At the sound of her name spoken in that smooth, familiar baritone, Elizabeth turned. Mr Darcy stood before her, impeccably dressed and intensely focused. He bowed low. “May I claim the honour of the next dance?”
A flutter of nerves danced up her spine.How different this feels,she thought suddenly.No performance. No calculation.She nodded. “You may.”
They took their places as the music began, and for a moment, the rest of the room blurred into softness. It was not a complicated dance, but with Mr Darcy’s steady gaze and the quiet assurance of his movements, Elizabeth felt a calm settle over her that had been absent only moments before.With him, there was no need to be clever. Or wary.
“I am surprised to find books unrepresented in this grand room,” she said lightly as they passed one another.
He smiled. “An oversight, to be sure. But I find my thoughts occupied by something far more compelling than books at present.”
“Oh? What could possibly distract you from reflection and reading?”
“You,” he said simply. “Though I am in the habit of contemplation, tonight I would rather reflect on your beauty than any passage in print.”
Her steps faltered, barely, and she laughed. “Mr Darcy, I begin to think you are practising flattery.”
He tilted his head, expression serious but amused. “I assure you, Miss Elizabeth, I have never practised anything so diligently.”
The dance spun on. Their hands brushed, their eyes lingered, and Elizabeth felt oddly untethered, light as air.This,she realised with a start,is what ease feels like.When the music ended, she curtsied, heart pounding.He truly is unlike any other man I have ever known.
“Thank you for the dance,” he said, voice low. “It has been the finest part of my evening.”
Mine too,she thought, but merely smiled.
Between dances, Wickham moved with purpose through the crowd, lingering near pillars or large groups, always remaining just beyond Darcy’s full notice. And yet, Wickham could see it—the tension gathering in Darcy’s brow. He watched from behind a wide marble column as Darcy turned, eyes sweeping the crowd.
Looking for me, are you?Wickham thought, satisfaction blooming.Good. Keep looking.
At last, the moment came. The third set was forming. With deliberate steps, Wickham approached Miss Elizabeth.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said with a bow and a charming smile, “may I have the honour of this dance?”
She looked surprised. “Mr Wickham. I had not seen you this evening.”
He bowed again. “I was here but biding my time. One does not storm the gates of heaven at the first bell.”
She laughed lightly, though a hint of wariness shadowed her gaze. “I daresay you do not think of this ball as heaven.”
“Ah, but I am here now, and I find it vastly improved by your presence.”
Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before accepting his hand.
As they stepped onto the floor, the music began again. Wickham’s pulse thrummed with the rhythm. He kept his eyes on Elizabeth, but he knew Darcy had seen them. He could feel the heat of his stare across the ballroom.
They moved through the steps. Wickham kept his conversation light, probing—never enough to alarm her, but with just the right amount of charm to unsettle.
“I am pleased to see you tonight, Miss Elizabeth,” he said smoothly. “You brighten the evening. I must confess—I feared you had already promised every set.”
“Nearly,” she said, voice calm but cool. “But I have some available. A happy accident, it would seem.”
“A most fortunate one for me.” His smile sharpened. “And for Mr Darcy.”
She looked up, brow rising. “How do you mean?”
Wickham shrugged. “He is a fortunate man, is he not? I would not begrudge him his happiness. Though I daresay, some men may find me…a nuisance.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “You are being cryptic, sir. I was not aware you knew Mr Darcy.”
He laughed, deliberately not answering, and they spun away from one another before returning with the music. “Ah, forgive me. I forget myself.”
