Chapter Thirty
The golden light of hundreds of candles reflected in the gleaming chandeliers of Netherfield Park’s grand ballroom, casting a warm and lively glow on the finely dressed assembly.
Garlands of holly and ivy lined the walls, the scent of evergreen clinging faintly to the air.
Crystal glasses clinked softly, skirts rustled with every step, and laughter hovered above the gentle hum of conversation.
The musicians, seated along the back wall beneath an ornate arch, tuned their violins and cello, the mingled sounds of plucked strings and short bow strokes adding a rising sense of anticipation.
George Wickham stood near the ballroom’s arched entryway, resplendent in his red regimentals. The fresh polish on his boots gleamed, and his cravat was tied just so, adding a debonair finish to his carefully calculated appearance.
He glanced about with a critical eye, cataloguing faces and judging the company with practised ease.
Country gentry, for the most part—some awkward in their best attire, others managing a fair imitation of grace.
Ladies fluttered their fans and curtsied with wide smiles, their eyes darting about in search of favoured partners.
Wickham was not blind to the looks sent his way—he had always made an impression when he wished to.
He had not been certain he would attend, not with Darcy in the house. But in the end, the temptation was too great.
Let him see me, Wickham thought. Let him fret. Let him wonder what I am doing here, what mischief to which I aspire.
He smirked. It would be good to remind Darcy that Wickham had not disappeared—that he could insert himself into any world Darcy built.
Still, discretion was required. He had been careful upon arrival to remain out of his former friend’s direct line of sight. It would not do to confront him too early. No, the evening would unfold on Wickham’s terms.
“Mr Wickham,” came a breathy voice beside him.
He turned with a smile. “Miss Mary King, what a pleasure.” She was slight, red-haired, with an unfortunate abundance of freckles and a toothy smile, but Wickham played the part of a devoted suitor as if she were the only woman in the room.
They stepped onto the dance floor and joined the first set.
Wickham’s movements were easy and confident; his smile perfectly modulated.
Miss King giggled incessantly at his light compliments, and he gave her just enough attention to ensure she would float through the rest of the evening bragging of her partner.
In the second set, he partnered Miss Penelope Hart, a merchant’s daughter, who was visiting her cousins.
He twirled her effortlessly, murmuring witty observations as they moved through the figures. Her cheeks bloomed pink.
As they danced, Wickham’s gaze searched the room, always searching.
At the far end of the room, he spotted Darcy—tall, rigid, and unmistakable.
Darcy was standing with Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
The pair moved with quiet synchronicity, their glances occasionally meeting as they discussed…
whatever it was they found interesting. Wickham watched the subtle exchanges between them, grinding his molars slightly.
Darcy had danced the first with her, a sure sign his interest was anything but casual.
So it is true. He’s courting her. Darcy had shown his interest, but Wickham had doubted he would act on it. The man was a cold fish.
Wickham took care not to reveal himself. When the patterns of the dance drew them close, he turned subtly so Darcy would see only the back of his head. It was no difficult feat—he knew exactly how to stay hidden in plain sight.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
At the sound of her name spoken in that smooth, familiar baritone, Elizabeth turned. Mr Darcy stood before her, impeccably dressed and intensely focused. He bowed low. “May I claim the honour of the next dance?”
A flutter of nerves danced up her spine. How different this feels, she thought suddenly. No performance. No calculation. She nodded. “You may.”
They took their places as the music began, and for a moment, the rest of the room blurred into softness.
It was not a complicated dance, but with Mr Darcy’s steady gaze and the quiet assurance of his movements, Elizabeth felt a calm settle over her that had been absent only moments before.
With him, there was no need to be clever. Or wary.
“I am surprised to find books unrepresented in this grand room,” she said lightly as they passed one another.
He smiled. “An oversight, to be sure. But I find my thoughts occupied by something far more compelling than books at present.”
“Oh? What could possibly distract you from reflection and reading?”
“You,” he said simply. “Though I am in the habit of contemplation, tonight I would rather reflect on your beauty than any passage in print.”
Her steps faltered, barely, and she laughed. “Mr Darcy, I begin to think you are practising flattery.”
He tilted his head, expression serious but amused. “I assure you, Miss Elizabeth, I have never practised anything so diligently.”
The dance spun on. Their hands brushed, their eyes lingered, and Elizabeth felt oddly untethered, light as air. This, she realised with a start, is what ease feels like. When the music ended, she curtsied, heart pounding. He truly is unlike any other man I have ever known.
“Thank you for the dance,” he said, voice low. “It has been the finest part of my evening.”
Mine too, she thought, but merely smiled.
Between dances, Wickham moved with purpose through the crowd, lingering near pillars or large groups, always remaining just beyond Darcy’s full notice.
And yet, Wickham could see it—the tension gathering in Darcy’s brow.
He watched from behind a wide marble column as Darcy turned, eyes sweeping the crowd.
Looking for me, are you? Wickham thought, satisfaction blooming. Good. Keep looking.
At last, the moment came. The third set was forming. With deliberate steps, Wickham approached Miss Elizabeth.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said with a bow and a charming smile, “may I have the honour of this dance?”
She looked surprised. “Mr Wickham. I had not seen you this evening.”
He bowed again. “I was here but biding my time. One does not storm the gates of heaven at the first bell.”
She laughed lightly, though a hint of wariness shadowed her gaze. “I daresay you do not think of this ball as heaven.”
“Ah, but I am here now, and I find it vastly improved by your presence.”
Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before accepting his hand.
As they stepped onto the floor, the music began again. Wickham’s pulse thrummed with the rhythm. He kept his eyes on Elizabeth, but he knew Darcy had seen them. He could feel the heat of his stare across the ballroom.
They moved through the steps. Wickham kept his conversation light, probing—never enough to alarm her, but with just the right amount of charm to unsettle.
“I am pleased to see you tonight, Miss Elizabeth,” he said smoothly. “You brighten the evening. I must confess—I feared you had already promised every set.”
“Nearly,” she said, voice calm but cool. “But I have some available. A happy accident, it would seem.”
“A most fortunate one for me.” His smile sharpened. “And for Mr Darcy.”
She looked up, brow rising. “How do you mean?”
Wickham shrugged. “He is a fortunate man, is he not? I would not begrudge him his happiness. Though I daresay, some men may find me…a nuisance.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “You are being cryptic, sir. I was not aware you knew Mr Darcy.”
He laughed, deliberately not answering, and they spun away from one another before returning with the music. “Ah, forgive me. I forget myself.”
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.