Chapter Five #2
Elizabeth stepped aside for a moment of peace, folding her hands before her and breathing in the mingled scent of beeswax, perfume, and warm wool coats.
A familiar presence approached.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
She turned—and there he was.
Mr. Darcy stood before her, his dark coat impeccably fitted, his hair slightly mussed from the warmth of the room, his expression…softened. There was a new ease in his eyes she had not noticed before. He bowed.
“I hope you have enjoyed the evening.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Immensely, sir. Far more than I expected. You have danced every set, I believe. An impressive feat—particularly for a gentleman who confessed he did not relish assemblies.”
A faint blush touched his cheekbones. “If one wishes to leave a good impression upon a new neighborhood, one must make an effort. Especially when others…” His eyes flicked briefly toward Miss Bingley, who looked offended to her very soul by the assembly. “…have not.”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “Your efforts have been noted, sir. I daresay you have charmed the entire room.”
“Not the entire room,” he murmured, and the subdued intensity of his gaze made her breath hitch.After a weighted pause, he inclined his head. “Might I prevail upon you for another dance, Miss Elizabeth? The musicians will begin the next set shortly.”
Elizabeth lifted her brows in playful seriousness. “As long as it is not the last set, sir. It would not do for you to raise expectations upon our ‘first’ meeting.”
His answering smile was slow—warm enough to curl through her stomach like heat. He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “It is not our first meeting,” he whispered in her ear. “And I wonder… At what point is it acceptable to set expectations?”
Elizabeth’s breath stilled. Her lips parted. She swallowed once, audibly. Without meaning to, she licked her lower lip—a tiny, helpless motion—and his eyes followed the movement before he quickly straightened, regaining an air of propriety.
She hesitated only a moment before placing her hand upon his arm, her composure returning by degrees.
“This is the second-to-last set of the evening,” he said, voice measured again. “May I?”
“You may,” she replied softly.
They took their places, the music lifting around them once more. Their conversation flowed easily, full of light humor and subtle observations. Elizabeth felt strangely grounded. This connection—unexpected, swift, and undeniable—felt like the most natural thing in the world.
When the set ended and they parted, Mr. Darcy bowing deeply before stepping away, Elizabeth found herself inhaling slowly, already anticipating the next time she might speak with him.
This is unexpected, she told herself. Even so, her heart whispered: I hope it happens soon. She told herself it was merely curiosity—but she found, despite her better judgment, that she was already inclined to think more favorably of him than she had any right to do.
Darcy had danced—truly danced—for the first time in years.
Not merely moved through the figures with polite indifference, not merely endured the necessary obligation expected of a gentleman…
but enjoyed it. The final notes of the set still echoed faintly in his mind as he stepped away from Miss Elizabeth Bennet, her curtsy lingering in his vision like a warm imprint on the air.
He found himself exhaling slowly, as though waking from a pleasant dream he had not expected to dream at all.
Attraction, he realized, with something like astonishment, is far too mild a word.
Never in his adult life had he been so affected by a woman.
Her wit, her ready smile, the sparkle in her eyes when she teased him gently, and even that unguarded moment—when she swallowed and licked her lower lip in surprise at his whispered question—had struck him with the force of something dangerously close to longing.
Longing and the desire for more. Not impropriety, never that—but knowledge, conversation, and proximity.
The chance to see her smile again. To hear her laugh.
To know what she thought of books, of music, of the world.
The incongruity of such powerful interest after a single evening might have alarmed him had it not felt so… natural.
This is madness, he told himself. But he could not deny it. He wanted to know Elizabeth Bennet. He wanted to know her as he had never wished to know another woman.
When the next set began, Darcy did not join it. He had danced enough for one night—more than enough, considering he had marked himself by beginning the evening with Elizabeth and punctuating it with another set. Already, his actions invited commentary, speculation, and unhelpful gossip.
Besides, his mind was far too full to endure more polite chatter. He found a peaceful vantage point near the edge of the room, allowing himself to observe without being drawn into further conversation.
From his vantage point, he saw Bingley dancing the final set with Miss Bennet.
Darcy’s friend was nearly luminous with enthusiasm; his admiration was so obvious it bordered on comical.
How many sets had they shared? Darcy could not recall—had Bingley stood up with her after his sister’s ghastly words?
Miss Bennet smiled at his friend with serene pleasure, her countenance warm but modest. A good match, Darcy thought.
One he could endorse whole-heartedly—if it grew further.
Miss Bingley, on the other hand, hovered at the edge of the floor, arms rigidly folded, her expression thunderous. Darcy ignored her. Tonight, nothing—not even that woman’s pettiness—could dull the unusual warmth unfurling in his chest.
He allowed himself one small indulgence: watching Miss Elizabeth. He had not intended to admire her—but admiration had given way, quietly and without his leave, to something far more serious.
She stood beside Miss Lucas once more, laughing at some whispered remark, her face alight with animation. Her gown—cream muslin adorned with satin flowers and delicate vines—caught the candlelight beautifully. When she lifted her chin to scan the room, her gaze found his.
It was accidental, fleeting. Yet it stunned him. A soft smile touched her lips—nothing overt, no flirtation—just a brief, genuine expression of shared acknowledgment. Something tightened in Darcy’s chest.
The evening finally drew to a close. Cloaks were collected, goodbyes exchanged, and the crowd thinned.
Darcy remained a moment longer, composing himself.
He had come to Hertfordshire prepared to advise Bingley, tolerate an assembly or two, and endure whatever dull provincial society demanded of him.
Instead, he had found…her. And as Darcy stepped out into the crisp night air, he admitted to himself: He intended—no, resolved—to know Elizabeth Bennet better, whatever it took.