Chapter Ten #3
“It seems at least one of Mr. Bingley’s friends has arrived in time to join him tonight,” she rushed to explain.
“Lizzy, you will have the honour of introducing Mr. Darcy to all and sundry.” And you will have the honour of being solicited for all manner of information about him, Elizabeth thought as she scanned the room for her friend.
He was easy to find as he was one of the tallest gentlemen present and because most eyes were trained on him already.
Near the far corner of the room, as if he were trying to melt into the wall, he stood next to Mr. Bingley, who smilingly surveyed the room looking pleased with everything and everyone he saw.
Darcy, on the other hand, was alternating between tugging at his sleeve and running a hand through his hair, pointedly not looking at anyone or anything.
It did not take Elizabeth’s encyclopaedic knowledge of his looks and mannerisms to know he was nervous.
The question was why? He was used to far grander and fuller rooms than this.
He was also used to being the centre of attention—for his wealth, for his looks, for Pemberley.
Elizabeth blushed as she caught fragments of several conversations canvassing just these things as she made her way to his side of the room.
Whatever the cause of his tension, she meant to alleviate it and put him at ease as soon as may be.
When seemingly by accident he looked about the room and connected with her, his eyes turned bright and his mouth tugged up at one corner.
His gaze stayed on her for the few moments remaining of her journey to him.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he greeted her, smile blooming in full.
Her breath caught at being on the receiving end of his full attention and that rare expression. He was more handsome than any man had any business being when he scowled, but when he smiled, truly smiled, it was a much graver offence, much more dangerous.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, her own smile no doubt too large and too happy to have any hope of concealing her affection, which was just what she meant to do. She would have that conversation with him. But she allowed herself one more moment of that singular smile.
“Would you . . .” “Could we . . .” they began at the same time. They laughed, then each indicated the other should speak first before Darcy pressed, “Please continue.”
And she would have. Would have asked to speak with him, led him a little further along the wall where no one stood and told him not to worry, that her childish admiration and fancy had run their course.
That he could be at ease with her and among their friends and family.
She would not embarrass him as she must have over the years with her transparent affection.
She would lie so he would not have to be nervous, not have to worry and be made uncomfortable.
With a deep breath, she began, “I want you to know . . .”
This time, it was not Darcy who spoke over her but another gentleman who appeared at her elbow. It was Frank Goulding, a nephew to the Gouldings of Haye Park, who had asked for her first dance when they met at a card party the week prior.
“Please pardon the interruption,” he said, looking from her to Darcy and back again. “But I came to claim my partner. Miss Elizabeth, I believe this is the dance you promised me.”
Elizabeth nodded in acknowledgement of the truth of this, secretly grateful for the reprieve.
Mr. Darcy did not look grateful. He looked .
. . something. Like his dinner might not have agreed with him.
As she placed her hand in Mr. Goulding’s, she looked to Mr. Darcy, hoping he might attempt to secure her for a set, but he continued to regard her and the gentleman with a look of profound indigestion.
Walking towards the dance floor where other couples had begun to form the lines, Elizabeth promised herself she would go to him as soon as the set ended and complete her task.
An opportunity presented itself after Elizabeth’s dance with Mr. Bingley.
Mr. Darcy had not danced the first, but as she was being led onto the floor by Sir William Lucas, Elizabeth saw Darcy lined up with Jane for the second.
He danced the next with Mary and then seemed content on the sideline.
As the dancers formed themselves for the fourth set, he moved to the corner he had occupied previously.
Elizabeth skirted along the edge of the room lest another of her neighbours feel inclined to ask her to dance before she reached him.
By the time she came to the pillar beside which Mr. Darcy stood, Mr. Bingley had found him.
Resolved to wait and not allow herself yet another escape for a conversation she knew must take place, Elizabeth turned to watch the dancers as they spun and leapt across the floor and listened for her opening once Mr. Bingley inevitably rejoined the dancing.
“I would like to thank you for your frankness with me regarding Miss Bennet. You are right, of course, I can see her interest does not lie with me,” Bingley said.
“You are welcome,” Darcy replied. “You know you can count on me to be forthright.”
Elizabeth heard the smile in his voice.
“Might I return the favour?” There was a pause, and Elizabeth had to assume Darcy nodded since Bingley went on. “Miss Elizabeth is a fine young lady, and she would make an excellent mistress of Pemberley. Moreover, she is a great match for you.”
Elizabeth’s heart leapt, and she felt all the air leave her lungs. She strained to hear Darcy’s answer.
“ . . . said you have not known us long enough to recognise that our ease with one another is a result of our family connections.”
“It is not ease that is between you,” Bingley laughed.
Darcy’s answer was lost to the din of a musical crescendo, and Elizabeth had never wished for broken strings or even broken fingers so much as she did just then. As the music slipped back into the quieter parts of the movement, Darcy’s voice drifted over to where she waited, heart in her throat.
“I was not expecting it.”
“I suppose that is some excuse for your ineptitude, but really, how surprising is it that when the girl you treasured as a dear friend grew into a beautiful and charming young lady, you were done in?” Bingley laughed.
Elizabeth nearly stamped her foot at the delay in Darcy’s response, which, thanks to his quieter voice, she had to strain to hear.
“It is more than that, Bingley. I did not know I could feel . . . so much.”
“I am happy for you, Darcy.”
That seemed to be the end of the conversation, and Elizabeth was suddenly very conscious of her position. She hurriedly turned and, seeing a door mere steps away, hastened to it.
The small courtyard was blessedly empty. The full moon cast a dull light on the stone statues and benches which lined the rectangular space. Elizabeth moved further into the night air to catch her breath and gather her thoughts—heart pounding and stomach churning.
Just when she had at least her breathing under some regulation, the sound of a door made her jump. She spun to face it.
“Mr. Darcy.” It sounded like an accusation.
“Miss Elizabeth.” It sounded like a plea. “I am sorry I alarmed you.”
“No, it’s fine. I am not in full possession of my faculties at the moment, otherwise I would not have been so startled.”
“Is something amiss?” He moved closer, his eyes scanning her as if to assess her well-being.
“Yes?”
“Shall I escort you to your family?”
“Yes, or I mean no.” She pursed her lips and closed her eyes for just a moment before looking up at him. Had he moved even closer? Her hands came to her heart as if that could slow its pace.
“No? You do not wish to go to your family? Are you certain you are not ill?”
“Truly, I am well,” she assured him in a surprisingly calm voice.
“Good, good,” he said, his distraction evident even before his hand slid through his previously well-groomed curls. “I should perhaps take this opportunity to …that is to if you do not mind hearing me out …I would like to …if you are or if you can …”
He seemed to have finished.
“If I can or if I will what?” she asked with a laugh. His nervousness calmed her. “I would be happy to hear whatever you have to say. If you need a moment to gather your thoughts, please feel free to take it.”
She certainly knew how that felt, and though she had never wanted anything more than to know what he had to say, she did not want him to feel agitated or discomposed.
“Thank you.” He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. When he opened them, he regarded her for a moment, his gaze softening, a small smile slowly forming. “I don’t think I told you how lovely you look this evening.”
“Thank you.” She returned his smile, finally allowing the frantic anticipation and hope she was feeling to break through into her expression. “Is that what you wanted to say?”
“Yes. No?”
“No?”
He laughed; his hand went to his hair once again.
“Yes, I did want to tell you how beautiful you look tonight. How beautiful you are,” he added absently.
“More than that . . . You have long been an important person in my life. I have valued you for the love and loyalty you have given my sister from the start, for the happiness you brought my father, but more than that, for these many years, I have counted you among my dearest friends.”
He paused once again as if collecting his thoughts.
“I have always been thankful for your friendship,” she offered.
“When I arrived at Pemberley, for your birthday, and saw you in the lilac grove, I did not recognise you.”
“Yes, I remember,” she said, confused by the direction of the conversation. “You were quite put out that I had dared to age without your consent.”
“I was, I suppose.” He looked away for a long moment, then his eyes connected with hers again. In them she saw the determination she often glimpsed when they argued or faced each other across a chessboard.