Chapter 14
DARCY
Two hours later, I saw her descend the grand staircase and forgot every guest already gathered.
Her gown was a deep green, almost black in the shadows, embroidered with small silver leaves that caught the light. The neckline bared her shoulders more than her usual dresses did. Her hair was swept up in soft curls, held in place by my mother’s pearls.
She stopped on the second-to-last step.
“You’re staring again, Mr Darcy.”
“I have no intention of apologizing for it.”
I offered her my hand. Her gloved fingers settled into mine.
“You are magnificent.”
“Mrs Reynolds deserves much of the credit.”
“Mrs Reynolds is not wearing this gown.”
A faint blush rose to her cheeks.
I leaned toward her ear.
“If we did not have eighty guests, I would take you back upstairs immediately.”
She drew in a breath.
“That is a singular way to reassure your wife.”
“You appear less nervous.”
“I am chiefly curious about these plans you would make upstairs.”
I had to straighten before my body responded too visibly.
The first introductions began.
Elizabeth was brilliant.
Not in that artificial way that seeks to dazzle everyone she met.
She adapted her attention to each person without changing her voice.
She spoke of music with Lady Matlock, of crops with Sir James Alton, of roads with a county magistrate, and of a new novel with a young woman so timid she had not uttered three words since arriving.
She remembered the names she had been given, truly listened to the responses, and slipped in a jest just before the conversation turned solemn.
I watched her take her place at Pemberley without ever seeking to impose it.
The pride I felt had nothing to do with my name.
The first vexation came from Mrs Harcourt.
Widow of a baronet and mother of three daughters, she had long considered my bachelorhood a personal affront. She waited until several ladies surrounded Elizabeth before speaking loudly enough to be heard.
“Derbyshire must seem very quiet after Hertfordshire. I have heard the assemblies at Meryton were remarkably lively. Families in trade mingle there without distinction, do they not?”
I stood a few paces away. I started forward.
Elizabeth noticed me.
Her gaze clearly ordered me to stay where I was.
“Yes,” she replied. “One even meets people who have earned their fortune rather than inherited it. The experience is most instructive.”
A young woman stifled a laugh.
Mrs Harcourt pursed her lips.
“Naturally, certain connections can prove useful, even when they are not distinguished.”
“My uncle Gardiner is one of the most intelligent and honorable men I know. His acquaintance is precious to me, madam. I would be happy to introduce him to you when he comes to Pemberley.”
“I doubt our circles…”
“Pemberley is vast enough that no one need fear being diminished by an encounter.”
The words were delivered with a perfect smile.
Mrs Harcourt retreated.
Elizabeth turned to another guest and resumed the conversation at the precise word where she had left off.
I felt a fierce desire to kiss her in front of the entire room.
I did better.
I crossed the room, greeted Mrs Harcourt with a politeness that fooled no one, and placed Elizabeth’s hand on my arm before all eighty of my wife’s guests.
“Has my aunt inquired after you?” I asked pleasantly.
Mrs Harcourt understood. Three ladies behind her understood as well. The news from Pemberley would circulate through Derbyshire before Sunday: the master had chosen, and he was choosing before witnesses.
Elizabeth waited until we were out of earshot.
“You did not need to do that.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then why?”
Because I had spent eleven years letting this world guess my intentions, and I had just discovered the pleasure of imposing them. I did not say so.
“Because your gown is green and I am at a loss for words.”
“A little decorum, cousin,” Richard murmured at my side.
The colonel had arrived that afternoon without warning, claiming a ball at Pemberley was better than a military dinner in London. He followed my gaze.
“Your wife just defeated Mrs Harcourt in under three minutes. I can see why you're moved.”
“I have no visible emotion.”
“Of course not.”
He bowed to Elizabeth when the music signaled the first dance.
“Mrs Darcy, your husband confided in me that he feared you might lack for partners.”
“My husband confided no such thing.”
“His silence was most eloquent.”
She looked at me.
“May I accept?”
I had no reason to refuse. Richard was my cousin, her friend, one of the men I trusted most.
“Naturally.”
They took their places.
I discovered that trust did not prevent jealousy.
My cousin knew how to smile. He spoke with ease, leaned in to hear Elizabeth's replies, and possessed that social grace I had never sought to acquire. She laughed. Her eyes sparkled. When they met at the center of the figure, their hands joined with the familiar precision of good dancers.
“You're going to break your glass,” Georgiana observed.
My fingers were indeed gripping the wine glass tightly.
“I'm holding it perfectly well.”
Yet the wine trembled in the glass. I set it down and slipped my hand into my waistcoat pocket, where a small hairpin had rested since London—its owner having ordered me to keep it.
“Richard is not trying to steal your wife.”
“I know.”
“Nor does she seem to wish to be stolen.”
“Georgiana.”
My sister smiled with an audacity entirely due to Elizabeth's influence.
“I'm going to play the next dance. You should ask her before someone else does.”
I set down the glass.
The dance ended. Richard brought Elizabeth back to me, a provocative gleam in his eyes.
“Your wife dances marvelously.”
“I know.”
“She also maintains that an intelligent officer is sometimes worth more than a taciturn landowner.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows.
“I never said intelligent.”
“You implied it.”
“Colonel,” I intervened, “Lady Matlock is looking for you.”
“My mother is twenty miles from here.”
“Then you should leave immediately to meet her.”
He burst out laughing and walked away.
Elizabeth looked at me.
“Were you jealous?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“He's my cousin.”
“That doesn't answer the question.”
The music resumed. I held out my hand to her.
“Dance with me.”
“Is that an invitation or an attempt to reclaim your property?”
The phrase might have displeased me once. Now I understood what she was testing beneath the jest.
“A request to my wife, who may refuse it.”
She placed her hand in mine.
“Then I accept.”
We took our places.
I had never enjoyed dancing. The prescribed figures, the interrupted conversations, the obligation to touch a woman with polite indifference—all of it bored me. With Elizabeth, every rule became an occasion for anticipation.
Our hands met, parted, found each other again. I watched her eyes when propriety forbade me to look at her mouth. She knew the effect she had on me. A secret smile returned each time we drew near.
“You handled Mrs Harcourt very well,” I said when the figure placed us side by side.
“I feared you would have her expelled.”
“I considered it.”
“I know.”
“She insulted you.”
“She tried.”
We separated, then came back toward each other.
“You don't have to defend me from every slight,” she continued.
“I want to.”
“Defend me when I can't do so myself. Leave me the pleasure of the rest.”
“You took pleasure in it?”
“A little.”
I smiled.
The dance ended to applause. I held her hand longer than necessary.
“Come take the air.”
“Our guests…”
“Will survive five minutes.”
I led her toward the terrace. The night was mild, scented by roses from the garden. Music and light spilled through the open windows, but the stone pillars partially hid us from view.
Elizabeth leaned against the balustrade.
“Are you satisfied?” she asked.
“With what?”
“Your wife has not overturned any jellies, insulted any dukes, and provoked only one widow.”
“You have been perfect.”
“That is a dangerous compliment. I might believe you prefer the mistress of Pemberley to Elizabeth Bennet.”
I stepped in front of her.
“The mistress of Pemberley impresses my neighbors. Elizabeth Bennet makes me want to send everyone away.”
Her gaze dropped to my lips.
“That is a most inhospitable ambition.”
“I have never claimed to be a generous host when you look at me so.”
I placed my hands on the balustrade, on either side of her, without touching her.
“Were you hurt by Mrs Harcourt?”
“Less than you.”
“I cannot bear it when they remind you of what I myself once used against you at Hunsford.”
Her expression grew serious.
“You are no longer that man.”
“He still exists within me.”
“So much the better.”
I frowned.
“So much the better?”
“I have no desire to live with a man suddenly devoid of pride, exacting standards, and character. I only wish you to choose what deserves your pride.”
“And what deserves it?”
She raised a hand and placed it on my cheek.
“Your way of loving.”
My chest tightened.
“Elizabeth…”
“I am not yet ready to speak the word you await.”
I closed my eyes for a second.
She continued before I could draw back.
“But I am drawing closer to you. Every day. Tonight, when Mrs Harcourt spoke of my family, I was not afraid of her judgment. I only feared her words would make you regret your choice.”
“Never.”
“I know that now.”
Her thumb caressed my cheek.
“And that matters more than I know how to say.”
I took her hand and kissed her palm.
“I can wait for the words.”
“Even a long time?”
“Not with grace.”
She smiled.
“I would not trust too perfect a patience.”
I leaned down and kissed her.
The kiss should have been brief. It became slow, deep, fueled by desire held in check all evening. Elizabeth slipped her arms around my neck. I pressed her against the balustrade, conscious of the music behind us, the guests only yards away, the constant possibility of being discovered.
The nearness of danger made her mouth more eager.
My hand slid down her back, then to her waist. I felt the boning of her stays beneath the fabric.
“I hate this dress,” I murmured against her lips.
“Five minutes ago, you found it magnificent.”
“It conceals you too well.”
“Its principal purpose.”
I kissed her below the ear. She stifled a sigh against my shoulder.
Voices approached from the hall.
I drew away with regret.
Elizabeth adjusted a glove and looked at me with a calm belied by her reddened lips.
“You appear very satisfied,” she said.
“My wife has just told me that my way of loving deserves my pride.”
“Your modesty will never survive this evening.”
“It was never very robust.”
We returned to the ball separated by a proper distance.
No one remarked upon it. Yet Richard glanced at Elizabeth’s slightly disheveled coiffure, then at me, and smiled in a way that made me want to send him back to his regiment at dawn.
Later, when the last guests had departed, Elizabeth stopped at the foot of the stairs.
“Good night, Fitzwilliam.”
I looked at the stairs leading to our chambers, then at her face.
“Good night.”
She went up alone.
The door remained closed that night.
I did not consider it a failure.
For the first time, she had told me she was moving toward me.
I was finally humble enough to understand that the journey mattered as much as the arrival.