Yes, I am being severe on her partners; yes, I am growing increasingly testy; and, yes, I fear I am also in danger of reverting to the same unacceptable behaviour exhibited last time I was in this reeking, roughhewn room. I take a deep breath, hold it, count to ten, slowly exhale, and remind myself to calm down and relax … and smile, dammit, even if it kills me… or, what’s worse, causes facial muscle fatigue.

I shrug my shoulders, rub the back of my neck, and try to exude good humour. My manners must not give a disgust. I am neither above this company nor above being pleased. Agreeable countenance in place, I fixate on a certain raven-haired, brown-eyed beauty in a fetching blue frock as she dances with yet another bootless, boil-brained boar-pig. Said gown has a rather daring decolletage, and that pleasing part of her figure has my undivided attention as she lightly skips around her partner.

“I can guess the subject of your reverie.”

Please, God. Be merciful. Tell me the voice behind does not belong to Mr. Bennet. I turn around; and it is, of course, Elizabeth’s father. I swallow audibly and reply in an unusually high-pitched voice, “I should imagine not, sir.”

“Perhaps you would care to inspect them more closely. We are quite proud to have such a fine pair on display here.”

I trust my explicit oath was only mentally expressed; but the traitorous flush flooding my face must be a glaring testimony of guilt. What is the man about? I will neither be toyed with nor taken to task here in the midst of a country assembly.

I tug at my cravat and say, “I beg your pardon, sir?”