Carrie Bebris: Suspense & Sensibility

"We can survive." She suppressed a wry smile and lowered her voice so that it reached only his ears. "Will you?"

Before Darcy could respond, their host addressed his sons and Mr. Dashwood. "I’m sure you fellows will attend to the ladies?"

"Of course, Father," answered William.

Darcy departed with the baronet to enjoy Hartford’s regaling account, and William immediately fulfilled his filial obligation by asking Georgiana to dance. She accepted, and the two went to join the reel just beginning.

John Middleton suggested that perhaps the two remaining ladies might care for some refreshment. Though not hungry or thirsty, Elizabeth welcomed the opportunity to move to another room of the house. No sooner did the party pass through the doorway, however, than Mr. Middleton spotted a chap he simply had to speak to about a horse, or a hound, or something or other, and would the ladies please excuse him? He abandoned them before they could answer, leaving Elizabeth and Kitty in the sole custody of Mr. Dashwood.

Elizabeth half expected him to drop them as quickly as Mr. Middleton had, in search of more fashionable people with whom to while away the night. However, he offered his arm to Kitty, who almost tripped over her own feet in her eagerness to accept it, and proved himself most attentive as he steered them through the crowded rooms.

"So, why haven’t I seen you at Almack’s yet this season?"

"We have only just arrived in town," Kitty replied. "And Mr. Darcy doesn’t like Almack’s."

Mr. Dashwood laughed. "None of us likes Almack’s."

"Then why does everybody go there?"

"Because everyone else is there. And to talk about how much they dislike it. The only thing more fashionable than being seen at Almack’s is complaining about it."

"Oh." Kitty’s gaze bordered on worshipful every time she looked at Mr. Dashwood. "Well, then, if I am fortunate enough to go, I shall object the whole while."

Mr. Dashwood laughed again. "I should wail until afterward, were I you. The last feathers you want to ruffle in London are those of Almack’s patronesses."

"Why is that?"

He stopped, regarding her with a look that was half surprise, half amusement. "My — you are new in town, aren’t you? Admission to Almack’s is decided by seven ladies who guard its vouchers more fiercely than dragons their gold. Their influence in society extends well beyond the walls of their assembly rooms. Cross one of them, and you might as well go back to the country for the rest of the season."

Kitty absorbed this intelligence with the solemnity of an acolyte being indoctrinated into a new religion. Had Mr. Dashwood revealed that the beau monde subscribed to an official creed, she would have memorized it.

They moved on. Mr. Dashwood greeted numerous acquaintances, appearing to know nearly everyone. As they passed two fastidiously dressed dandies, he nodded in acknowledgment. "Albertson. Leopold." They bowed in response.

"Those jeweled buckles on their shoes look absurd," he said when they had passed out of earshot. "But I shall have to ask them who designed their waistcoats."

Kitty turned round to get a second look at the shoes, but another party had closed in behind them, blocking the view. One could still glimpse Albertson’s chest, however. "Your own waistcoat is more flattering," she said.

He stopped to look her lull in the face, assessing her sincerity "Truly?"

"At least — well, I think so anyway." A flush crept into her cheeks. "But what do I know about gentlemen’s clothes?"

"Enough to know your own mind. That puts you ahead of half the ladies in this room." He took her arm once more and continued leading them toward the dining room. "I’d be careful about expressing it, though. You wouldn’t want to let on that you can think for yourself."

"Is that a liability in a woman?" Elizabeth asked.

"In some corners of the Polite World, that is a liability in anyone. We are a frivolous, mindless lot."

Kitty continued to gaze at Mr. Dashwood as if he were the first gentleman she’d ever encountered. Indeed, she seemed to be concentrating harder on making conversation with him than Elizabeth had ever seen her focus on anything else in her life.

"Are you in London for the whole season?" Kitty asked.

"I live here most of the year. I have a house in Sussex, but I haven’t spent much time at Norland since I was a boy. First I was at Eton, then Oxford, and now I prefer the entertainments of town to country living."

Unlike so many other women in the room, whose eyes roamed while in conversation with one partner to see whether anyone better happened nearby, Kitty bestowed her full attention on Mr. Dashwood — a fact not lost upon him. When the press of people attempting to squeeze through a too-narrow doorway required their party to pause, he observed that they stood mere feet from the Marquess of Avonbury, one of society’s most eligible young gentlemen.

"Have you met the marquess?" Mr. Dashwood asked.

Kitty, who just hours earlier would have swooned at finding herself in such proximity to any unattached peer, barely spared him a glance. "No."

"Would you like me to introduce you?"

Mr. Dashwood extended his offer in a nonchalant manner, but Elizabeth sensed a larger question lay beneath the surface. His eye held a subtle look of appraisal.

"Perhaps later. You were speaking to me of Sussex," Kitty replied. "Is your mother still at Norland?"

His expression bespoke approval. The marquess was left behind as Mr. Dashwood guided them through the doorway. "She divides her time between Norland and London, though she’s been in town since my father died."

"Is that when Norland fell to you?" Elizabeth asked.

"Yes, although it was entailed to me when I was a child by the will of a great-great-uncle I can’t even remember."

"I’m sure it’s a lovely house," Kitty said.

He shrugged. "As I said, I don’t spend much time there." He led them around a cluster of ladies who eyed them with particular interest. He ignored their curiosity. "I understand Pember-ley is quite grand?" he asked Kitty.

"It is! Lizzy calls it the most beautiful house in all England. I look forward to visiting there this summer."

He regarded her as if she’d said something odd. "You don’t live there, then?"

"No. Why would I?"

He cast her another approving glance. "I see we are of like mind."

Kitty drew her brows together in puzzlement, not knowing how to interpret his reply. For that matter, neither did Elizabeth.

"In preferring town over the country," he clarified.

"Oh! Yes — town has so much more to offer, doesn’t it?"

Mr. Dashwood acknowledged three more friends, one of whom bestowed a rakish grin on Kitty.

"You are keeping fine company tonight, Dashwood," he said.

"Save the charm for your wife, Cavanaugh." After they passed, he leaned toward Kitty and spoke in a conspiratorial voice Elizabeth heard only with difficulty. "Only one week wed, and already the baron is back on the prowl."

Kitty’s jaw dropped. "Does his wife know?"

"I don’t think so. She’s been too busy this evening making eyes at his closest friend."

Mr. Dashwood delivered the gossip as dispassionately as if reading a Times item about wholesale tea prices. The beau monde, with its endless intrigues and scandals, was a world away from the small Hertfordshire village where the Bennet sisters had grown up. It remained an utterly foreign culture to Kitty and a place Elizabeth would much rather visit than inhabit. But Mr. Dashwood was clearly in his element, moving through the intricacies of this society as easily as he navigated the busy rooms.

At last, they reached the tea table. Mr. Dashwood saw that they were served, but did not partake of anything himself.