Chapter Nine #2
He considered. Goodness, how she made him think!
“Perhaps…discomfort. Reserve. A failure to trust easily.” All were true, though incomplete.
“I have suffered with an abundance of pride in my life, but I never meant to fall into the proud behavior to which you refer. When one is born to privilege, as I was, it is exceedingly easy to become unbearably proud and insufferable.”
She studied him for a moment. “Your description sounds very much like pride…dressed in finer clothes. I can, however, understand how one born into exalted circumstances might find their way down that path.”
He grinned. “I have been well-accused.”
She said nothing, but her lips parted slightly, and a blush touched her cheeks.
He continued. “There are few people in this world whose good opinion matters to me. Yours is…the most important of all.” More than even his dear sister’s.
He silently entreated her to understand what his words conveyed.
Though he would not yet claim responsibility for her gifts, he could tell her, in a way, how much she meant to him.
The music slowed.
Elizabeth swallowed. “You have changed, Mr. Darcy…from the gentleman I first met.”
He looked at her intently. “I wish it to be so.”
The final notes drifted into silence. The room erupted in applause, but Darcy and Elizabeth stood motionless for a breath longer. Then she curtsied, and he bowed low.
“Thank you for the dance, Mr. Darcy.”
“The pleasure was mine, Miss Elizabeth.”
She moved to rejoin her sisters but paused at the last moment.
“I would have the gentleman who sent the combs know how deeply they are appreciated.”
Blast. Of course, she had no intention of surrendering her quest to discover his identity.
Darcy said nothing, still weighing his response as she walked away. He watched her weave through the crowd—laughing with Miss Bennet, nodding politely to Lady Lucas, her hair gleaming with silver and pearl. The combs sparkled in the candlelight, nestled like moonlight in her dark curls.
They suited her perfectly, just as he had imagined when he selected them for the twelve days and arranged their delivery. That she had worn them now, that she had chosen them for this particular evening, stirred something in him both tender and aching.
She belonged in that light, in that warmth, in that life. And he—Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley—wanted, more than anything, to be part of it.
But desire did not bestow the right to possession.
He had learned that lesson already. Still, the memory of their dance lingered with a sweetness that would not fade.
The deliberate measure of the minuet, the feel of her hand in his, the careful grace of her movements—it was etched into him now.
There had been something more than music in the way she had looked at him, something that made him believe he had not mistaken her sentiment.
Her teasing words at supper, the smile she gave as she wondered aloud who could be so self-sacrificing as to procure such fine gifts—it had all felt like… an invitation.
Darcy danced with other ladies before the evening concluded, though none captured his attention as she had.
Each set felt like an echo, a pale imitation of the moment he had shared with Elizabeth.
Miss Mary made an adequate partner, though she seemed far more intent on extolling the merits of Handel’s compositions than observing the steps themselves.
Still, Darcy listened politely and even ventured a comment on the superiority of Corelli’s concerti, which satisfied her.
He also stood up with Miss Lucas, who danced with the energy of one entirely in command of the social scene. Her confidence had grown with her engagement. The faster tempo of the English country dance left no room for conversation, but Miss Lucas’s knowing glances spoke volumes. She missed nothing.
Bingley, for his part, had vanished into some corner with Miss Bennet.
Their engagement, freshly announced, had turned them into the chief spectacle of the evening.
Guests showered them with praise, exclamations, and half-teasing jests about future weddings and new carriages.
Darcy did not begrudge them their brief escape. If anything, he admired their audacity.
When the pair returned, Miss Bennet’s cheeks were flushed a cheerful pink, and there was a radiance of contentment about her that had not been there earlier in the evening.
Bingley’s smug grin told its own tale, and Darcy knew precisely which secluded corner they had sought.
There was a kissing bough tucked between the drawing room and the music room, half-hidden behind a velvet curtain—perfect for a sweet holiday kiss.
And yet, it was not envy that stirred in Darcy. It was hope. Quiet, unfamiliar hope.
Elizabeth’s company was in high demand. Sir William declared her the most admired young lady of the evening, and several gentlemen were eager to stand up with her. Her wit and charm made her the natural center of any circle she joined.
Darcy caught glimpses of her between sets—her laugh at something Sir William said, her delighted applause when Charlotte played a lively jig at the pianoforte, her gentle encouragement as she helped Miss Maria recover from a misstep. She was everywhere and nowhere at once, brisk as a bee.
He wished for more than a glimpse. He had, rather foolishly, intended to speak with her again—to engage in a discreet exchange that might edge them closer to understanding.
But the evening wore on, and every attempt he made to cross the floor to her side was interrupted: by Lady Lucas, who insisted upon hearing how Christmas was celebrated at Pemberley, or by the vicar, or some well-meaning matron eager to remind him of his duty to the younger, unmarried ladies in attendance.
It was maddening. No one knew of his interest in Elizabeth but himself. The crowd was not conspiring to keep them apart. And yet, that was precisely how it seemed.
But still—she suspects. And she does not object.
The idea curled warm and possessive within him.
Was that not the purpose of the combs? Of the gloves?
The locket from the first day, and all the gifts yet to be given?
Not to win her favor through material offerings, but to express, in the only way he knew how, the depth of his admiration—his respect. His love.
He could not speak it aloud, not without certainty that her heart was engaged. But these tokens were his silent language—a testament to all he felt but could not yet say.
As the night waned and couples departed in clusters of laughter and hooded capes, Darcy stood near the window, watching flakes drift past the frosted glass.
His eyes sought Elizabeth once more. She stood beside Miss Bennet, wrapping a scarf about her shoulders, her countenance touched with gentle contentment.
A good evening. A happy one.
Mayhap when she later unpinned the combs from her hair and laid them on her dressing table, she would think of him. Not merely as the man who had once wronged her, but as the one who lingered at the edge of her world, longing for another dance, another word, another chance.
Perhaps soon, he would be brave enough to offer all three.