Retreating to a corner where I can smooth ruffled feathers, I wonder why Elizabeth has to be so bloody agreeable and, oh, so totally charming, not to mention absolutely ravishing in that fetching blue frock. I heave a lovesick sigh, reminiscent of Bingley, and wander off in his direction.

I really should be engaged in a more sociable activity, such as reacquainting myself with all the principal people in the room; but my heart is not in it. My heart is either somewhere in my shoes or in Elizabeth’s possession out on the dance floor. Either way, it is certainly being trampled underfoot. I hover close at hand to Bingley but withstand the impulse to speak only with him. I did that almost exclusively the last time we were here. There is not much likelihood of doing so now anyway; he is, of course, preoccupied with his blessed angel and chatting up a group of locals. Bah! I nod at them, take a stance with the other wallflowers, and wallow in self-pity.

Bitterness of spirit, petulant pouting, and boorish brooding are not to be borne. Nevertheless, it is a dreadful injustice I can arrange neither a dance nor a private moment with Elizabeth. I simply must determine whether I have the slightest chance of earning her regard. The woman has captivated my heart and holds the power to either break it or grant its every wish. My personal preference would be the latter.

I close my eyes against the sight of her enjoying another man’s company. Good God, am I jealous? … of a countrified, base-court, fat-kidneyed scut? I am one of the wealthiest men in England and could bloody-well have any woman I bloody-well desire. In truth, I am pathetically envious of said scut. He is the fortunate recipient of Elizabeth’s radiant smiles, unaffected airs, and witty banter. She is the only woman in the country who would have the audacity to devalue money and rank… and with the good sense to have refused my arrogant offer.