They danced in silence for a moment. Darcy stood stiffly near the wall, watching.
Wickham leaned in slightly and said, “If he values your company, then I shall be quite content to enjoy what little I may. One dance is enough to make a lasting impression.”
Elizabeth blinked, uncertain how to respond. The music ended, and Wickham led her off the floor.
“Thank you, Miss Elizabeth,” he said with a bow, lips curled in satisfaction. “May your evening continue to be most agreeable.”
And with that, he vanished into the crowd, leaving behind the soft echo of violins and the thunderous silence of Darcy’s glare.
Elizabeth had only just recovered from the peculiar intensity of Mr Wickham’s attention when she found herself standing once more at the edge of the ballroom. The echo of his smile lingered unpleasantly, too polished, too deliberate.There had been something in his manner that unsettled her, though she could not yet have named it. She drew a steadying breath as the scent of beeswax and roses drifted through the air, grounding her once more in the warmth and splendour of Netherfield’s grand ballroom.
It was a splendid room—elegant and warm without the haughty severity one might expect of a London salon. Elizabeth’s eyes swept the chamber. Jane looked radiant on Bingley’s arm, her usual quiet beauty enhanced by happiness.Jane looks entirely at ease,she thought with affection.As though the world has already decided to be kind to her.Miss Bingley stood near the far window, surrounded by acquaintances she seemed eager to ignore.
Elizabeth took one step forwards when Mr Collins appeared at her side. “Ah, Cousin Elizabeth. Might I…that is to say, might I have the next—oh.” He stopped as Mary approached, eyes bright.
Mary curtsied neatly, and Mr Collins offered his arm. He looked genuinely pleased, and Mary blushed as they joined the dancers forming two lines. Elizabeth blinked, surprised at the ease between them. She shook her head fondly.Well, they seem happy enough. Who would have guessed?
She turned—only to find Mr Darcy approaching with a strange urgency.
“Where did he go?” her suitor asked, his voice low but tight.
“Mr Wickham? He just left,” Elizabeth replied, surprised. “Why? Do you know him?”
Darcy hesitated. “Yes. But that…is not a conversation we can have here.”
Her brows lifted. “You did not tell me. I had no idea you were acquainted.”
“I thought myself imagining things. Usually, he makes our connection obvious to those he meets,” Darcy said slowly, scanning the crowd as if expecting Wickham to reappear. “He did not…speak ill of me? Or tell you a story of my cruelty or betrayal?”
Elizabeth blinked in surprise, then laughed lightly. “A begrudged friend? Surely I know you well enough now to discount any nonsense. You are the most proper man I know.”
Some of the tension left Darcy’s shoulders. “That is…relieving. Still, I wonder what Wickham is doing if not his usual tricks. How long has he been in the area?”
Elizabeth glanced towards the double doors, now closed. “Mr Wickham joined the regiment here and has only been in Meryton for a short while. He left rather quickly, I admit. But whatever his intentions, I do not want to let him cast a shadow over tonight.” She smiled. “Come, Mr Darcy. Let us enjoy this ball. If you truly wish to discuss Mr Wickham, we may speak tomorrow—on Oakham Mount, perhaps?”
He inclined his head, something warm sparking in his eyes. “Very well. Oakham Mount, then.”
As he bowed and took his leave, Elizabeth turned back to the ballroom, her mind spinning. Wickham and Darcy knew one another—and it was not an amicable relationship, if Darcy’s expression was any indication. Still, she would not let it spoil her evening.
Not when everything else—Jane’s smile, Bingley’s growing attachment, her own foolish heart—felt so astonishingly full.
The supper set had arrived, and Elizabeth found herself once more on the dance floor, her hand tucked into Mr Darcy’s. The music swelled around them as they moved in perfect time. It was slower than earlier dances, the notes more lyrical, drawing out every moment. Darcy’s eyes never left hers.
“You are unusually quiet, Miss Elizabeth,” he said softly, his tone intimate.
“I am merely savouring the moment,” she replied, then blushed slightly at her own honesty. “It is not every evening I am asked to dance by such a worthy gentleman.”
His smile deepened, gentle and full of warmth. “I am happy you are pleased. It is not every evening I enjoy my dance partner so well.”
Her breath caught, but the figure of the dance whisked them apart for a moment. When they came together again, her voice was light. “That would certainly set the gossips aflame.”
“Let them,” he murmured, eyes flickering with something more than amusement—something deeper.
As the set concluded, they walked arm in arm towards the supper room, where footmen held open the gilded doors. The long table glittered with silver and crystal. A display of roast pheasant and buttered carrots occupied one end, whilst delicate tarts, fluted pastries, and gleaming tureens of white soup graced the centre. Platters of sliced ham, jellied tongue, and sweetmeats adorned the sideboards. The room smelled of spices and roasted meats, undercut by hints of fresh bread and sugared almonds.
Their conversation during the meal took on a different tone—gentler, slower. He spoke of his sister, of Pemberley’s rolling green hills, of his favourite dog as a boy, a lumbering, deaf hound named Orson. Elizabeth listened, her expression soft, touched by this more personal side of him.
She shared little stories of Longbourn, of her father’s sardonic wit and her mother’s theatrics, of Jane’s gentle wisdom, and Lydia’s chaos. Darcy laughed—truly laughed—at her description of Lydia’s failed attempt to teach a piglet to sit for scraps.
