For two days he had reasoned against the inclination, though he knew it was useless. He had already spoken to her too often, lingered too willingly, betrayed too much in tone and look. Even their dogs’ attachment had become a sort of emblem of the talk that surrounded them. What had begun in jest seemed, somehow, to have deepened—passing from the creatures to their masters, or perhaps only from him to her. He could no longer be sure.
Attachments, he told himself, were perilous things. His mind drifted to the summer past, when misplaced trust had nearly destroyed the peace of one he held most dear. That memory alone should have made him cautious. Yet all such prudence seemed feeble now. Whatever guard he had set upon his heart had long since been breached. One conversation, one smile, one glance from her across the room could undo every resolve. It was not new, this feeling, only newly admitted, and he could no longer pretend it might pass.
He had thought her eyes fine before. Tonight they were perilous.
Darcy’s attention drifted toward the far end of the room where Mr. Bennet stood, half withdrawn from the noise, his hands clasped behind him, observing the dancers with his usual air of detached amusement. There was intelligence in his face, a quiet irony that reminded Darcy, not unpleasantly, of Elizabeth herself.
In that moment Darcy resolved upon a course he had considered since her last visit to Netherfield. If he were to speak to Elizabeth with any hint of personal feeling, it was only proper that her father should know his intentions. The idea of doing otherwise—of behaving like one of those thoughtless men who let gossip run ahead of their honour—was insupportable.
He crossed the room with deliberate calm, threading through the crowd of guests, until he reached Mr. Bennet’s side.
“Mr. Bennet,” he said quietly.
The older gentleman turned at once, a glimmer of humour in his eye. “Ah, Mr. Darcy. You look as though you approach on business of state.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I hope I do not intrude.”
“My dear sir,” Mr. Bennet replied, “if someone does not intrude upon me at least once in the evening, I begin to feel quite neglected.”
Darcy permitted himself a brief smile before his gaze, unbidden, sought Elizabeth again. She was straight-faced—almost helplessly—as Mr. Collins made some hopeless attempt at a bow mid-turn. The sight stirred something in him so vivid that he could scarcely manage his next words.
“Mr. Bennet,” he began, “forgive my frankness, but I find myself compelled to speak plainly. There are rumours abroad—idle, yet persistent—linking my name to that of Miss Elizabeth.”
Mr. Bennet lifted a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “So I have heard. I cannot say I am surprised. When two dogs take a liking to one another, the world is bound to make a tale of it.”
Darcy coloured faintly, though he managed a low laugh. “I did not foresee that Apollo’s friendship would cause such mischief.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Bennet, “then you wish me to assist in dispelling this nonsense?”
“No, sir,” Darcy said quickly. “That is not my purpose. I only—” He paused, the weight of the next words pressing heavily upon him. “I only wished you to know that my regard for Miss Elizabeth is entirely sincere. That, though the rumours are exaggerated, they are not wholly unfounded.”
Mr. Bennet regarded him with sudden attentiveness. “Not wholly unfounded. That is carefully said, Mr. Darcy. I take it you admire my daughter?”
Darcy met his gaze steadily. “Most deeply, sir.” His voice dropped lower. “And I would not have her name whispered with mine unless it were to her credit. I wished you to understand that my intentions, should they be furthered, would be honourable.”
Mr. Bennet’s expression softened, though a hint of his usual irony remained. “Elizabeth is a singular young woman, Mr. Darcy. She forms her own opinions, and seldom accepts those of others. If she values your company, it is by her own choice.”
Darcy’s eyes followed her once more. The dance had ended; she stood near a group of ladies, her cheeks flushed, her countenance lively with some private amusement. When she caught his glance, she smiled—lightly, but with warmth enough to undo him entirely.
“Then,” he said quietly, “I shall endeavour to deserve her good opinion, if ever I am fortunate enough to possess it.”
Mr. Bennet folded his arms, studying him with mild curiosity. “One question, if I may. Is this declaration of yours prompted by genuine affection, or by a wish to manage the gossip?”
Darcy drew himself straighter. “By affection, sir. Entirely.”
Mr. Bennet nodded once. “Then I shall not interfere. Elizabeth must decide for herself. She always does.” A smile flickered across his face. “But I confess, I shall enjoy observing the outcome.”
Darcy inclined his head. “You are very generous.”
“Not generous, Mr. Darcy,” said Mr. Bennet dryly. “Merely entertained. And if I may offer a father’s counsel—rescue her from that cousin of mine soon. I fear she is within a breath of fleeing the county.”
Darcy could not help but smile. “I shall do my best, sir.”
Mr. Bennet turned away to greet another guest, leaving Darcy standing in the soft glow of the chandeliers, the hum of music and conversation rising once more about him.
He took a slow breath. His course was set, though the path before him remained uncertain. As the musicians prepared to begin another tune, he adjusted his coat, crossed the floor, and made his way toward Elizabeth.
***
