elizabeth laughed again, slightly longer. “Would you suggest another name?”

“Easily done! I suggest Miss Generous.”

She raised a single eyebrow to query for more details, so the gentleman after another turn continued, “You have generously agreed to spend your hard-earned leisure assisting a blind man to learn to dance, and simultaneously giving instruction in deportment to the stupidest man in England!”

That did it. The lady dissolved in a laugh that rang across the room and gave him one of her brilliant—and to be hoped, less rare—smiles.

The matrons were already preparing themselves to share the tale far and wide—but oddly enough, he found he did not mind. He had made a lady laugh happily in a dance. A man could not be faulted for that, could he?

Miss Bingley turned red and stalked off the dance floor, so apparently someone could, but he found himself even less concerned with her than with the matrons. For just a moment—for the first time since Ramsgate—he was simply happy with his lot. Such a state was surprising, and he did not expect it to last long. The lady would recover her anger soon enough, but for the moment, all was well.

Another turn down the line brought them back together, and she executed another neatly disguised curtsey. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn.”

Following her lead, he executed a bow disguised as a misstep. “I am delighted to meet you, Miss Elizabeth. Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley at your service.”

With proper introductions performed—well, not strictly proper but much better than his last attempt—the pair concentrated on the steps. Both were surprised to discover the other to be light of foot and elegant when they were not staring daggers at each other.

They even briefly tried their hands at ordinary conversation, with forays into the weather, the roads, and the other usual topics. However, neither of them could suppress a giggle at each attempt, so they finally gave it up as a lost cause. The dance finally ended, as all dances must, but both found themselves curiously reluctant to part company.

After the easy camaraderie of the start of the dance, Darcy found himself nervous, but exerted himself to ask, “Miss Elizabeth, may I offer you refreshment?”

The shyness of the request dissolved any remaining doubts in the lady’s mind. In the end, she really was no more capable of holding a grudge than Jane; she found herself slightly shy, for perhaps the first time in her life. After such an ignominious beginning, could they perhaps make something of their acquaintance? She would have been certain it was impossible an hour earlier, but she found she liked the man standing beside her. He was of such consequence that she would never be any more than a trifling acquaintance, but she thought if she could chip away further at his obvious reserve, he might be a man worth spending a few hours with before he returned to town.

The slight that began the evening was long-forgotten, and she was only grateful that somehow the fates had spared her the indignity of it being overheard. She had just barely prevented herself from sharing it. That would have been an irrecoverable calamity; she would have hated him until the end of time while he was likely unaware of her animosity.

Such was her pensiveness that the gentleman began to fidget nervously; she simply smiled, nodded, and boldly took the arm he had lacked the nerve to offer. His smile brightened his face so much that she found herself quite satisfied with her evening’s work.

They took their punch and stood conversing on the side of the room through much of the next set, where they were joined by Charlotte Lucas, who had the courtesy to ask, “How do you like Hertfordshire, Mr Darcy?”

Darcy returned a shy smile. “I like it very much. The countryside is not quite as wild as what I am accustomed to in Derbyshire, and I have not been through much of it, but what I have seen I like.”

Charlotte owned that she would like to see Derbyshire or the Peak District one day.

Elizabeth added, “I believe my aunt and uncle may go there next summer, and there is some chance I will be able to join them. I should like that very much.”

Charlotte’s next partner approached for their set. John Lucas considered asking Elizabeth for a dance, but a quick shake of her head dissuaded him. They had been friends since childhood; John came to her aid whenever required, but there would never be more than friendship between them.

After Charlotte’s departure, Elizabeth and Mr Darcy fell into easy conversation about travelling, books, and music, discovering a surprising ease and a happy commonality of interests. They spent most of the first dance in contented discussion, satisfied when nobody, not even Miss Bingley, disturbed their little circle.

“Have you ever toured the continent?” she asked, thinking the question innocuous, but then noticed a look of sadness appear over the gentleman.

“I had a grand tour planned, but it was cut short when my father died some five years ago. I had to take over management of our estate, and the care of my sister, who is more than a decade my junior.”

Elizabeth was surprised. He could not possibly have been much older than Jane when he shouldered responsibility for hundreds. Perhaps the burden of carrying it for years had left him a little rough around the edges; she should reserve judgement and discard any first impressions.

“I am so sorry. That must have been exceedingly difficult. How old is your sister?”

“Georgiana is now fifteen,” he replied thoughtfully.

“A trying age, I am sure,” she replied casually, her gaze drifting to her sister Lydia, who had clearly made too many trips to the punch table. It was embarrassing, but nothing out of the ordinary for a Bennet. She hoped Mr Darcy was not too mortified by the two youngest.