Bingley, oblivious to the tension behind him, waved cheerfully. “Come along, you two! We have guests to invite and hearts to win.”
Darcy straightened his coat, every motion deliberate. His heart pounded, but not with nerves—not entirely. He was a man on the brink of something profound.
He would ask Elizabeth to dance. He would begin to court her. Answers could come later.
Behind him, Fitzwilliam stood staring at the child, as if haunted.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The drawing room at Longbourn was modest, its furnishings slightly worn, but the warmth of the household made it feel more welcoming than any of the grand salons in London. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden light across the carpet, and the scent of lemon polish and fresh bread lingered faintly in the air. Laughter filtered from the hallway as feminine voices rang with excitement somewhere beyond the door, undoubtedly fussing over their unexpected but most welcome visitors.
Earlier, Mr Bennet had ushered Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam into his study for a drink and some gentlemanly discussion before they joined the ladies. Bingley, unable to resist, had gone straight to the drawing room in search of Jane.
“I must confess, sir,” Fitzwilliam had said with a grin, casting an appreciative glance about the book-lined walls, “that I envy your study. It is a rare man who can cultivate wit and wisdom in such a tranquil place. Linden Grange has but a small offering. I am not the reader my cousin is, but I hope to add to my collection.”
Mr Bennet chuckled, steepling his fingers over his waistcoat. “Ah, sir, that is merely what I tell people. In truth, I sequester myself here to escape my daughters’ chatter and—these days—my cousin’s somewhat loquacious conversation. Books are quieter companions, and far less expensive to clothe.”
Their laughter—Fitzwilliam’s warm baritone mingling with Mr Bennet’s dry mirth—had carried them companionably toward the drawing room some minutes later.
Now seated amongst the ladies, Fitzwilliam appeared freshly recovered from the shock of seeing young Tommy and entered into easy conversation with Mr Bennet once more. It was rare for his cousin to take to someone so quickly, but then again, Mr Bennet’s ironic humour was precisely the sort Fitzwilliam relished.
Darcy sat beside Richard, his posture composed, yet inwardly he was anything but calm. His eyes were drawn again and again to Elizabeth Bennet, seated with her embroidery, her brow furrowed slightly in concentration as she worked her needle through fine muslin. Her lips curved faintly at something her sister said, and the sight struck him like a sudden breeze—light, refreshing, and impossible to ignore.
The drawing room’s modest comforts—the worn sofa, the cheerful fire, the murmur of domestic life—should have been unremarkable. Yet in that moment, Darcy could not have imagined a grander setting.
“Miss Bennet,” Bingley said suddenly, stepping forwards with boyish eagerness. “Might I hope for the first, the last, and the supper sets at the ball?”
The room fell quiet for a breath, all eyes turning to the pair.
Jane’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink, and she lowered her eyes, her smile tremulous but genuine. “Yes, Mr Bingley,” she said softly. “You may.”
Lydia’s delighted shriek could be heard even through the parlour doors. Darcy nearly chuckled at the thought of the two younger ladies listening outside doors, desperate to partake of the society of which they were deprived.
Darcy looked away, giving them their moment, and steeled himself. He had waited long enough. He crossed the room and lowered himself ontothe settee beside Elizabeth. Her gaze flicked to his, a teasing glint in her eyes.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low, “might I request the honour of your first and supper sets at the ball?”
Her eyes widened slightly, and colour bloomed high on her cheeks, but she rallied with her usual wit. “Why, Mr Darcy,” she said, leaning a fraction closer, “you had best be careful. If you go about claiming the most prized sets of the evening, people might assume you are courting me.”
He met her gaze without flinching, heart hammering. “What if that is precisely what I want them to think?”
Her teasing expression faltered.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, voice gentle but firm, “I should like to know you better—not as an acquaintance, but with sincerity and purpose. Please, will you consent to a courtship? If it reaches its natural conclusion, I will be a very happy man.”
For a heartbeat, she stared at him—searching, weighing. Then, a soft smile curved her lips, her expression shifting to something far more tender.
“I accept,” she said simply. “Though I warn you, I am terribly opinionated and not at all quiet. My father calls me stubborn, too. Can you bear it?”
“I should be disappointed if you were anything but who you are,” Darcy said, the corner of his mouth lifting.
She laughed, and he thought it might be the finest sound in the world.
The conversation moved on, but his focus narrowed. There was one more task to complete, one more step that propriety—and his own sense of honour—required.
He rose and approached Mr Bennet, who had returned to his chair near the fire, now nursing a glass of port. Fitzwilliam raised a brow as Darcy passed but said nothing.
“Mr Bennet,” Darcy began, his voice composed though he felt the weight of every word, “may I request a private moment?”
