Page 50 of The Heroic Mr Darcy's Bad Manners
“I can assure you there is no chance of that!” Elizabeth replied wryly. Her feelings were not likely to become engaged by a stripling just out of leading strings.
“I meant no offence. It is just that my heart is no longer mine to give,” the young man added.
Elizabeth’s own heart immediately softened.
“Are you engaged or perhaps married?” she asked out of politeness.
“No, not yet,” the swain answered ruefully. “Though I consider myself married, we have yet to say our vows before God.”
How lovely! Even at such an early age, Lord Worcester showed an admirable devotion to his heart’s desire. To be so admired must mean that there was an incredibly lucky lady somewhere.
“Is she here?” Elizabeth asked whilst searching the edges of the room for a scowling young woman.
“Unfortunately not. She was not invited, and I promised her not to dance with any other lady, but my father would not hear of it.”
He looked so forlorn she could not help but pity him.
“I give you leave to tell her I was a very disagreeable dance partner. Barely tolerable and not handsome enough to tempt you.” Elizabeth smiled at the disheartened boy. She was relieved when the dance ended as he had spoken about nothing else but Harriette, his lady love.
Three undesirable partners later, she excused herself by pleading a need to refresh herself and went in search of the designated room.
It was not Elizabeth’s intention to eavesdrop, but when a certain gentleman was mentioned, she could not help but stop and pretended to admire some paintings.
“Mr Darcy has taken an interest in you. He never dances with anyone besides the lady of the house or his particular friends. It is as much as a declaration from a gentleman of his ilk. You should put on a becoming dress come morning because I predict you will have a desirable caller on the morrow.”
Elizabeth gazed upon the likeness of a distant ancestor of Lady Jersey with underserved attention. Why she would torment herself in this way was a conundrum, but her legs did not want to move away.
“I was so relieved when he asked me to dance. I had been sitting out for three dances, but he engaged Miss Villiers before me.”
“She married Lord Ponsonby two years ago and is Lady Ponsonby now. Honestly, Millie, you must keep up with the titbits, though I suppose you may be excused in this instance. Lady Ponsonby has not ventured much into society since the scarlet fever left her more or less deaf. His lordship must love her very much to overlook her deficiency.”
Elizabeth had seen Lady Ponsonby at the theatre; she was stunningly beautiful and of a demure disposition, which was exactly what a gentleman looked for in a wife. There was no reason to disparage her.
“Oh, he is dancing with Miss Carter now,” the young girl lamented.
“That freckled little thing does not hold a candle to you, Millie.”
“I am hardly any prettier,” the one called Millie demurred.
“You have a noble nose and an excellent character. I dare say Mr Darcy is less attracted to fickle beauty and prefers a good God-fearing girl.”
It was not long before Miss Millie’s good fortune was bandied about the ballroom as the newest titbit. Elizabeth, always conscious of Mr Darcy’s whereabouts, thought the girl had imagined too much intention behind her one set, which became apparent over the course of the evening. Mr Darcy danced every set and showed a penchant for the overlooked and miserable. He typical chose the ladies who were infrequently engaged by other gentlemen, a scheme she heartily applauded though it differed vastly from his behaviour in Meryton. It confirmed her belief that Mr Darcy behaved differently in his own sphere as opposed to a lesser society in the country.
Elizabeth danced the next set with a young untitled gentleman. He was handsome, but to engage him in conversation was an arduous task. She was being escorted back to her grandmother when she spotted a familiar face amongst the gentlemen and excused herself before another young buck had time to engage her. She made a direct line and flashed past Mr Darcy, who was leading a young lady back to her family.
“Mr Knightley,” she said, curtseying and smiling at her cousin’s neighbour. He was a frequent visitor at the Hartfield estate—a daily occurrence judging by her cousin Emma’s letters.
“Lady Elizabeth.” He bowed. “John told me that your father has been elevated to the Earl of Glentworth.”
“Yes, he has,” Elizabeth confirmed and changed the subject. “How is Emma? Is she here?”
Mr Knightley raised his brows. “I highly doubt Mr Woodhouse would ever allow her to come to London.”
“You are quite right, how silly of me,” Elizabeth agreed. Mr Woodhouse’s nervous disposition was excessive and severely limited Emma’s movements, prospects, and even her diet.
“I would not go that far. You are a witty and clever creature, and one is allowed to hope, I suppose.”
Elizabeth did not know whether to be offended about being deemed a creature or flattered by the unexpected praise. Mr Knightley was a restrained gentleman who did not shy away from frequently scolding her dear cousin Emma. Emma was Aunt Gardiner’s niece, and because of Mr Woodhouse’s fluttering nerves and her own father’s distaste for travelling, the cousins by marriage were mostly left to correspond through numerous letters.
