Chapter 1
Fitzwilliam Darcy repressed a sigh, very much less than pleased to be attending the ball.
He would not have been standing beneath the chandeliers of a crowded London assembly room now if Bingley had not persuaded him to attend. His friend had been unusually determined, and though he attempted to disguise it with cheer and good humour, Darcy had recognised the concern beneath it.
Though wishing it were otherwise, Darcy could not deny that Bingley had reason for concern.
That confounded rumour, which ought never to have been repeated at all, had rapidly gained a life of its own.
Now it was spreading all over London. Bingley had spoken of it lightly, giving the rumour no more credit than such nonsense deserved, but he had watched Darcy closely while he spoke, as though Darcy’s expression might confirm what he refused to repeat.
While appreciating his friend’s concern, Darcy did not care for being fussed over.
The room was warm with the press of bodies and the glow of candlelight.
Music carried from the far end of the ballroom, where the musicians sat on a raised platform.
The musicians were professionals, and the precision of each note showed it, but Darcy could not help thinking that he would much rather have been at home, listening to Georgiana play the pianoforte.
Couples arranged themselves in sets, the ladies carefully elegant with their silk skirts brushing the polished floor and their heads held high, while the gentlemen smoothed their gloves and pretended not to look too eagerly at the ladies opposite.
The air smelled faintly of beeswax and perfume, of perspiration and crushed flowers.
Servants moved with trays of wine and lemonade, their faces carefully blank and their steps practised.
In short, it was a London evening like a thousand others.
Darcy stood near the edge of the room, one gloved hand resting against the back of a chair, his posture composed and still.
With very little effort, he could have listed the motives of half the people present.
Some were there to be seen, others to see.
Some were there for fashion, and some for fortune.
A few, perhaps, were there for genuine enjoyment, though Darcy had always suspected such people were either rare or easily pleased.
Most had come for the same reason they always came, to take part in the endless, carefully arranged performance that allowed society to congratulate itself on its refinement.
Ordinarily, he could endure it with ease, but tonight he was conscious of being watched.
Not openly, not in any manner that could be called rude.
London prided itself on discretion even in its most enthusiastic scrutiny.
Yet Darcy had attended enough assemblies to recognise the signs.
Conversations paused as he passed, only to resume with suspicious brightness once he had moved on.
Eyes followed him and then slid away. He caught fragments of speech, a word or two spoken too clearly to be coincidence, his name murmured and then swallowed.
Once, he met the gaze of a matron of his acquaintance across the room. Her expression was polite, even kind, yet her eyes held a faint satisfaction, as though she had found herself in possession of a particularly interesting fact.
It was evident that whatever amusement London had taken from his affairs had not yet exhausted itself.
Darcy drew a slow breath, annoyed with himself as much as with anyone else.
The situation was of his own making. Had he been more guarded, more careful, this could never have happened.
He had always believed himself capable of restraint.
Indeed, he had rather prided himself upon it.
That he should have failed so completely was an indignity to which he had not yet reconciled himself.
What had come over him to say such a thing when anyone might hear him? He was not a man given to careless declarations or speaking merely to fill the silence. For one single, careless instant, he had forgotten that society was listening, had spoken freely and openly, and this was the consequence.
The man he had been before Hertfordshire would not have made such a mistake.
When Bingley first invited him to join the party at Netherfield, Darcy had seen no reason to decline.
He enjoyed Bingley’s company, valued it more than his humble, cheerful friend perhaps guessed, and a few months in the country seemed harmless enough.
A country house party typically brought with it dull dinners, predictable company, and little of interest beyond fulfilling his obligations as a guest. The quiet might even be beneficial, allowing him to escape London’s endless noise for a season.
Darcy had expected to be bored. He had expected to be unchanged, but he had not expected Elizabeth Bennet.
She had distinguished herself to his notice almost immediately.
It was not her appearance that Darcy found so bewitching, though her figure was light and pleasing, her face pretty even if not in the style of a London beauty, and her fine dark eyes difficult to overlook.
More than all of this, it was her manner that had caught his attention.
She was lively, intelligent, and unafraid to meet his reserve with humour.
Where most women either attempted to flatter him or retreated into anxious politeness, Miss Bennet had looked at him as though he were merely another man in the room, with no special claim upon her deference.
At first, it had been irritating.
Then, inconveniently, it became interesting.
Darcy could recall one particular exchange at Netherfield Park with a clarity that left him at once annoyed, amused, and intrigued despite himself.
He had been standing near the fireplace, observing the others with dispassion and remaining aloof from the conversation, when Miss Bennet approached, her eyes bright with that expression that suggested she was about to say something she found amusing.
“You are very silent this evening, sir,” she had remarked, as calmly as though she were commenting on the weather.
“I have always been told that silence is preferable to speaking without purpose,” Darcy replied coolly, wondering what she was about.
“And yet,” she said, tilting her head slightly, “you are surrounded by a room full of people doing precisely that, and you do not look as though you pity them.”
“I am not in the habit of pitying people for their own choices,” he answered, expecting that she would retreat.
Instead, she smiled. “Then you are either hard-hearted or wise. I cannot yet decide which.”
The ease with which she spoke, the confidence with which she held his gaze, had discomposed him far more than he had wished to acknowledge. He had told himself he ought to be offended by such impertinence. Instead, he had found himself wanting to answer her in kind.
Worse, he had enjoyed it.
Their conversations had been spirited, sometimes pointed, and always engaging.
Darcy found himself anticipating them, predicting his enjoyment of a gathering by whether Miss Elizabeth Bennet was expected to attend.
His own mind, ordinarily so orderly, had begun to stray in ways he had not expected.
He found himself watching for her when she entered a room, listening for her voice, and noticing, with increasing irritation, when others tried to command her attention.
He had told himself that it was foolish, that the infatuation would pass, but it had not.
Instead, his regard for her had deepened, becoming something altogether more dangerous the longer he attempted to suppress it.
Each effort at restraint seemed only to sharpen his awareness of her absence.
The world appeared flatter, duller, when she was not in it.
Darcy did not like that. He did not like that it made him feel less in command of himself, less certain that he could always choose sense over sentiment.
And then, as though matters were not already sufficiently complicated, George Wickham had appeared in Meryton.
Darcy’s jaw tightened at the thought. Wickham’s talent for presenting himself as an injured party was well practised.
He could step into any new place and, within a day, have half the neighbourhood convinced of his virtue.
That Hertfordshire had proven no exception was hardly surprising, but that he could fool Elizabeth Bennet despite her keen intelligence and sense of justice was far more difficult to bear.
Darcy had known then that the situation could not continue. He had known what was expected of him by his family and by society. He had also known, with increasing unease, that Bingley was in danger of forming an attachment of his own. One that might not be easily undone.
It was for these reasons, he told himself, that he had joined Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst in persuading their brother to return to London.
At the time, it had seemed sensible, even necessary.
Doubt had come only later, when Bingley’s unusual pensive air and frequent remarks about Hertfordshire suggested that the woman he had left behind could not be so easily forgotten.
Though Bingley attempted to seem as cheerful as ever, a certain melancholy crept in around the edges.
Had Darcy been wrong in thinking himself justified in directing his friend’s happiness?
A familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Darcy, old fellow,” Bingley said, appearing at his side, “you look positively oppressed.”
Darcy glanced at him. “I am merely observant.”
Bingley laughed. “If that is so, I advise you to observe something more pleasant. There has already been quite enough talk this evening.”
Darcy lifted an eyebrow. “So I have gathered.”
Bingley hesitated, then waved a hand as though brushing the matter aside. “It will fade soon enough. London is fickle.”