It would not be improper.
But even as she resolved to keep her gaze fixed firmly upon the stage, she knew—
her heart would betray her.
Already, every few seconds, it tugged her attention back—
helpless, yearning.
And then—it was too late to decide.
Bingley's voice rang out, alight with delighted surprise:
"Darcy! Why, there's Darcy! And the Colonel, too!"
"Come, Miss Bennet," Bingley exclaimed, already rising. "We must go greet them. What excellent company this night brings!"
Elizabeth barely heard him.
Her heart seemed to stop altogether.
Across the crowded theatre, Darcy’s gaze had already found her—
unwilling, unprepared, and utterly unable to look away.
Elizabeth.
Her name thundered silently in his heart, as if it alone could summon back every memory he had tried so hard to bury.
One glance, one mere second, and the careful, cold order he had fought to restore since leaving Kent shattered into a thousand sharp, invisible pieces...
She was here.
She was real.
He had told himself, again and again, that time and distance would restore sense.
That the wild impossibility of her claims, however tempting, would fade in the cold light of reason.
And yet—
seeing her now, bathed in the low, golden light of the chandeliers, the familiar spark alive in her eyes even as she forced them toward the stage—
he felt his resolve crumble at the edges, fragile as frost against morning sun.
He ought to look away.
He ought to turn and engage his aunt or uncle in conversation, to behave with all the cold propriety a man in his position ought to show.
Instead, he sat frozen—every nerve taut, every breath caught painfully between his ribs—as though the very act of looking at her had reopened wounds he had thought long sealed.
Did she see him?
Did she think of that night at Rosings?
Did she curse him for his silence—or had she, perhaps, forgotten him entirely?
He scarcely had time to gather his composure before Bingley’s voice rang out, bright and oblivious, tearing the choice from his hands.
