He could not hear their conversation from across the room—could only watch as Wickham leaned close, his expression solicitous, his posture intimate. But he could see Miss Elizabeth's response now, and what he saw made his heart swell.
No warmth. No welcome. Only polite, frigid tolerance.
Darcy started forward anyway.
He was halfway across the room when Miss Elizabeth's voice cut through the chatter, cool and clear and carrying.
“You are mistaken, sir. Mr. Darcy has shown me nothing but integrity.”
Darcy stopped.
The words were a declaration. A banner unfurled in his defense, public and unmistakable. He watched Miss Elizabeth's expression, visible now in profile, and saw no softness in it. Only polite, icy clarity.
“I would prefer,” she continued, “that this topic be closed entirely.”
Wickham's smile faltered. For a brief, satisfying moment, the charming mask slipped entirely, revealing the cold calculation beneath.
Then he recovered, bowed with exaggerated courtesy, and withdrew.
Darcy watched him go with grim satisfaction.
Bingley's announcement came shortly after ten o'clock.
He stood in the center of the drawing room, Jane beside him, his face alight with joy so pure it was almost painful to witness. The room fell silent as he raised his glass.
“Friends. Neighbors. Family.” His voice trembled slightly but held. “I have the honor—the very great honor—of announcing my engagement to Miss Jane Bennet.”
A heartbeat of silence.
Then Mrs. Bennet screamed.
The sound was somewhere between a shriek and a sob, so loud that several guests jumped and a footman nearly dropped his tray. She clutched at Mr. Bennet, who bore the assault with resigned patience, while tears streamed down her face.
“JANE IS ENGAGED! My beautiful Jane! Oh, I knew it—I always knew it—did I not say, Mr. Bennet? Did I not say he would propose before Twelfth Night?”
“You did, my dear. Repeatedly.”
“And now it has happened! Oh, my nerves! My heart! I may faint!”
Mrs. Bennet did not faint, but she did require smelling salts, a chair, and several minutes of vigorous fanning before she was sufficiently recovered to begin planning the wedding at top volume.
The room erupted into congratulations. Guests crowded around the happy couple, offering good wishes and admiring Jane's radiant blush. Lydia demanded to know if she could be a bridesmaid. Kitty burst into happy tears. Mary pronounced something about the sacred duties of matrimony that no one heard.
Darcy hung back, watching from the edge of the celebration—but his patience had reached its limit.
He caught Miss Elizabeth's eye across the room and tilted his head toward the alcove near the back. A question.
She nodded. An answer.
He moved through the crowd with quiet determination.
The alcove was a small space half-hidden by a decorative screen, mercifully free of other guests. Darcy positioned himself by the window and waited, his heart pounding with anticipation rather than anxiety.
She came moments later, slipping around the screen with a grace that made his chest ache.
“Mr. Darcy.”
“Miss Elizabeth.” He turned to face her, drinking in the sight of her—flushed and lovely and finally, finally within reach. “We have been interrupted too many times.”
