He had told himself that it was foolish, that the infatuation would pass, but it had not.
Instead, his regard for her had deepened, becoming something altogether more dangerous the longer he attempted to suppress it. Each effort at restraint seemed only to sharpen his awareness of her absence. The world appeared flatter, duller, when she was not in it. Darcy did not like that. He did not likethat it made him feel less in command of himself, less certain that he could always choose sense over sentiment.
And then, as though matters were not already sufficiently complicated, George Wickham had appeared in Meryton.
Darcy’s jaw tightened at the thought. Wickham’s talent for presenting himself as an injured party was well practised. He could step into any new place and, within a day, have half the neighbourhood convinced of his virtue. That Hertfordshire had proven no exception was hardly surprising, but that he could fool Elizabeth Bennet despite her keen intelligence and sense of justice was far more difficult to bear.
Darcy had known then that the situation could not continue. He had known what was expected of him by his family and by society. He had also known, with increasing unease, that Bingley was in danger of forming an attachment of his own. One that might not be easily undone.
It was for these reasons, he told himself, that he had joined Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst in persuading their brother to return to London. At the time, it had seemed sensible, even necessary. Doubt had come only later, when Bingley’s unusual pensive air and frequent remarks about Hertfordshire suggested that the woman he had left behind could not be so easily forgotten. Though Bingley attempted to seem as cheerful as ever, a certain melancholy crept in around the edges. Had Darcy been wrong in thinking himself justified in directing his friend’s happiness?
A familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Darcy, old fellow,” Bingley said, appearing at his side, “you look positively oppressed.”
Darcy glanced at him. “I am merely observant.”
Bingley laughed. “If that is so, I advise you to observe something more pleasant. There has already been quite enough talk this evening.”
Darcy lifted an eyebrow. “So I have gathered.”
Bingley hesitated, then waved a hand as though brushing the matter aside. “It will fade soon enough. London is fickle.”
Darcy inclined his head, though he found little comfort in the reassurance. London was indeed fickle, but it could also be persistent at precisely the wrong moments.
Left once more to himself, Darcy allowed his gaze to wander over the room. He told himself that he was merely surveying the company. He had no reason to expect anything unusual. He should have been able to stand at the edge of the room in silence and let the evening pass, as he had done a hundred times before.
The memory of the concert intruded before he could stop it. Darcy bit his lip, thinking of the moment that had started all the talk in a single unguarded instant, when he had spoken the truth without thinking of the consequences.
They had been seated together during the intermission when Caroline Bingley had leaned towards him, her smile arch and flirtatious.
“How pleasant it is to be back in London,” she had said. “Though I wonder whether you find yourself missing Hertfordshire. Or perhaps a certain young lady with particularly fine eyes. Surely you have not dismissed Miss Elizabeth Bennet from your memory so easily?”
It had been intended as teasing. She had said it lightly, as though it were nothing, as though Miss Elizabeth were no more than a passing curiosity. It was only too obvious that Miss Bingley had wished him to make an immediate denial, and perhaps to say that no lady’s company could be more pleasant than that in which he already found himself, but Darcy had been tired, distracted, and unguarded. The question had touched something raw, and he had answered without thinking.
“Never,” Darcy told her. “It would be quite impossible for me to forget her. Miss Elizabeth Bennet is not so easily dismissed.”
He had realised his error at once.
Not because Miss Bingley’s expression changed, for she merely looked mildly annoyed, but because the air behind him seemed to still. A rustle of silk quieted. A laugh faltered mid-breath. Darcy did not turn his head, but he knew with a certainty that made his stomach tighten that someone had been close enough to hear. Close enough to carry away a handful of sentences and make them into something else.
In the following days, the remark acquired a life of its own. Whispers became speculation, speculation certainty, and certainty entertainment. Darcy read it in faces before he heard it in words. He saw it in the way people studied him, as if trying to imagine the mysterious lady who had succeeded in catching his attention.
There had even been a notice in the paper, delicately phrased and carefully anonymous, alluding to a gentleman of consequence and a countryside gentlewoman all but unknown to London.
Darcy had folded the paper with care and resolved to think no more of it.
At least, he reflected now, Elizabeth Bennet need never hear of it. There was no reason her peace should be disturbed by his carelessness. The talk would die away. It always did. London would find a new amusement, and his own mistake would be forgotten among a hundred other trifles.
He was in the midst of reassuring himself when something in the room seemed to shift.
It was nothing tangible, yet he felt it all the same. His attention sharpened, his breath caught, and before he could convince himself it was only foolish imagination, he saw her.
At first, it was only the sense of her. A familiar movement, a certain turn of the head, the impression of dark eyes even at a distance. Then he recognised her fully, and the world narrowed with such sudden force that Darcy stood quite still, as if any motion might prove the moment an illusion.
Elizabeth Bennet stood across the ballroom, her hair arranged simply, her expression animated as she spoke to the lady beside her. Her gown was well-fitted but unadorned, elegant in its restraint.
Lovely as she was, it was not that which drew and kept Darcy’s attention. Elizabeth looked wholly at her ease. Unlike the fashionable members of society all around her, she was not braced for battle. Nor was she wary. Elizabeth was simply present, bright and alive in the midst of London’s glitter.
