“Dancing at Longbourn hardly qualifies as normal for you,” Elizabeth pointed out as she placed her hand on his arm.
“I find my definition of ‘normal’ has expanded considerably since making your acquaintance,” Darcy replied, leading her toward the dancers.
The steps of the dance brought them together and apart, their hands touching and releasing in the pattern dictated by tradition. Each brief contact was charged with meaning beyond the mere execution of the figures. When Darcy’s fingers closed around hers during a turn, Elizabeth felt the gentle pressure like a promise.
“You dance remarkably well for a man who professes to dislike the activity,” she observed when the pattern brought them side by side.
“My motivation has improved,” he answered simply, his gaze holding hers for a heartbeat longer than propriety strictly dictated.
The music shifted to a slower melody as Georgiana took over the pianoforte alone, Mary having been claimed for a dance by one of the Goulding cousins. This tune required closer proximity, hands joined for longer passages. Elizabeth found herself hyperaware of Darcy’s nearness, the clean scent of his shaving soap, and the precise grace of his movements.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he said sedately as they turned together, his voice pitched for her ears alone, “the scar has healed rather… distinctively.”
“Oh?” Elizabeth prompted, intrigued by the hint of mischief in his expression.
“Yes. Mrs. Porter seemed quite astonished by its shape.” His eyes held hers, serious yet playful. “It appears to have formed the perfect outline of a heart.”
Elizabeth nearly missed a step. “Mr. Darcy, are you teasing me?”
“Not at all,” he assured her, steadying her with a hand at her waist. “I shall show you myself… after we are married.”
The promise in those words sent a rush of warmth to Elizabeth’s cheeks. “I shall hold you to that, sir.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
Their dance concluded as the front door burst open with such force that several nearby candles guttered in the draft. All heads turned to see Mr. Collins in the doorway, Charlotte hovering apologetically behind him. Both appeared travel-worn and distressed, though Mr. Collins maintained his air of pompous dignity.
“Cousin Bennet!” he announced, as if his arrival had been eagerly anticipated rather than a startling interruption. “I come to you in a time of most grievous tribulation!”
Mrs. Bennet, who had been observing her daughters’ happiness with uncharacteristic serenity, looked as if she might faint. “Mr. Collins! We had no word of your coming!”
“The urgency of our situation permitted no time for correspondence,” Mr. Collins declared, advancing into the room with Charlotte following in his wake. He stopped short upon noticing the gathered company. “Ah! I see we are interrupting festivities. How… fortuitous to find so many friends assembled.”
Elizabeth exchanged a quick glance with Darcy, whose barely perceptible eye-roll matched her own sentiment. Poor Charlotte looked mortified, her usual composure cracking under the strain of her husband’s dramatic entrance.
“Perhaps we might discuss your tribulation in the study,” Mr. Bennet suggested dryly, clearly reluctant to have his evening commandeered by his cousin’s theatrics.
“It concerns us all!” Mr. Collins insisted. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh, that most gracious and discerning of patronesses, has—” he faltered, seeming to register Darcy’s presence for the first time. “That is to say, circumstances have arisen which necessitate… adjustments to our living arrangements.”
“We’ve lost the parsonage,” Charlotte said. “Lady Catherine has appointed a new rector to Hunsford.”
A ripple of surprise moved through the gathering. Elizabeth felt Darcy stiffen beside her, though his expression remained neutral. With her newfound propriety and discretion, she’d neglected to mention any hint of Lady Catherine’s deal with Wickham.
“Indeed?” Sir William Lucas stepped forward, concern for his daughter evident in his posture. “On what grounds?”
Mr. Collins tugged at his cravat, his expression a peculiar mixture of indignation and deference. “Lady Catherine has seen fit to… reapportion her patronage, despite my exemplary service and the living that was guaranteed to me. A most unexpected and—dare I say—unprecedented decision. Though, of course, her ladyship’s wisdom in all matters is beyond question.”
“What my husband means,” Charlotte clarified, with a pointed look at her spouse, “is that Lady Catherine has appointed a new rector, Mr. Wickham.”
The collective intake of breath was audible. Elizabeth stifled an entirely inappropriate laugh.
“George Wickham?” Colonel Fitzwilliam snorted. “As a clergyman?”
“With a bride specially selected by her ladyship,” Mr. Collins added. “A Miss Thistlewood, formerly a companion to LadyCatherine’s cousin. A most… expeditious union, I understand, she being already with child, three months, I believe.”
Elizabeth needed a moment’s respite from Mr. Collins’s pomposity and the mention of Wickham. She drew herself toward the garden door and stepped onto the small terrace.
Darcy joined her almost immediately, draping his jacket around her shoulders without comment.
