Chapter 4 The Netherfield Ball
Where the deuce is Elizabeth?
Darcy paced his chamber, looking out of the window every other second in the hope of espying the tattered Bennet carriage. The line of vehicles was trickling by with no sign of his soothing siren.
Darcy sorely needed her appeasing presence after enduring such a dreadful day.
During his horrible ride from London to Meryton, his trusted stallion had thrown a shoe, and he had walked two and a half miles before he found a smithy that could replace it.
By the time he arrived at Netherfield, it had been too late to visit Sir William.
He blew out an irritated breath to rid himself of his odious mood and glanced for the hundred and fiftieth time out of the window, just as a head of soft brown curls alighted from a carriage.
“Elizabeth!”
Had he shouted her name aloud? Because she glanced up, whilst a winsome expression played on her face.
She offered him a dainty wave, and he greeted her with a staid nod whilst locking his hands behind his back.
It would not do if all the guests who were still swarming about on the drive were to espy the master of Pemberley completely losing his head over a girl.
It was true, of course, he was lost, but the denizens of Hertfordshire need not know, though he highly doubted he would be able to conceal his deep admiration for Elizabeth much longer.
Soon she would know what a numbskull he was.
Especially when she was near. The enchantress turned his brain into mud and ignited his body into a blazing fire.
She disappeared from sight, and he hastened down the stairs to greet his goddess.
“Mr Darcy!”
Had not the sturdy Sir William stood directly in front of him, he might have managed to avoid the untimely interruption, but as he did have business with the man, he chose to use the opportunity to his advantage.
“Sir William, if I may have a word with you in private?”
“Certainly, sir. Whatever I can do to be of assistance will be done. You may only ask, and I flatter myself that I have some power in this neighbourhood as the local magistrate and mayor of Meryton.”
“Excellent, follow me.”
Darcy walked in determined strides to the deserted library, which assaulted his senses with pleasant memories of a soft and yielding body in his arms. Once inside, he gestured for Sir William to sit.
“My business pertains to an old acquaintance of mine, a Mr Wickham.”
“I suppose you have been informed about the calamity at Mrs Phillips’s card party,” Sir William eagerly interjected before Darcy had the opportunity to divulge his request. “But I can assure you that Miss Elizabeth managed the situation with the grace and determination she is famous for. Though not quite as renowned as for her unparalleled beauty. She is the jewel of Hertfordshire. Well, along with her sister, I should remember to add. Jane is a remarkably handsome lady—”
“Yes, she is, but what happened to Miss Elizabeth?” Darcy questioned with cold dread pooling in his stomach.
“She captured the questionable interest of one of the officers—the lieutenant you mentioned.”
Of course she did. Elizabeth was the most beautiful lady in all of England, and Wickham would have had to be blind not to notice.
Neither could he have failed to see his own interest in the lady.
The way he had carelessly hied her off for a private conversation right before his eyes.
The thought made his blood run cold as he would not put it past Wickham to importune Elizabeth to revenge himself on him.
“He followed her about and tried to engage her in conversation, but Elizabeth would not have it.”
Naturally she did not want to engage with the likes of Wickham. She was too clever by far to be coerced into anything by that ne’er-do-well. In that regard, she outwitted his own father…
“His insistence upon importuning her proceeded too far, and I escorted Elizabeth home.”
“Where was Mr Bennet whilst this disaster unfolded?” Darcy asked, clenching and unclenching his fists.
Sir William had the decency to offer him an abashed smile. “At home with his books.”
That settled it. If only he could get his hands round Wickham’s throat he would squeeze the last breath out of his body.
“Pray, excuse me. I must find Mr Wickham. If I remember correctly, Bingley has invited all the officers.”
“He has! What an excellent gentleman Mr Bingley is. So amiable and such pleasant company.”
Darcy had no time for Sir William’s effusions and rose to leave.
“But Mr Wickham is not here.”
Darcy halted mid-step and turned on his heel. “Where is he?”
“If Miss Lydia’s loud wails…I mean exuberant exclamations are to be believed, he is in London on an errand for his regiment, under the orders of Colonel Forster. Miss Lydia berated the poor colonel for depriving her of the neighbourhood’s most sought-after dance partner.”
Blast and damnation if that hell-born shabbaroon was not in London, which Darcy had left just this morning.
The decision to await Colonel Fitzwilliam’s assistance had been bloody stupid.
Yet there was nothing more he could accomplish at present, and the delectable presence of Miss Elizabeth beckoned him to end the conversation with due haste.
Darcy entered the ballroom with a spring in his step.
The line had already formed for the first set, and he had to find Elizabeth before the first scratches of violins filled the hall.
She was standing just inside the door with her arms crossed over her bosom.
Had she feared he had forgotten his obligation?
“Finally!” Darcy rushed with all the yearning he had contained these last four days. “I have missed you,” he admitted honestly.
“Then what took you so long?” Elizabeth whispered whilst he guided her to the bottom of the line.
“Do not prevaricate because I observed you looking out of the window. You greeted me with an almost imperceptible nod, or you may have twitched at a gnat bite. I cannot be certain, but it was either or—”
“Ha!” A bubble of laughter escaped him, but he schooled his expression when he detected the vulnerability shining in her eyes. “Sir William intercepted me on my way to find you, my fair maiden.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “Say no more, noble knight. I understand your predicament, and no further excuses are necessary.”
He bowed low, accompanied by a flourish of his hand. “Thank you.”
The musicians played a lively reel that left Darcy with no breath for conversation.
Elizabeth was gracefully agile and sprightly in her steps; he needed all his energy to follow her.
It was like her feet were well sprung and she bounced effortlessly round the circle.
By the grace of God, or Miss Bingley’s excellent planning, the second dance was the much less rigorous minuet.
“I need to speak to you in private,” he whispered close to her ear.
“Fresh air would not come amiss. Perhaps the balcony?” Elizabeth suggested. “Once the set is completed and we have found a glass of punch to relieve our parched throats.”
“An excellent plan.”
“Mr Darcy, how well you dance!”
“Thank you, but I disagree.” Darcy had not even noticed Mrs Bennet approach, and the interruption was far from welcome. It was one of Elizabeth’s few disadvantages, that most of her family lacked the most elementary decorum. “Miss Elizabeth is far my superior.”
Mrs Bennet brightened but did not leave them to their dance as he expected, instead prattling on.
“All my girls are excellent dancers. Elizabeth is only second to Jane, who is most accomplished in the art.” She pointed at Miss Bennet, who was dancing, admittedly quite well, with Bingley. “I hope to see this repeated often once my Jane and Mr Bingley are married.”
Darcy glanced at his friend. He was aware of Bingley’s infatuation with Miss Bennet; whether his affection was reciprocated was less certain.
In the lady’s defence, she was not prone to display her feelings but smiled serenely at everyone.
So far, he had not observed any particular regard for his friend, which might be due to his own obsession with Miss Elizabeth…
Mrs Bennet sauntered away to disturb some other poor dancers, and he was yet again alone with his lady, or as alone as one could be in a crowded ballroom. The dance ended, and after a quick sojourn to the refreshment table, they were left undisturbed on the balcony.
“Mr Darcy!”
Miss Bingley’s nasal voice was too close for comfort.
“Marry me,” he blurted out before the banshee could reach them. He searched his pocket for the box he had taken from his safe, but it was nowhere to be found. In his rush to welcome Elizabeth, he must have forgotten to retrieve it.
“Do not move,” he ordered Elizabeth, whose grin was visible even in the dim light. “I have brought you a gift but seem to have misplaced it.”
“My mother will be concerned if I do not return to the ball in a timely manner,” she protested.
“Your mother will be delighted and announce you as good as married.”
“But my father will be pacing through Netherfield’s parlours in search of me.”
“Only between the punch table and the card room,” he quipped, and Elizabeth laughed.
“I wish you were not quite as astute when judging my parents.”
“With you I find no fault,” he admitted in earnest.
“Mr Darcy!”
Miss Bingley was at his side, but he paid her no mind. “I shall be back shortly,” he informed Elizabeth and hastened to his chamber.
#
“Miss Elizabeth, I could not help but overhear Mr Darcy’s proposal to you. Allow me, as a friend, to advise you.”
Miss Bingley accosted her with an expression of civil disdain. As much as Elizabeth wanted to say no to the harridan’s demand, her upbringing would not allow it. Instead, she remained in silent protest, which did not deter Miss Bingley one iota.