Chapter Fifteen The Resolutions of 1812
The Matlock New Year's Eve Ball was not merely a social gathering.
It was a geopolitical event. Matlock House, already a fortress of influence, had been transformed into a glittering palace of light and velvet.
The street outside was choked with carriages, the air thick with the shouting of footmen and the anticipation of the ton arriving to judge one another before the calendar turned.
Elizabeth Bennet stood in the foyer, her hand resting lightly on Mr Darcy's arm.
She wore a gown of ivory silk, overlaid with silver netting that shimmered like frost, a gift from her uncle.
Around her neck hung a simple strand of pearls, and in her hair were woven small white flowers from the Darcy conservatory.
She felt like an impostor. She felt like a queen.
"Breathe," Darcy whispered near her ear. He looked devastating in formal evening dress, his black coat cutting a sharp silhouette against the gold leaf of the hall. He was holding her arm closer than propriety dictated, providing a silent anchor in the rising tide of society.
"I am breathing," she whispered back. "And calculating the likelihood of Lady Catherine waiting at the top of the stairs with a battalion of dragoons to tackle me down."
"The Earl has stationed Richard near her," Darcy murmured. "He has orders to distract her with anecdotes if she looks like she is about to pounce."
"Your family thinks of everything."
"We try."
They ascended the grand staircase. Ahead of them, Lord Keathley was escorting Jane. She looked radiant in frosted blue, her beauty so undeniable that the whispering crowds fell silent as she passed. Robert looked like a man who had stolen the crown jewels and was daring anyone to ask for them back.
Behind them came the Gardiners and Georgiana. Mrs Gardiner walked with a quiet dignity that defied anyone to question her presence. Georgiana, pale but determined, clung to Mrs Gardiner's side, drawing strength from the older woman's calm.
At the top of the stairs stood the Earl and Countess of Matlock, the hosts of the evening.
The great lady was resplendent in diamonds that could have funded a small war. She watched the approach of their party with a sharp, assessing eye. As the whisperers in the ballroom craned their necks to see who the Matlocks would snub, she stepped forward.
She did not offer a polite nod. She did not offer a cool hand.
"Mrs Gardiner!" she exclaimed, her voice carrying clearly over the music. "I am so pleased you could come. I have been dying to ask you about that lace supplier you mentioned on Tuesday. The Earl has been boring me with brandy talk for hours. You must rescue me."
The ballroom let out a collective gasp. The Countess of Matlock was embracing a woman from Cheapside. The social order wobbled, then realigned itself instantly. If she approved, then the Gardiners were not trade. They were eccentric, which was perfectly acceptable.
"It would be my pleasure, Lady Matlock," Mrs Gardiner replied with a gracious smile.
"And Mr Gardiner," the Earl boomed, shaking Elizabeth's uncle by the hand. "Happy New Year, old man! Come, I have a bottle of something in the library that needs an expert opinion."
Elizabeth felt the tension in Darcy's arm dissolve. He looked down at her, his eyes warm.
"They have been accepted," he said softly.
"They have been adopted," Elizabeth corrected, smiling as she watched Robert spin Jane towards the ballroom floor before the line had even finished. "Your cousin seems intent on starting the dancing early."
"Robert is impatient," Darcy said. "He has been checking his pocket watch every five minutes."
"And you?" she asked, tilting her head. "Are you impatient, Mr Darcy?"
He looked at her. The heat in his gaze was a scorching touch on her skin.
"I am counting the seconds, Elizabeth. Until midnight."
"Why midnight?"
"Because," he said, leading her into the crush of the ballroom, "I have a resolution to make. And I cannot make it a moment sooner."
Robert Fitzwilliam, Viscount Keathley, heir to an earldom, was in a state of panic.
Again.
It was a delightful, euphoric sort of panic, but panic nonetheless.
He was dancing a quadrille with Jane Bennet, holding her hand, watching the candlelight catch in her golden hair, and realizing with absolute clarity that if he didn't secure her hand in marriage within the next hour, he might actually explode.
And then there was Darcy.
Robert glanced across the set. His cousin was dancing with Miss Elizabeth. He looked intense. He looked focused. He looked like a man with a Plan. Robert knew that look. It was the look Darcy got when he was restructuring the tenant laws or organizing a library shelf.
Darcy was going to propose at midnight. Robert knew it. He had seen Darcy checking the clock. He had seen the bulge of a ring box in his pocket.
The cheek of him, Robert thought as he turned Jane in the figure. Thinking he can claim the romantic climax of the evening. I found them first. Jane fell for me first. Literally.
He could not let the "Mouse" steal his thunder. He, Robert Fitzwilliam, was the rake. He was the dashing one. He needed to be the first to cross the finish line.
The music ended. Robert bowed to Jane, retaining her hand as the other couples dispersed.
"My Lord?" Jane asked, her eyes shining. "Is something wrong? You look distracted."
"I am seized by a sudden need for fresh air," Robert lied. "And quiet. The orchestra is very loud, do you not think?"
"It is a ball, Robert," she laughed.
"Precisely. Terrible place for conversation. Come along."
He didn't wait for an answer. He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and steered her—fast—away from the dance floor, past the lemonade table, ignoring Richard, who raised a glass to him, and towards the library.
The library was empty, and the fire was roaring. It was perfect.
Robert closed the door, muffling the sound of the violins. He turned to Jane. She looked beautiful, confused, and wonderfully alive.
"Robert?" she asked. "We are missing the waltz."
"Hang the waltz," Robert said breathlessly. "Jane. Look at me."
She locked her eyes with his and her expression softened. "I am looking."
"I cannot wait for midnight," he blurted out. "Darcy is going to do something noble and poetic at midnight, I just know it. He has probably written a treatise on sentimentality. I don't have a treatise. I have a lot of jokes, a questionable reputation, and a mother who scares me."
Jane blinked. "That is a very honest assessment."
"It is. But I also have this."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring. It wasn't an heirloom. It was new. He had bought it yesterday on Bond Street, trading a very nice hunter mare for it. It was a sapphire, blue as her eyes.
"I love you," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush.
"I loved you when you fell on me. I loved you when you laughed at my toga.
I loved you when you charmed my father. I don't want to court you for a season.
I don't want to wait for spring. I want to marry you.
Right now. Or as soon as the banns can be read. "
He dropped to one knee, ignoring the creak of his tight breeches.
"Jane Bennet. Will you save me from a life of boredom? Will you be my Viscountess? Will you marry me before my cousin proposes to your sister and steals my thunder?"
Jane stared at him. Then, she threw her head back and laughed—a sound of pure joy.
"Oh, Robert," she gasped. "You are ridiculous."
"Is that a yes?"
"Yes," she said, dropping to her knees in a rustle of silk to be level with him. She took his face in her hands. "Yes. I will marry you, silly man."
He kissed her. Quite thoroughly. It wasn't the chaste kiss on her knuckles of the conservatory. It was a kiss of possession, of relief, of absolute victory.
"I won," he whispered against her lips.
"Won what?"
"The race," he grinned, slipping the ring onto her finger. "Darcy is going to be so annoyed."
While Robert was claiming his victory in the library, Elizabeth Bennet was facing a different sort of challenge in the long gallery.
She had sought a moment of respite from the heat of the ballroom, intending to admire the Matlock art collection. Instead, she found herself standing before a living portrait of disapproval.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh sat on a velvet bench halfway down the gallery. She was alone, having presumably frightened off the Colonel, who was just a man, after all. She held a cane, though she didn't need it, using it to tap rhythmically against the floor.
"You are Miss Bennet. I can tell, though no one took pains to introduce us properly," Lady Catherine said. Her voice was not a shout tonight. It was a low, grinding rumble, like a millstone.
Elizabeth curtsied. She did not retreat. "I am, Lady Catherine."
"And how do you find the capital you conquered this evening?" the older woman asked, looking Elizabeth up and down.
"I find London agreeable, your Ladyship."
"Hmph. My nephew seems to find you agreeable. He has been parading you about the floor as if you were a prize mare."
"Mr Darcy has been very attentive," Elizabeth said calmly. "He is a gentleman."
"He is a fool," Lady Catherine snapped. "He thinks he can marry where he likes. He thinks duty is a suggestion." She stood up, moving towards Elizabeth. "I told him he was ruining himself. I told him the shades of Pemberley would be polluted."
"I heard," Elizabeth said. "I understand you have strong feelings on the matter."
"Feelings? I have standards, girl!" Lady Catherine stopped a foot from Elizabeth. "But he defied me. To my face. He told me there was no engagement to Anne. He told me he would not be moved."
She peered at Elizabeth, her eyes narrowing. "He has never defied me before. Not truly. He was always a dutiful boy. Sullen, but dutiful. And now? He has a spine of steel. Because of you?"