The music swelled through the Meryton Assembly Rooms, violins sweeping across the floor as couples spun in perfect time. Laughter and chatter floated like ribbons in the warm air, yet you remained by the edge of the room, one gloved hand resting behind your back, the other holding a glass of watered wine you scarcely tasted. Dancing, you had decided long ago, was best left to those who did not feel so ill-suited for it.

“You do not dance?”

The voice startled you from your thoughts—light, lilting, and tinged with amusement. You turned, only to find Elizabeth Bennet regarding you with her bright, intelligent eyes, the corners of her lips curved as though she already knew the answer.

“Not often,” you replied, inclining your head politely.

“Not often,” she repeated, stepping closer, her tone teasing. “Or not at all? There is a distinction, and I suspect the latter suits you better.”

Your brows lifted at her boldness, though the hint of laughter in her expression disarmed any offense. “You suspect rightly,” you said, unable to keep a wry smile from tugging at your mouth. “I have always considered myself ill-made for such exhibitions.”

Elizabeth’s gaze flicked to the dancers—Charlotte twirling past with an airy laugh, her skirts a whirl of white and pink. “Ill-made? For music and movement? You must forgive me, but you look quite… capable.”

Her remark drew a surprised breath of laughter from you. “You think so?”

“I do,” she said, stepping nearer until only the slimmest space lay between propriety and impropriety. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight, daring you. “Do you not wish to prove it?”

“I should hate to embarrass myself—or worse, you,” you murmured, though the words lacked conviction.

Elizabeth extended her hand then, gloved fingers pale against the deep blue of her gown. “Then allow me to promise I shall not tell,” she whispered conspiratorially, leaning just close enough for the soft cadence of her voice to settle against your ear, “if you happen to step on my toes.”

You stared at her hand, the fine curve of her wrist, the amused quirk of her mouth. Around you, the room blurred into warm candlelight and strains of melody, as though the entire assembly held its breath for your answer.