Mrs. Bennet groaned. “You find this funny, Mr. Bennet?”
He raised both brows. “I find everything funny, my dear. It is the only way to survive having five daughters.”
She gave him a dark look but bit her lip to hide a reluctant smile.
Mr. Bennet leaned back, surveying the hall with a twinkle in his eye. “Take comfort. One daughter is doing exactly as you wished. Let us hope that balances the scales for the evening.”
Mrs. Bennet pressed a hand to her chest, watching Jane and Bingley with breathless pride. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice softening. “At least Jane is perfect.”
Mr. Bennet tipped his head toward her. “Indeed, she is. And so are you, when you are not plotting marital campaigns.”
She sniffed wetly and snapped her fan open. “Be quiet, Mr. Bennet.”
***
The first long country dance had demanded all the stamina the couples could muster. Though its figures were simple and repeated in endless, snaking lines, it was an exercise in cheerful endurance.
Elizabeth had quietly hoped her partner might at last admit fatigue, but Mr. Collins proved—alarmingly—quite able to continue. When the hostess called out “The Triumph” as the next dance, Elizabeth smiled politely and tried to slip away, only for Mr. Collins to interpret her movement as tacit consent to remain his partner for a second set.
By now, at least half the dancers—and most of the onlookers—had noticed what an ill-suited pair they made, and how thoroughly her cousin revealed himself as the rawest novice on the floor. Elizabeth could not flatter herself that being his partner improved anyone’s opinion of her. On the contrary, she felt awkward and mortified.
Nevertheless, Mr. Collins danced the second set with triumphant enthusiasm—if such clumsy manoeuvres could be called dancing at all. He lifted his hands at the proper moments with the solemnity of a man raising an altar offering, shuffled and lunged in a brave attempt to match the beat, and trampled Elizabeth’s hem no fewer than three times while apologising in the same breath.
Mercifully, the musicians concluded their labours at last, to general applause for their spirited playing. Couples drifted apart or reformed at will, thanking one another with curtseys and bows. Elizabeth made her escape with determination, declaringshe needed a glass of water as she retreated toward her parents’ seats.
Mr. Collins, of course, hurried faithfully in her wake, eager to secure her for the next set as well. He was so intent on rehearsing his request that he quite failed to notice Lydia slipping behind Elizabeth and intercepting him.
“Miss Bennet,” he declared pompously, “might I beg the honour of the next set—”
“Yes, you may, Cousin Collins!” Lydia cried brightly before Elizabeth could turn around. “Delighted!” The youngest Bennet daughter seized his arm with mischievous triumph, ignoring her mother’s startled protest. For Lydia, there was no shame in such a spectacle; indeed, there was a certain delight in being seen, even with the most unpromising partner. Nothing advertised one’s presence better than a man who danced like a badly steered barge.
Elizabeth spun round to thank her sister for the timely rescue—and nearly collided with Mr. Darcy. He had disentangled himself from Miss Bingley’s vigilant side and was now advancing toward the Bennets with deliberate purpose.
To her surprise, he paused before her and offered a short, formal bow.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, voice low but clear enough to hush the nearby chatter. “May I hope you will do me the honour of the next set?”
Elizabeth blinked in astonishment, caught completely off guard. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks but managed to incline her head in polite acceptance.
“Thank you, sir. I should be pleased.”
Mr. Bennet lifted his chin in quiet curiosity, eyeing the tall gentleman intently over his spectacles. Mrs. Bennet froze with her glass halfway to her lips, mouth ajar, utterly lost for words for once in her life.
Elizabeth, for her part, managed the smallest, wry smile as she offered her hand to Mr. Darcy. And so, with the entire room watching, they made their way to join the next set, under a storm of curiosity, speculation, and newly minted hopes.
***
Elizabeth laid her gloved hand on Mr. Darcy’s arm, acutely aware of the shift in the room’s hush, of curious eyes turning to track them as they crossed the floor. His arm was steady beneath hers, neither rushed nor possessive, but there was a subtle tension in the set of his shoulders that matched the quickening of her own pulse.
They paused at their appointed place, facing one another. Darcy bowed deeply. Elizabeth sank into her curtsey with practiced grace, meeting his gaze from beneath lowered lashes. She noticed, not without a flicker of surprise, that his eyes did not roam the room assessing others’ interest but remained fixed on her with grave focus.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said low enough that only she would hear, “I am... grateful you would stand up with me.”
She lifted her brows just a little, offering a measured smile. “I might say the same, sir. You have made this...quite unexpected.”
His lips quirked in what might have been dry self-mockery. “I am aware my manner of asking was lacking.”
She dipped her head slightly in assent but let her eyes grow warm. “Yet the result is perfectly acceptable.”
