Again with her candor.Darcy could hardly complain; he had misunderstood her often enough. He frowned slightly as he considered her words. “Unrighteous pride is not the sentiment I would attribute to myself. I believe we spoke of vanity and pride when you stayed at Netherfield nursing your sister.”
“Indeed. I recall the conversation clearly.”
She spoke with a lightness that danced on the edge of mockery; he was certain a tease would follow.
“I remember you saying, ‘Where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will always be under good regulation.’”
“Indeed. I do not believe you agreed with me.” He waited, curious to hear her reply. She did not disappoint.
“I believe any pride, when used to place oneself above another, can never be considered in good regulation. Pride in one’s accomplishments cannot be faulted; everyone deserves to be proud of themselves. But when that pride encourages feelings of superiority, the belief that someone is better than their neighbor simply by an accident of birth, greater fortune, or intelligence, then it turns into something twisted and unrecognizable. Then, we fall into a trap of our own making.”
“‘Pride goeth before the fall,’” Darcy recited.
“An excellent proverb,” Elizabeth agreed. “Tell me, sir—if it is not pride, what would you call it?”
He considered.Goodness, how she made him think!“Perhaps…discomfort. Reserve. A failure to trust easily.” All were true, though incomplete. “I have suffered with an abundance of pride in my life, but I never meant to fall into the proud behavior to which you refer. When one is born to privilege, as I was, it is exceedingly easy to become unbearably proud and insufferable.”
She studied him for a moment. “Your description sounds very much like pride…dressed in finer clothes. I can, however, understand how one born into exalted circumstances might find their way down that path.”
He grinned. “I have been well-accused.”
She said nothing, but her lips parted slightly, and a blush touched her cheeks.
He continued. “There are few people in this world whose good opinion matters to me. Yours is…the most important of all.” More than even his dear sister’s. He silently entreated her to understand what his words conveyed. Though he would not yet claim responsibility for her gifts, he could tell her, in a way, how much she meant to him.
The music slowed.
Elizabeth swallowed. “You have changed, Mr. Darcy…from the gentleman I first met.”
He looked at her intently. “I wish it to be so.”
The final notes drifted into silence. The room erupted in applause, but Darcy and Elizabeth stood motionless for a breath longer. Then she curtsied, and he bowed low.
“Thank you for the dance, Mr. Darcy.”
“The pleasure was mine, Miss Elizabeth.”
She moved to rejoin her sisters but paused at the last moment.
“I would have the gentleman who sent the combs know how deeply they are appreciated.”
Blast.Of course, she had no intention of surrendering her quest to discover his identity.
Darcy said nothing, still weighing his response as she walked away. He watched her weave through the crowd—laughing with Miss Bennet, nodding politely to Lady Lucas, her hair gleaming with silver and pearl. The combs sparkled in the candlelight, nestled like moonlight in her dark curls.
They suited her perfectly, just as he had imagined when he selected them for the twelve days and arranged their delivery. That she had worn them now, that she had chosen them for this particular evening, stirred something in him both tender and aching.
She belonged in that light, in that warmth, in that life. And he—Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley—wanted, more than anything, to be part of it.
But desire did not bestow the right to possession. He had learned that lesson already. Still, the memory of their dance lingered with a sweetness that would not fade. The deliberate measure of the minuet, the feel of her hand in his, the careful grace of her movements—it was etched into him now. There had been something more than music in the way she had looked at him, something that made him believe he had not mistaken her sentiment. Her teasing words at supper, the smile she gave as she wondered aloud who could be so self-sacrificing as to procure such fine gifts—it had all felt like…an invitation.
Darcy danced with other ladies before the evening concluded, though none captured his attention as she had. Each set felt like an echo, a pale imitation of the moment he had shared with Elizabeth. Miss Mary made an adequate partner, though she seemed far more intent on extolling the merits of Handel’s compositions than observing the steps themselves.Still, Darcy listened politely and even ventured a comment on the superiority of Corelli’s concerti, which satisfied her.
He also stood up with Miss Lucas, who danced with the energy of one entirely in command of the social scene. Her confidence had grown with her engagement. The faster tempo of the English country dance left no room for conversation, but Miss Lucas’s knowing glances spoke volumes. She missed nothing.
Bingley, for his part, had vanished into some corner with Miss Bennet. Their engagement, freshly announced, had turned them into the chief spectacle of the evening. Guests showered them with praise, exclamations, and half-teasing jests about future weddings and new carriages. Darcy did not begrudge them their brief escape. If anything, he admired their audacity.
When the pair returned, Miss Bennet’s cheeks were flushed a cheerful pink, and there was a radiance of contentment about her that had not been there earlier in the evening. Bingley’s smug grin told its own tale, and Darcy knew precisely which secluded corner they had sought. There was a kissing bough tucked between the drawing room and the music room, half-hidden behind a velvet curtain—perfect for a sweet holiday kiss.
