Chapter Thirteen
Elizabeth felt her husband’s comforting hand resting lightly on the small of her back as they welcomed guest after guest. All the prominent families of England seemed to be in attendance, particularly those with connections to the Duke—the Byngs, the Gordons, the rest of the Russells, even the von Keppels and the Lennoxes in addition to all the ladies from Almack’s and their extended families.
Then there were the Darcy relatives like the Fitzwilliams—even the elusive Viscount Milton and his not-very-charming wife had made an appearance.
From dukes to baronets, the air was thick with titles.
Small fish, Elizabeth thought, big pond.
The Bennets were also here. Her father had promised not to leave her mother’s side—though thankfully her mother appeared overawed and was unusually quiet.
The Bingleys were here too, including a very proper Miss Bingley.
Even the Hursts had been invited, though Fitzwilliam had been adamantly opposed to that.
“Hurst is a good enough fellow,” he had said, “but he is married to a shrew.”
“She did send an apology,” Elizabeth reminded him gently.
“Not a very good one,” he countered.
She had encircled her husband’s waist with her arms. Truthfully, she had had no desire to invite the Hursts, but Mr. Bingley had asked them.
The manner of his request had been fair—he was in an unenviable position.
He felt he must ask on behalf of his sister but understood completely if they felt they could not extend their hospitality.
Elizabeth suspected Jane would not have been injured if she had refused, but Aunt Olivia would have told her to allow it.
“They are all a part of Jane’s family now, Fitzwilliam,” she had answered. “Besides, I shall never have so many friends and family in one place again. I hardly think she shall try to make any trouble. Perhaps if she makes some connections at this ball, she will feel less bitter and behave better.”
Her husband had not been impressed with the likelihood of that.
The disagreement had carried on for days, but her husband had finally compromised, explaining to Mr. Bingley that they would issue an invitation, but certain conditions would need to be met.
The most important one—Mrs. Hurst was not to approach either him or his wife.
She could content herself with all the other notable members of the ton and take her chances there.
Elizabeth was weary from greeting all her guests.
She wondered idly whether it would be acceptable to leave her own ball after supper.
Thank goodness her friends were here and approaching their turn—Amanda and her dashing Captain Farrington were followed in line by Miss Penelope Finch and Lady Sophia Cecil.
She had grasped the hands of each woman and warmly expressed her gratitude for their presence.
“You have left this rather late, Lizzy,” Lady Sophia chided, a sparkle in her hazel eyes. “Showing up to your own coming-out ball with a husband. Really.”
“Truly, Sophie,” Elizabeth said, shaking her head in mock censure, “look at the man. Why would any woman wait once he asked?”
Fitzwilliam made a face that had her friends stifling laughter. “As I recall, Mrs. Darcy,” he nearly drawled, “you did make me wait. Most unfair if you intended to accept me all along.”
Penelope waggled her eyebrows and placed a hand on Elizabeth’s wrist, “Oh,” she said, “we shall have this story from you, my dear.” She indicated the long line behind them. “We will let you finish here, but we shall have the story.”
Elizabeth felt a sudden surge of affection for the man at her side.
She had not known it was possible to love him more than she had when they married, but her feelings for her husband continued to grow deeper and stronger every day.
She knew Fitzwilliam hated being the center of attention nearly as much as he despised a crush, but he was enduring both patiently for her.
For him to then joke with her good friends—to even make himself the source of the jest—it was perhaps the best present he could have given her tonight.
Sophia leaned in. “Is Miss Bingley here, Lizzy? We are greatly anticipating the pleasure of her acquaintance.”
Elizabeth gave Sophia a warning glance. “Sophia . . .”
It was too late. The line of guests was pressing forward, and Lady Sophia disappeared into the crowd.
Elizabeth glanced over at Fitzwilliam, who was suddenly in a very good mood. She smiled up a him.
He had given way on so much to make her evening special.
The Duchess of Bedford and the Marchioness of Tavistock had formally requested the right to purchase a new ballgown for Elizabeth’s long-awaited entrance to London society, and Fitzwilliam had graciously agreed, though she believed it had not been easy for him.
He had of course given the first dance over to John.
In the end, he had contented himself with the supper set and by giving her a thin gold bracelet with a single oval sapphire to match the necklace she had worn at their wedding and was wearing again tonight.
She touched the bracelet before tipping her head towards him.
“I believe John has invited the whole of London,” she whispered in his ear.
Fitzwilliam’s lips turned slightly upward. “He wishes to show you off, love.”
She narrowed her eyes. “As do you, I think.”
He shook his head. “I do not know what you mean.”
Elizabeth examined his face. “Your left eye is narrowing, but not the right. You are congratulating yourself, Fitzwilliam.”
“You have been speaking to Richard again,” he said, his expression smug despite the annoyance in his tone.
“Am I correct, husband?” she asked, staring playfully up into his face.
“Why would I not?” was his serious reply. “I have married the most beautiful woman in the room, not to mention the most intelligent. I ought to be congratulated on securing her.“ He took her hand and bestowed a light kiss as the last of the guests filed into the ballroom.
Elizabeth felt her cheeks heating up. Three and a half months married, and the man was still making her blush.
Darcy stood to the side and watched as the Duke of Bedford led Elizabeth to the top position; in deference to her cousin’s preference, she had called a minuet.
It was no longer the fashion to dance the minuet at a private ball as it took too long to display each couple, but Elizabeth had explained that it served several purposes.
First, it made Bedford more comfortable to dance something familiar to him.
Second, it told the large assembly that Elizabeth’s family was more important to her than society dictates or expectations.
Third, it was a statelier dance, allowing the gathered guests to get a good look at her.
Elizabeth told him she hoped they would be satisfied and move on to enjoying themselves instead of gawking at her.
He knew she would never achieve her third purpose.
She appeared more enchanting than ever tonight.
Her hair had been swept up, shorter curls framing her face, one long curl laying suggestively over her shoulder.
The color of her gown, Georgiana had informed him, was celestial blue.
It was trimmed in white and gold embroidery; the sleeves were puffed and slightly off-shoulder, revealing more skin than he thought necessary.
Not that he minded, but he could not help but feel those shoulders were his—they should be restricted to their moments alone.
His eyes followed her graceful steps and the smile she bestowed on her partner. Celestial, indeed.
At last it was over, and Bedford was escorting Elizabeth back to him.
The duke held out his hand and Darcy, surprised, took it.
He should have known Bedford would have planned to show his approbation, but he had been so wrapped up in Elizabeth he had not given much thought to the other details of the night.
Darcy was grateful for the gesture. Few doors would be closed to them now; the problem would be keeping their own door closed.
“Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth whispered next to him, her face aglow. “I cannot wait to dance the first with you at our next ball.”
He smiled down at her upturned face. “And all the balls ever after. I feel the same, love.” His thumb traced the back of her hand. “Which dance have you called for me?”
Her eyes twinkled. “Oh, I think you will like it very much, Mr. Darcy,” she said. “For it is a country dance.”
When she whispered in his ear that the song would be “Teasing Made Easy,” the reserved Mr. Darcy threw his head back and laughed, shocking the entirety of the ton at one go.
“I see, Mrs. Darcy,” came a voice both strained and amused, “that you have now taught your husband how to flout convention.”
“Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth greeted the woman, warmth in her greeting. “I do hope you are enjoying yourself.”
“I am indeed, Mrs. Darcy,” Miss Bingley replied. She raised her elegant eyebrows. “The minuet was an interesting choice for an opening dance.”
“A request of His Grace,” Elizabeth said, placing her hand on her husband’s arm.
Miss Bingley’s expression softened. “I see.” There was a flash of something in her eyes that Elizabeth thought she had seen at Miss Bingley’s ball the previous November.
Self-deprecating humor. “Your soirée seems a pleasant little gathering, Mrs. Darcy,” the woman continued.
Elizabeth’s artistic eye picked up a small twitch of her lips.
A smile. That is absolutely a smile. “I thank you for the invitation.”
They made their brief farewells as Lord Matlock arrived to collect Elizabeth for the next dance. Caroline Bingley swept away, eventually joining a small knot of attendees where the only untitled gentleman was also quite wealthy.
When the dance was over and she was returned to her husband, he was shaking his head. “Caroline Bingley always lands on her feet,” Fitzwilliam said in her ear.