As the door opened, Elizabeth felt a jolt of nerves. It was one thing to take tea in a drawing room. It was another to sit in a box at the Opera, exposed to the eyes of theton.
"Mr and Mrs Gardiner! Miss Bennet!Miss Elizabeth!"
Viscount Robert Fitzwilliam practically leapt from his chair. He was resplendent in evening dress, looking every inch the wealthy peer, his eyes immediately locking onto Jane like a homing pigeon.
"You are here," the Viscount declared, taking Jane's hand and kissing it with a flourish. "And you have eclipsed every other woman in the building. I shall have to apologize to the soprano. No one will be looking at the stage."
"Lord Keathley," Jane blushed, but she didn't pull her hand away. "You are too kind."
"I am merely honest. Come, sit. I have saved you the best view."
Elizabeth followed them in, her eyes scanning the box. It was luxurious, spacious, and draped in red velvet and gold.
"Miss Elizabeth."
Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy stepped forward from the shadows of the rear of the box. He looked magnificent. There was no other word for it. In his severe black evening coat and stark white linen, he was a figure of imposing elegance. But his eyes were anxious, searching hers for any sign of rejection.
"Mr Darcy," she curtsied. "And Miss Darcy," Elizabeth added, turning to the girl beside him.
Miss Darcy looked frightened but beautiful in a white gown, her hands clutching a mother-of-pearl fan. "Miss Elizabeth! I am so glad you are here. I have never been to such an entertainment before. Is it very loud?"
"Ideally," Elizabeth smiled. "It drowns out the gossip."
"Where is the Colonel?" Mrs Gardiner asked, taking her seat with the poise of a duchess.
"Duty calls, I fear," Lord Keathley threw over his shoulder, not looking away from Jane. "He sends his regrets and demands a full report of any scandals we cause."
"We shall endeavour to cause none," Mr Darcy said stiffly, earning a satisfied nod from Mr Gardiner, as he took his place next to his wife.
"Speak for yourself, Fitzwilliam," his cousin grinned. "I have high hopes for the interval."
The box was crowded, but comfortable. Lord Keathley had naturally manoeuvred Jane to the front left. The Gardiners took the centre. Miss Darcy sat beside Mrs Gardiner, eager to see the stage.
Which left the chair on the far right, slightly recessed but with an excellent view of both the stage and the audience.
"Miss Elizabeth," Mr Darcy gestured to the chair. "Will you...?"
"Thank you."
She sat. He took the chair behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, close enough that the scent of his sandalwood soap drifted over her.
The house lights dimmed. The orchestra began to tune—a cacophony of strings and woodwinds that signalled the beginning of the magic.
Elizabeth took a breath. She was sitting in the dark, very near to Fitzwilliam Darcy. The man she had hated. The man she had judged. The man who had offered her lemon biscuits.
"Are you comfortable?" his voice murmured in her ear, low and intimate.
"Perfectly," shewhispered back.
"Good."
The overture began, a sweeping, dramatic melody that filled the theatre. But Elizabeth found it hard to focus on the music. Her attention was entirely consumed by the man sitting six inches from her shoulder.
The first act was a blur of Italian arias and dramatic gestures. On stage, a soprano lamented a lost love. In the box, a different sort of drama was unfolding.
The Viscount was shameless. He wasn't watching the stage. He was watching Jane watch the stage. He whispered comments that made her smile behind her fan. He adjusted her shawl. He pointed out notables in the pit, making her laugh.
It was a courtship in full view of London, and he didn't care a whit.
