Chapter 14 The Ball at Netherfield #2
Again the dance carried them apart, yet Darcy felt the weight of her understanding, the trust she granted him in so small a comment.
When they came together once more, his voice dropped lower, his gaze holding hers with intensity.
“I suppose it is more difficult for the lady since she cannot openly declare her interest until the gentleman speaks. While the man has the power to ask, the woman can only accept—or refuse—once the question is put to her.”
Elizabeth’s lips parted, her breath catching as if she might reply, but the figures of the dance carried her away once more.
When they rejoined, neither spoke. Both knew how near they stood to making some declaration of their future, yet neither wished for so weighty a decision to intrude upon this moment.
Tonight, they longed only to enjoy their first dance together.
Thus the rest of the dance was concluded in silence.
As they waited for the next to begin, they turned the conversation to lighter matters, the tension that had hovered between them gradually easing.
By the time the second half commenced, they spoke easily of the ball, its music and decorations until Darcy surprised Elizabeth by venturing upon a topic she had not expected.
“When Georgiana is in London with me, she begs for a description of the gowns the morning after a ball—or even of the dresses worn at the theatre the night before. At first, I was hopeless, scarcely observing a thing. But I soon learnt to take notice, and now I can describe them to her in detail.”
Elizabeth laughed softly, her eyes sparkling. “You, Mr Darcy? A connoisseur of ladies’ gowns? I should hardly have believed it possible.”
A faint smile curved his lips. “Do not mistake me for an expert, but I learn quickly when it is for her sake.” His voice dropped ever so slightly. “Perhaps for yours as well.”
Elizabeth coloured, even as her laughter lingered. “Then I shall have to be cautious in my choices, lest I shock you with some dreadful fashion in a colour that does not suit me at all but that those who dictate such things have declared ‘fashionable.’”
“On the contrary,” he said, his gaze steady on hers as the dance drew them close, “I suspect you would make even the most dreadful fashion appear lovely. I cannot imagine thinking you anything else.”
Elizabeth shook her head, her smile bright. “Now you are teasing, sir.”
“Perhaps,” Darcy allowed; the warmth in his eyes told her it was no idle flattery.
As the figures of the set carried them apart once more, Elizabeth felt a sudden lightness in her heart.
Less than a fortnight ago she had despised Mr Darcy, and tonight she found herself more than halfway in love with him.
The thought astonished her so much that she laughed softly, marvelling at her own inconsistency.
How improbable, how absurd it seemed—that the man she once vowed never to dance with could now hold so large a place in her heart.
Darcy noticed, and when the dance ended, he drew her hand through his arm and leant closer, his voice pitched for her alone. “What is so amusing, dear Elizabeth?”
“I am laughing at myself—and how quickly my feelings have changed. A fortnight ago, I thought you the very last man I would willingly dance with. Now—” She faltered, the words catching in her throat.
“Now?” he prompted gently.
Elizabeth lifted her eyes to his, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “Now I can scarcely imagine my life without you in it.”
Her words lingered between them, and she was nearly certain that, had the entire neighbourhood not been watching, Darcy would have kissed her then and there. For several moments they stood in silence, eyes locked, each marvelling at the depth of feeling that had so unexpectedly grown between them.
To their dismay, Jane and Bingley rejoined them, breaking the spell. The moment slipped away, and though propriety was no doubt preserved by the interruption, both Elizabeth and Darcy could not help but resent that their private exchange had been so abruptly ended.
Still, they performed their roles admirably.
Darcy discovered that a ball spent continually in Elizabeth Bennet’s company was far more than tolerable—it was, in fact, nearly delightful.
To his own astonishment, he found himself enjoying the evening.
The ladies of Hertfordshire were far less mercenary than those in London, and with Elizabeth’s quiet encouragement, he danced nearly half the sets.
The supper set he reserved for her, and the two took equal pleasure in conversing together and with Jane and Bingley during the meal.
Jane, however, seemed less easy than usual.
While she smiled politely, she scarcely touched her food, and at length she spoke in a low voice, just loud enough for Elizabeth to hear.
“It is a pity Mr Wickham is not here tonight. I had hoped to—well—to ask him further about certain matters.” Her eyes flicked briefly towards Mr Darcy before darting back to her plate.
Elizabeth felt the heat rise in her cheeks but managed to answer evenly, “I cannot say his absence troubles me, Jane. In fact, I find the evening improved for it.”
Hearing Wickham’s name, Darcy inclined his head slightly towards Jane in recognition but did not comment. Elizabeth, however, felt the faint pressure of his hand covering hers beneath the table—a silent acknowledgment of both his gratitude and his restraint.
She could not, however, silence her own thoughts.
That Jane, with her tender heart, could think Mr Wickham so trustworthy filled Elizabeth with dismay.
Although she longed to confide in her sister the entire truth of the man’s infamous behaviour, the supper table was no place for such revelations; better, for now, to let the matter pass and speak to Jane further that evening.
There were, of course, other moments that threatened to mar their enjoyment.
Mr Collins attempted twice more to separate Darcy from Elizabeth, declaring pompously that, as her cousin and heir to Longbourn, he was the most suitable match for her, and that Darcy ought to hasten to Rosings to marry his own cousin.
Darcy’s temper strained at such insolence, but Elizabeth’s light touch upon his arm steadied him each time, and together they walked away with dignity.
Meanwhile, Kitty and Lydia bewailed Wickham’s absence more openly than Jane. “He would have danced every set with us, I am sure!” Lydia cried, tossing her curls. Kitty echoed her in tones of equal disappointment, much to Elizabeth’s mortification.
Her family behaved as they always had, and more than once Elizabeth’s face burned with shame.
Yet Darcy remained steadily by her side, striving—sometimes awkwardly, even bordering on offending others—to ease her troubled mind.
Still, she could not help but see the truth in his assurances.
How she wished her mother and father would rein in her younger sisters; but her mother seemed blind to impropriety, and her father too amused by their follies to intervene.
Leaning closer, Elizabeth whispered into Darcy’s ear, half in jest and half in earnest, “Our children will be better behaved.”
Darcy stilled, his lips curving faintly as though he wished to smile, but for a moment he only looked at her, eyes deep and searching.
Our children. The words echoed in his mind, stirring something so profound he could scarcely trust his voice.
He let the silence stretch, savouring the phrase, the hope it carried.
Only then did he answer, low and steady. “Our children will indeed.”
Elizabeth started at the sound of his reply, her heart leaping even as a fierce blush rose to her cheeks at her impertinence.
Our children. The phrase rang in her thoughts now too, mortifying yet sweeter than anything she had ever dared to imagine.
She ducked her head, but could not regret the slip—for in his gaze, she saw that he treasured it every bit as much as she did.