She is tolerable… (C.E. Brock Illustration)

Fitzwilliam Darcy wished to rub his temples or pinch the bridge of his nose – anything to stop the throbbing behind his eyes that accompanied the incessant babbling of his overly gregarious friend. He wanted to relieve his discomfort, but he could not. He would not display such flagrant disdain for his friend’s exuberance. At least, he would not do so here. Had they been in private, he would have told his friend in rather ungentlemanly terms to cease speaking. But, they were not in private – far from it!

The completion of a set of dances brought with it a small bit of relief as the music stopped and the room was left with just the cacophony of voices to fill its length, breadth, and height. Thankfully, most who were standing along the edges of the room adjusted the volume of their voices accordingly. However, there were a few who did not. There were always a few at these sorts of events who either cared not that their voice carried from one end of the dance floor to the other, or they had imbibed a trifle too freely of the beverages which were on offer.

A crowded assembly room was not a place where Darcy liked to spend much time. He was only in this one because he could not convince his friend to leave him at Netherfield.

Darcy drew a silent fortifying breath. Bingley’s attention, which had been momentarily distracted by some new acquaintance with a daughter in need of a husband who possessed a sizeable fortune, as Bingley did, was once again turned toward Darcy. If only he could speak plainly to Bingley. But he could not. His current surroundings demanded that he attempt to use subtlety to inform his friend that no amount of constant nattering was going to persuade him to dance.

And that was the problem. Bingley was almost entirely incapable of recognizing subtlety, and the more enamored he was with his circumstances and the more excited he was about whatever possibility he was presenting, the less likely he was to hear subtlety. Charles Bingley was not stupid. Far from it! However, he was easily distractible when presented with lively entertainment and pretty ladies.

Darcy tried to focus on the stream of praise for their current surroundings coming from his friend. How could Bingley find such environs to be worthy of notice, let alone praise?  Darcy had never, in the entirety of his life, enjoyed being in a room, filled to overflowing, with people, nor had he ever discovered the delight which some found in dancing.

To him, a room crowded with people – the majority of whom were strangers – all gawking at him, whispering about him, and measuring him with their chosen standard, be it clothing, disposition, looks, or wealth, had always been akin to tolerable torture. However, after recent events in his life, the whispers had grown louder, the looks had become more calculated, and Darcy had begun to feel less and less like a horse, being appraised by a potential new owner at Tattersalls, and more and more like a fish at the fishmongers, being haggled over by the cook who would be serving him on a platter at some elegant dinner.

Had Bingley not noticed the way the mothers had pushed their daughters forward into his path? Had he not noticed the cunning look of the huntress as she prepared to ensnare her prey? Pleasant company? Hardly. The room was too small, too lacking in air, and too abundant in fragrance – not all of which were pleasing to the nose.

“Darcy, you simply must dance.”

Darcy shook his head slightly and gave his friend a hard glare. He had already done his duty in dancing with both of Bingley’s sisters, who were just as shrewd as any of the mothers in attendance, though, perhaps, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were a bit more wily having practiced their techniques in the venues of the ton. What more could Bingley want?

“Come now. You must dance. You cannot just stand about all night.”

Dance? Had Bingley suggested dancing – again? Obviously, Bingley, in his exuberance, was unwilling or unable to comprehend the stare that Darcy had given him. A more direct approach seemed necessary.

“As you know, I do not like dancing, and I shall not be moved to do so.”

Did his friend have any idea how trying, how uncomfortable, how utterly unbearable it was to be introduced to new people, to fumble for words, and to act the part of the master of Pemberley as people expected? Had he not told Bingley of his struggles with conversation?

The throbbing behind Darcy’s eyes grew with his frustration. He sighed. Bingley was now extolling the beauty of the ladies present. Darcy knew that his friend had found one lady to be of particular interest. Bingley always found one to capture his interest for the length of an evening. However, none of them kept his attention for longer than a week or two if she was fortunate enough not to be replaced at the beginning of a new day.

The beauty whom Bingley had settled upon at this ball was a handsome blonde who smiled very willingly at one and all. She was far too agreeable for Darcy’s liking, but it would not do to insult his friend’s preference.

“You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room.” Darcy hoped that such a mention would turn the conversation to Bingley’s opinion of his dancing partner and, with any luck, send him off in search of her. For a moment, it seemed to work.

“Miss Bennet is lovely is she not? I dare say I have never met another who compares to her.”

“She is a beauty.”

“As are her sisters. In fact, there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. I shall ask Miss Bennet to introduce you.” Bingley made to step away.

Darcy’s arm shot out to stay his friend. Panic coursed through him. Was Bingley actually going to arrange the introduction without waiting for Darcy’s consent?

“What do you mean? There is a pretty sister where?”

“Just there, behind you.”

Darcy looked to see of whom his friend was speaking.

“The one who is talking to the lady next to her,” Bingley whispered. “In the green dress.”

The dress, which the lady, whom Bingley had indicated, wore was not so fashionable as some, but the colour did compliment her creamy complexion and brown hair with its tinges of copper. She was a rather pretty lady who seemed out of place sitting amongst the wallflowers. Why would someone so lovely as she be sitting down rather than dancing? She must have some defect. He stared at her, as he wondered what would prevent her from not having a partner for every dance – until she looked up. Soft brown eyes caught his. Startled, he looked away.

She was not just pretty. She was captivating. However, it would not do for Bingley to know that Darcy found Miss Bennet’s sister to be attractive. Armed with such information, Bingley would become as unrelenting as Darcy’s best hunting dog, chasing and manoeuvring until his prey – in this case, Darcy – was cornered. He must be as direct and as ruthless as possible to stop the attack before it could be launched. Such a tactic made him uneasy, but Darcy knew that a bit of prevarication was necessary. Where was the harm in it? It was Bingley to whom he was speaking. Bingley would tease him about it later, but he would not share what Darcy said with anyone.

In a low, indifferent tone, Darcy said, “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough –”

His words were interrupted when Bingley grabbed him by the arm and spun both of them out of the way of a gentleman – a Mr. Dalton if Darcy remembered correctly – who was attempting to steady his partner and save her from the complete humiliation of a fall. Darcy watched as the young lady regained her footing and continued in the dance. He shook his head, and an amused smile tugged at his lips. It was the first time he had felt any amusement in months.

“I do believe that young lady’s feet are trying to take her in different directions,” Bingley said.

“Yes, indeed,” Darcy agreed. “A man will wish to be vigilant dancing with such a partner if he does not want to literally fall into the parson’s mousetrap.” A smile spread wide across his face.

“A trap you have successfully managed to evade for years, old man.” Bingley clapped Darcy on the shoulder and laughed as Darcy gave him an exasperated look. “As I understand it, the marriage state is not to be feared.”

“If you enter into it with the correct person, it is not, but I have seen enough unequal marriages to give me pause.”

“Be that as it may, you will never find the right person if you continue to limit your socializing to those people with whom you are already acquainted.” Bingley folded his arms across his chest and wore a conceited sort of grin. He had managed to manoeuvre the conversation very neatly back to where it had been and with a solid argument for why Darcy should not refuse an introduction.

“I believe,” Bingley continued, “that I had offered to arrange for an introduction, and you were saying something about the lady being tolerable or some such drivel before we were interrupted. Please continue.”

Darcy opened his mouth to continue with his cruel prevarication but abruptly closed it again as he realized that they now stood mere feet away from the lady, and since Bingley had spun him, the beguiling young woman was no longer behind him but was rather directly in front of him.