From across the room, Elizabeth caught Mr. Collins casting another dark glance at Darcy before Charlotte spoke to him again, reclaiming his attention. It made her want to laugh and sigh in equal measure.
As the evening pressed on, the music flowed seamlessly from one set to the next. The air in the ballroom had grown warm from so many bodies moving together, the mingled scents of beeswax, hot punch, and hothouseblooms drifting on each breath. Candlelight shimmered in every mirror, multiplying the sparkle of jewels, the sheen of satin skirts, the glint of polished buttons and braid on the officers’ uniforms.
Elizabeth found herself laughing more than she expected—sometimes at Darcy’s wry, under-the-breath comments about the absurdities of the evening, sometimes at the faintly scandalized expressions their dancing together still provoked in certain quarters. She noticed the way his attention never truly wandered. Even when their conversation broke for the figures of the dance, he sought her gaze again at the next turn, as though resuming a thread left momentarily hanging.
Between sets, Darcy escorted her to a quieter corner near one of the tall windows, where the curtains had been drawn back to reveal the moonlit lawns beyond. The chill seeping through the glass was a welcome relief from the crowded warmth.
“You have been much in my thoughts of late,” he said quietly.
Elizabeth tilted her head. “You say that as though it is a confession.”
“Perhaps it is.” His mouth curved faintly. “I am unused to such…constancy ofthought.”
She could not quite suppress her smile. “And do you find it irksome?”
“I find it—” He stopped, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before meeting hers again, more intently. “I find it necessary.”
There was something in his tone—low, steady, with that undercurrent of intensity she had come to recognize—that caught at her breath. But before she could form a reply, Miss Bingley appeared, sweeping towards them in saffron silk, her smile sharp as the point of a quill.
“Mr. Darcy,” she began, “you must not keep Miss Bennet hidden away in a corner. Why, the other gentlemen will think you mean to monopolize her entirely.”
“Perhaps I do,” Darcy said without turning his gaze from Elizabeth.
Miss Bingley’s smile tightened. “Indeed. Well—Miss Bennet, I trust you are enjoying the ball? Such a pity the weather kept the roads poor earlier this week; I was afraid some of the local guests might not manage the journey.”
Elizabeth inclined her head politely. “Happily, the rain stopped in time for tonight.”
Miss Bingley lingered a moment longer, clearly hoping for an opening to steer Darcy away, but when none came, she glided off towards a cluster of officers near the supper tables.
“I thought she had finally decided against me,” Darcy breathed in her ear.
They shared a quiet laugh before the musicians struck the first notes of a waltz—an indulgence in fashionably progressive assemblies, though still not common in Hertfordshire. Darcy bowed. “Will you do me the honor?”
She accepted, and he led her onto the floor. The steps required them to stay close, hands joined, her free hand lightly on his shoulder, his palm warm against her back. The sensation of moving together in perfect measure, turning in the candlelit expanse, left her faintly breathless. It was not a dance to encourage idle conversation, but the silences between them were not empty—they thrummed with an awareness she could neither name nor wholly dismiss.
Before she could speak, Mr. Collins appeared, all bustling self-importance, and seized Darcy’s arm. “My dear sir, a word! You cannot imagine my joy in seeing you here this evening. And how gratifying to witness you in company with my cousin—but I must, in Christian duty, remind you that your aunt, Lady Catherine, has long intended you for her daughter. Miss de Bourgh is the very picture of refinement, born to be mistress of two great estates—Rosings and Pemberley! A more suitable match therecould not be.”
Elizabeth, a few steps away, caught the exchange. She saw Darcy’s shoulders stiffen, the angle of his head sharp as he replied.
“I thought we had discussed this, Collins.” Mr. Darcy’s tone was foreboding. An intelligent man would have heard the warning that was there. “I am not engaged, nor honor-bound in any way to my cousin, and I insist you cease importuning me on the matter. I find the repetitive nature of the topic grows increasingly dull.”
Collins’s face flushed red, then blanched. He bustled off without another word, going to Miss Lucas’s side.
Darcy returned to Elizabeth’s side, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Your cousin is persistent.”
“And you are patient,” she said. “Though I cannot think why you indulge him.”
“Family,” he replied with a shrug, “is not always chosen.”
Twenty-Nine
November 26, 1811
Netherfield Ball
Elizabeth
Theballroom’sbrillianceandclamor seemed to fade when Darcy guided Elizabeth towards a narrow, half-hidden alcove just beyond a row of marble columns. It was set slightly apart from the main floor, shielded by heavy damask drapes drawn back to reveal a cushioned bench and a small table with two flickering candles. The music floated to them from a distance, softened by the tapestry-covered walls. From here, they could see the dance floor, yet remain mostly unseen.
