“You made it yourself,” she said. “You spoke as though you could not do otherwise.”
They parted again and returned, hands meeting, then gliding apart in time with the music.
“Perhaps,” Elias said, “I am learning that when one has little rank to protect, it becomes easier to speak without disguise.”
“Or more difficult to be heard,” she replied.
Elias looked at her then—not the glance of politeness but one of deliberate regard.
“And yet, you heard me, Miss Darcy.”
Their hands joined again for a turn, and Georgiana, startled into stillness for half a beat, gave a quiet laugh—a sound so rare it drew the attention of no fewer than three matrons seated along the wall.
“I did,” she said simply.
They danced on, and the music carried them through each figure with increasing ease. Around them, conversations resumed. Lady Catherine’s eye flicked from set to set, but if she observed the particular focus with which her niece moved beside the younger Mr. Bennet, she gave no sign of disapproval. Mr. Darcy, having returned from intercepting his aunt’s criticism, stood near the tall windows, arms loosely crossed, his gaze resting on the dancers—but when he saw Georgiana smile again, however briefly, his expression softened.
When the final notes sounded and the dancers bowed, Elias straightened. “Thank you,” he said, the words simple but sincere.
Georgiana met his eyes. “I would dance again, if it were not improper.”
“It would be too forward,” he agreed, “but not unwelcome.”
Her brows lifted slightly—just enough to show she had heard the double meaning.
As the final bars of the set faded and the dancers bowed and curtsied their farewells, Elias Bennet offered Georgiana Darcy his arm once more and led her across the floor. The air had grown warmer, the sheen of exertion softened by candlelight,and voices rose again in renewed conversation as the musicians prepared the next selection.
They rejoined the small group gathered just beyond the edge of the floor—Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and James Bennet—who had remained standing together, composed and watchful.
Mr. Darcy turned as they approached, his gaze settling first on his sister, then on Elias. If he had wondered at the pairing, he gave no sign—only nodded once, satisfied, as Georgiana resumed her place beside him.
Elias offered a bow, which Miss Darcy returned with composed grace. Their eyes met briefly—hers calm, his attentive—and in that shared glance there was a quiet accord, unspoken but unmistakable. He stepped back to stand beside his brother.
“You were right,” Elias said under his breath. “Dancing reveals more than one intends.”
James gave a knowing smile. “And Miss Darcy?”
Elias said nothing. But his silence was not evasive—it was considered, thoughtful.
And beneath the glow of chandeliers, amid the shifting rhythms of the evening, something unspoken settled between them—not yet courtship, not yet certainty, but recognition.
Rosings, for all its grandeur and design, had witnessed the first dance of something real.
***
The quartet had just begun tuning for the next set, and the flow of movement across the floor had stilled for the moment. A footman, approaching with impeccable discretion, interrupted the low thrum of conversation near the tall windows, whereColonel Fitzwilliam stood in quiet conversation with his cousins and the Bennet brothers.
Bending slightly toward Colonel Fitzwilliam, the footman addressed him, murmuring, “If you please, Colonel, her ladyship requests your presence in the little parlour.”
The Colonel’s brow lifted slightly, but he gave no sign of resistance. “Thank you,” he said, nodding once. “I will attend immediately.” He turned to Mr. Darcy. “It seems I am summoned. Aunt always does such things at the most inconvenient moments.”
Darcy’s gaze flicked toward the far corridor that led to Lady Catherine’s private rooms. “I doubt it is for refreshment or praise, Cousin. No doubt you are summoned for something terribly important. Best of luck.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam allowed himself a dry smile. “Luck is uncertain. Then I had best arm myself accordingly.” With a brief bow to the others, he followed the footman.
The corridor was dimmer than the ballroom, lined with ancestral portraits and heavy with the scent of lavender polish and age. The hush deepened as they approached the little parlour, its double doors already ajar. The footman announced him, and the Colonel stepped in, noting at once the company: Lady Catherine, seated with unmistakable command, and beside her a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman whose dignified bearing could only belong to someone of high rank.
Lady Catherine’s expression bore a sheen of expectation. “Ah, Colonel,” she said with precision. “You are punctual. Allow me to present Mr. Archibald Fletcher, Marquess of Ashford.”
