Chapter 10
TEN
Georgiana was halfway through unpacking when the knock came. She glanced up from the open trunk, exchanging a look with her maid, who curtsied and withdrew discreetly.
“Come in,” she called, smoothing her skirts.
The door opened and her brother stepped inside. He looked… disheveled. Not in appearance, his coat was still immaculate, his boots polished, but in his bearing. His hands flexed behind his back. His jaw was tight. He looked, absurdly, like a boy who had broken a window and was bracing for scolding.
“Fitzwilliam?” she said, puzzled. “Is something wrong?”
He glanced at the open trunk, the scattering of gloves and shawls. “I am sorry. I should have waited.”
Georgiana smiled faintly. “It is only unpacking. What is it?”
He hesitated. Paced a few steps and pushed a hand through his hair.
Georgiana arched an eyebrow. “You are making me nervous. Have you bankrupted the estate?”
That startled a short, breathless laugh out of him.
“No,” he said. Then: “Something worse.”
She blinked.
He stopped pacing and faced her, shoulders rigid.
“You met Mrs Morley downstairs,” he said. His voice was hoarse.
Georgiana nodded slowly. “Yes. She seems… interesting.”
Darcy huffed out a breath. “She is.”
He stared at the floor for a moment, visibly gathering himself.
“Her name is Elizabeth,” he said. “Elizabeth Bennet.”
Recognition flared in Georgiana’s eyes. “From Hertfordshire?”
He nodded, once, sharply.
“The same Elizabeth,” he said. “The only Elizabeth.”
A long pause.
Georgiana sat down neatly on the trunk, folding her hands. “I see.”
Darcy resumed pacing, three sharp steps to the fireplace and back.
“I long to dance with her, Georgiana,” he said, the words bursting out of him. “We only danced once. Years ago. She despised me back then.”
He stopped, hands fisting at his sides.
“I gave her every reason to hate me,” he said quietly. “I was arrogant. Condescending. She deserved better.”
Georgiana tilted her head, studying him.
“And now?”
Darcy gave a short, helpless laugh. “Now… I would lay everything I have at her feet if she asked.”
Another rough breath.
“I want to dance with her tonight. Properly. Openly. If she will allow it.”
He looked at his sister, something raw and boyish in his eyes.
“I need your help.”
Georgiana rose from the trunk and crossed to him taking his hand in hers.
He swallowed.
“I need you to play.” He looked at his sister a little embarrassed. “A reel first. Something lively. Miss Forbes’ Fancy, if you know it. To draw her out.”
She nodded, slow and thoughtful.
“And then?”
“If the mood is right…” His voice faltered. “If she smiles. If she stays.”
He lifted his eyes to hers, naked with hope.
“The Duke of Kent’s Waltz,” he said, his voice rough.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Georgiana gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in mock indignation.
“Brother!” she cried. “You know how to waltz?”
The amusement in her eyes betrayed her, bright, affectionate, just shy of laughter.
Darcy gave a low, embarrassed huff and turned half-away, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
“I can manage,” he muttered.
She laughed properly then, a warm sound that lifted the weight in the room.
“You can do more than manage,” she said, stepping forward and touching his arm. Her smile softened. “You can fly, if you let yourself.”
He shook his head, but a reluctant, helpless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“You always did have too much faith in me,” he said gruffly.
“And you,” she said, squeezing his sleeve, “always had too little.”
She let him go, stepping back toward her trunk, her face still bright with fond mischief.
“I will play your reel,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice. “And your scandalous waltz.”
Darcy snorted softly. “It will hardly be scandalous.”
Georgiana arched an eyebrow. “If you dance the way you look at her, Fitzwilliam” she shook her head, smiling, “it will be.”
He said nothing, only gave her a long, searching look, gratitude written clear across his usually inscrutable face.
“Go,” she said again, waving him toward the door. “Before you lose your nerve.”
He turned toward the door and then stopped, one hand braced against the frame.
“Georgiana,” he said, without looking back.
She glanced up from where she was folding a shawl.
“Yes?”
There was a pause, long enough that she turned fully to him.
His shoulders were rigid. His head bowed.
“Are you happy in your marriage?” he asked quietly, “Truly happy?” He hesitated, then forced the rest out: “Or do you… feel trapped?”
The words hung between them, stark and heavy.
Georgiana’s face softened immediately. She crossed the room to him, her skirts whispering against the floor. She touched his sleeve lightly and waited until he looked at her.
“I am happy,” she said simply. “Truly.”
A pause.
“And I was never trapped,” she added. “You gave me freedom, Fitzwilliam. Not chains.”
Darcy closed his eyes for a moment, as if a blow had narrowly missed its mark.
“I would never have forced you,” he said hoarsely.
“I know,” Georgiana said. “I have always known.”
Her hand squeezed his sleeve, firm and warm.
He covered her hand briefly with his own, rough and warm, then let go.
This time, when he left the room, his step was steadier.
* * *
The parlour had been cleared of furniture, leaving a smooth stretch of polished floor. A few guests lingered with port and conversation, but most gathered eagerly as Georgiana was ushered to the pianoforte.
Darcy stood near the window, posture deceptively relaxed, though his pulse pounded like a drumbeat behind his ribs.
Elizabeth hovered near the Gardiners, her laughter light but her eyes wary.
Their eyes met across the room, just briefly, and the world tilted.
Georgiana caught the look.
Smiling slightly to herself, she settled her fingers on the keys and struck the first bright notes of Miss Forbes’ Fancy.
The line dance began easily enough. The Gardiners joined in gamely, Mr Gardiner bowing to his wife with exaggerated flourish. The children shrieked with glee at the prospect of any excuse to skip and twirl.
Elizabeth, caught up in the lightness of the moment, allowed herself to be drawn into a set by Brigadier Fitzwilliam, who spun her with gallant flair before passing her to Darcy.
Their hands met. The jolt was immediate.
Elizabeth inhaled sharply, but the steps carried them apart again before she could speak. The dance was a series of quick exchanges, hands grasped and released, smiles flashed and lost. Each time Darcy touched her, however fleetingly, the air between them sparked hotter.
Elizabeth’s laughter grew real, breathless, bright. Her cheeks flushed from the movement, her curls escaping their pins.
Darcy felt it, saw it, and something reckless ignited in his chest.
Georgiana’s fingers shifted seamlessly into the next tune, the reel.
Faster. Wilder. Darcy’s bow was faultless. His eyes were less so, far too full of something that shouldn’t be on display in front of guests.
Elizabeth curtseyed, more amused than flustered. “Are you quite certain I am handsome enough to tempt you now, Mr Darcy?” She whispered with mirth in her voice and challenge in her eyes.
He extended his hand. “More than words can say.”
Her breath caught. She took it.
The room dissolved into spinning pairs and breathless laughter. Elizabeth and Darcy found themselves swept together again, their hands linking, bodies closer now, steps less formal, more instinctive. Their eyes locked, neither willing to break first.
Darcy’s palm pressed against hers, firm and warm, as he guided her through a tight turn, his grip lingering a heartbeat too long. Elizabeth’s chest rose and fell with shallow, giddy breaths. She looked beautiful, wild, laughing and alive.
It was almost too much to bear.
As the final chaotic measures of the reel faded into applause, Darcy dropped her hand, only to catch it again an instant later, bowing low.
“One more, Mrs Morley?” he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
Elizabeth hesitated, but her fingers tightened in his. Georgiana’s hands fell into the unmistakable, slow rolling rhythm of The Duke of Kent’s Waltz.
Elizabeth’s lips twitched. “I have never waltzed, Mr Darcy.”
His eyes lit, more with satisfaction than surprise. “Then I am honoured to be your first.”
Darcy drew her into the set. There were no lines now. No safe exchanges.
Only him.
Only her.
The room blurred around them as he settled his hand at her waist, too firm, too familiar, and drew her into the first slow, spiraling turn.
Elizabeth stiffened for half a breath, then let go.
The waltz carried them, spinning, floating, faster than propriety allowed.
Their hands held, their bodies aligned. Darcy’s head bent low over hers, lips brushing the shell of her ear as they turned. Her breath hitched.
Mrs Gardiner set down her cup, heart squeezing painfully. Mr Gardiner shifted in his chair, his eyebrows climbing high as he leaned toward his wife.
“Is this serious?” he muttered, voice low, urgent.
Mrs Gardiner’s gaze stayed fixed on the floor where Elizabeth and Darcy spun faster, her skirts flying, her cheeks flushed with breathless laughter.
“I believe him more serious than her,” she said softly, a note of concern threading through her voice.
For Darcy and Elizabeth , the others receded, their laughter, their shock, the murmured rising hum of speculation.
It was just them. Just breathless spinning. Her hand clutched at his shoulder. His palm burned against her spine.
They danced without flourishes. No performance. Just the subtle intimacy of two people attuned to every shift in the other’s body.
When the music ended, she was breathless and flushed, her hand still in his. He bowed as if they were under chandeliers in Vienna, and she curtseyed in reply, lips pressed together to hide the way they trembled.