1
The ballroom at Netherfield Park blazed with candlelight, the chandeliers casting their glow upon the swirling dancers below. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy stood near the far wall, a glass of wine in his hand, observing the company with the detached air that had become his armor in such gatherings. Yet tonight, his attention was not scattered across the room in general disapprobation. Tonight, he focused on one particular figure with an intensity that would have alarmed him had he given it more consideration.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet moved through the figures of the dance with effortless grace, even with the considerable impediment of her partner. Mr. Collins—that unfortunate clergyman who had descended upon the ball like a plague of locusts—flailed about the dance floor with all the elegance of a marionette whose strings had become tangled. Collins stepped upon her foot, and whilst Darcy winced, Miss Elizabeth expressed forbearance, though aslight tightening around her mouth betrayed her true feelings.
The dance concluded, and Mr. Collins escorted Miss Elizabeth from the floor, his hand lingering upon her arm, his head bent too close to hers as he spoke. Even from this distance, Darcy saw her angle away from the parson’s presumptuous proximity.
She was a woman of sense and good taste in gentlemen. Her figure was light and pleasing, her eyes drew him in, and her wit was unparalleled.
Miss Elizabeth was…
“You are smiling, Darcy,” came Charles Bingley’s jovial voice at his elbow. “Careful, or someone might think you actually enjoy these gatherings.”
Darcy schooled his features into their customary mask of indifference. “Observation. It is a skill you might cultivate, Bingley. One learns much about people when they believe themselves unobserved.”
“Ah, but I prefer to learn about people by talking to them.” Bingley laughed, his eyes drifting across the room to Miss Jane Bennet, who was conversing with her younger sisters. “Is she not the most beautiful creature you have ever beheld? I declare, Darcy, I am the most fortunate man in England to have secured two dances with her this evening.”
Miss Bennet was indeed lovely, serene, and elegant, like a swan swimming alone in a pond, emotionally distant. Beautiful to gaze upon, but…
Bingley excused himself and crossed the room to claim his second dance, and as Miss Bennet placed her hand in his, her face transformed. The polite smile she had worn throughout the evening became genuinely welcoming. Her eyes met Bingley’s with a tenderness that revealed her emotions.
The observation struck Darcy like a physical blow. He had been so certain—quite convinced—that Miss Bennet felt nothing beyond a mercenary interest in his friend’s fortune. He had seen only herrestrained countenance, her unfailing pleasantness, and he had interpreted it as calculated indifference. But that look just now, that unguarded affection, told a different story.
Could he have been wrong?
The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit. His eyes returned to Miss Elizabeth, who had extricated herself from Mr. Collins’s suffocating attention. She stood beside Miss Lucas, the tension easing from her as that impish smile returned—one that made his heart falter.
For weeks now, ever since her fateful visit to Netherfield when her sister had fallen ill, she had captured his attention. He had admired her devotion to Miss Bennet, sitting at her bedside, reading to her, ensuring she had everything needed for her comfort. He had observed her benevolence to the servants, remembering their names, inquiring after their families—a consideration that even some of the finest ladies of his acquaintance failed to extend. He had witnessed her deft deflection of Miss Bingley’s increasingly pointed barbs, turning insults into opportunities for humor without ever descending to cruelty.
But it was more than that: intelligence shone in her eyes, wit sparked her conversation, and the way she delighted in the absurdities of human nature without losing her fundamental goodness.Perfection, he had thought more than once. Perfect as a sister for Georgiana, who needed exactly such a lively influence. Perfect as a companion for himself, who had grown weary of the vapid conversations and overt maneuvers of society misses. Perfect as the mistress of Pemberley.
The thought should have alarmed him. Instead, it resounded inside him with the comfort of truth. If only?—
But there was the rub. If only her family connections were not so…appalling. A father who retreated to his library rather than manage his estate or his family. A mother whose nerves were exceeded only by her vulgarity. Three younger sisters ranging from graceless to wild. And an entail that would leave them all destitute upon Mr. Bennet’s death.
Darcy took another drink, trying to drown the conflicting desires that warred within him. His duty to his name, to Georgiana, to the legacy of Pemberley itself—all demanded that he choose a wife of impeccable breeding and connections. Yet his heart, that traitorous organ, insisted that Elizabeth Bennet was the only woman who would make him happy.
For weeks, he hesitated, wanting her, yet unable to take that final step that would bind their futures together.
And while he hesitated, it seemed others had not.
Mr. Collins returned to Miss Elizabeth’s side like a pigeon to its roost. Darcy’s jaw tightened as the parson gesticulated energetically, no doubt expounding upon some pedantic point with all the self-importance of a man who believed his every word to be profound wisdom. Her countenance shifted to one of carefully maintained politeness, but Darcy could recognize the frustration in the set of her mouth, the way her fingers tapped against her fan.
He felt the danger of her keenly now.
“Mr. Darcy.”
The voice came from directly beside him, and Darcy turned to face Mr. Bennet. Miss Elizabeth’s fatherregarded him with a manner that was difficult to decipher—part amusement, part condescending.
“Mr. Bennet.” Darcy inclined his head. “Are you enjoying the ball?”
“As much as any father can enjoy seeing his daughters displayed like fillies at Tattersalls,” Mr. Bennet replied with his reputed dry wit. “Though I confess, I am excessively diverted by you. You see, I am curious, Mr. Darcy. Your interest in my second daughter has been constant this evening. One might even say obsessively constant.”
At once, Darcy’s neckcloth seemed uncomfortably tight, but he maintained his composure. “Sir?”
“Come now, Mr. Darcy. You have been observing my Lizzy as a cat observes a mouse, though I confess I am uncertain whether you intend to pounce or to toy.” Mr. Bennet’s eyes had lost their humor, growing sharp and assessing. “I wonder—are you collecting faults to add to your initial assessment of her? What was it you said at the Meryton assembly? That she was tolerable but not handsome enough to tempt you?”
The words hit Darcy like a punch to the stomach. He had said that—God help him, he had said exactly that—but he had thought that no one of consequence had overheard. The memory rushed back with mortifying clarity: Bingley urging him to dance, suggesting Miss Elizabeth as a partner, and his own arrogant dismissal of her charms.Good lord! Had Elizabeth heard?
