Chapter Twelve
The last six days had been torture for Darcy, unanticipated torture.
He had expected that he would resume his life as it had been before he met Elizabeth, but it was not to be.
He visited his club, played whist, and drank port with friends.
He buried himself in estate paperwork, making decisions about repairs to Pemberley and composing voluminous letters to his steward.
He wrote daily to Georgiana and Richard, far more diligently than usual—anything to distract himself.
Nothing helped.
When Georgiana wrote him something amusing, he longed to share it with Elizabeth.
It did not help that his sister was excited about the engagement and asked many questions about his fiancée.
At first, Darcy had sought to indirectly temper Georgiana’s expectations, but he had so many thoughts about Elizabeth that his letters became quite full of her.
He could only hope that Georgiana would not be too disappointed when Darcy and Elizabeth found “they would not suit.”
Every day, every hour, he struggled to keep himself from going to Sterling House—or at least writing her a note. He had to content himself with Bingley’s reports that she was “in good health.”
At times, he decided he only missed her because the charade had blurred the boundaries between truth and fantasy. The pretense had stirred false feelings.
At other times, he lay awake at night worrying that he had given her false hopes and expectations of him.
But the worst times were when he was lost in the fantasies. Stroking her hair, feeling her skin, kissing the back of her neck. Even the idea of holding her hand was unreasonably thrilling.
At dinner on day five, Darcy realized that he was the one with false hopes and expectations.
Although he still firmly planned on the end of the betrothal, part of him did not desire it. Part of him liked being engaged to Elizabeth. What a disaster. He could not allow himself to feel that way.
I am the master of Pemberley, heir to a proud and dignified legacy, he reminded himself daily. I cannot have feelings for someone so far below my station.
If he had been wise, Darcy would have avoided the Sudleys’ ball, pleaded illness, and forgotten the whole thing. But he could not bring himself to do it. He was too desperate for a glimpse of Elizabeth, the sound of her laughter, the joy of her conversation.
Darcy had prepared himself, armored himself against the onslaught of her wit and beauty. He would greet her politely. Nothing more. He would be immune to her charms.
But all his preparations were for naught the instant he glimpsed her. She stole his breath. Standing by the punch table, she wore a white silk gown with a tiered skirt and beads that reflected the light like little stars.
Elizabeth was doing nothing remarkable, merely talking to other guests. However, she shone like the sun, dazzling him. He stood in the ballroom entrance and stared, aware that he drew curious glances. But he was helpless to do otherwise.
And she exerted a pull on him. He wanted to see the intelligence in her eyes and enjoy the quick-witted jokes that never failed to make him smile.
He was not the only one drawn to her light. Standing beside her, Lord Harold Fordham smiled eagerly, absorbing her every utterance. Darcy understood that impulse even as he wanted to rip the man from her presence.
Darcy had clenched his hands into fists and made a conscious effort to ease them. I have not forgotten her at all. One glimpse and I am just as obsessed as ever.
He wanted to stalk across the floor and warn away Lord Harold with a growl. She is not for me. I do not want her. But he could not even convince himself.
She does not want me. He had insulted her family and implied that she was beneath him. She did not intend to marry. For all Darcy knew, she barely tolerated his presence.
And none of that mattered. He still wanted her. Desperately.
Logically, he should simply quit the ball, but he could not bring himself to do it.
He was sure that he caught her eye, but she continued in discourse with two men.
Was she angry at Darcy for the past week of silence?
Perhaps she had been so busy that she did not even notice. What a lowering thought.
Keeping his eyes fixed on Elizabeth, Darcy moved in her direction, but he found his way blocked by Lady Julia Wentworth.
Darcy did not know why she persisted in flirting with him; he could not possibly be elegant enough for her.
He had been relieved when she was on the verge of accepting another man’s offer.
She was lovely, Darcy noted absently. But he was far more interested in the glimpse of Elizabeth over Lady Julia’s shoulder.
“Mr. Darcy.” She made a pretty curtsey. What is she about?
“Lady Julia.” He bowed. “You are a vision.”
“I have been awaiting your arrival,” she trilled, fluttering her fan.
“You have?”
“Yes. I wished to give you an opportunity before my dance card filled up. I happen to have the next dance available.”
That was as close as a woman could come to requesting a man’s hand for a dance. How daring of her. Refusing would be the height of rudeness. He should be honored, but mostly he was impatient to reach Elizabeth.
However, Lady Julia had trapped him quite effectively. The orchestra was preparing to play the next set. “Might I have the honor?” Bowing to the inevitable, he held out his hand.
“It would be my pleasure,” Lady Julia simpered as she took his hand.
She was precisely the kind of woman he should desire to marry: handsome and elegant and, no doubt, accomplished.
A duke’s daughter would confer enormous social advantages on Georgiana when she came out.
It would be a brilliant match. Nobody would attempt to talk Darcy out of it. His uncle would be thrilled.
But she did not make his heart race. His pulse was as steady as ever.
She was so dull by comparison to Elizabeth. He had trouble maintaining a conversation with her. How could he find subjects for conversation at breakfast for the rest of his life?
As they waited for the dance to commence, she chattered on about the latest gossip and how she had found the most darling bonnet. She was even duller than he recalled. Or perhaps his standards had risen. His eyes drifted to the punch table, but Elizabeth had disappeared.
Wildly, Darcy scanned the room and found Lord Harold leading Elizabeth to the dance floor as the set formed. That should have been me. Did Fordham realize how fortunate he was?
Lady Julia coughed delicately, and Darcy wrenched his attention back to her as the dancing commenced.
Perhaps Elizabeth accepted Fordham because he was the first one to ask her? Had she been waiting and hoping Darcy would ask her? Or was she angry about Darcy’s week of silence and hoping to provoke his jealousy? Her serene expression gave no hint.
During the dance, he endeavored to keep his attention on his partner, but he could not help marking Elizabeth’s progress with Fordham. Has she even noticed that I am here?
He was able to acquit himself with some modicum of grace, and Lady Julia seemed satisfied with his conversation. But he could not recall anything they had discussed.
After the set, Darcy had hoped to escape, but Lady Julia asked him to fetch her some punch. By then Elizabeth was dancing a second set with Lord Harold. That would raise some eyebrows. But she is not really my fiancée. Even if I have tender feelings for her, I cannot act on them.
He endeavored not to watch Elizabeth too openly as Lady Julia related a long story about her friend’s improper conduct. I should at least pretend to pay attention.
I stayed away so Elizabeth would not have expectations of me. And now I want all her attention. Apparently, I am impossible to please. And I am an idiot as well. Maybe I should simply hit my head against a wall.
Fordham could not possibly have a true interest in courting Elizabeth. His father was an earl. However, the family was wealthy, and he had no need for a wife with a generous dowry. The same could be said of me. Perhaps his wife’s connections do not matter to Fordham’s family.
Why should it matter to me? With the exception of Richard, Darcy really did not have a great attachment to his family. Yes, they were family, but he did not truly like most of them. He visited them out of obligation.
I must have one dance with her. It would be expected as her fiancé. Yes, one dance will help to quell this craving.
With that resolution, Darcy attempted to attend more carefully to Lady Julia, who was describing her shoe roses.
***
Elizabeth neared the end of the third set of dances.
Mr. Trent had been a good partner and nimble on his feet.
But his discourse consisted entirely of complaints: the music was too loud, the room was too warm, the ball was too crowded, the company was not distinguished enough.
Her attention wandered as he appeared to require no response.
The minute the set ended, Elizabeth hastened to the punch table; she was not obligated to listen to any more of Mr. Trent’s diatribes.
William immediately appeared at her elbow, almost as if waiting for her.
Elizabeth was faintly surprised, given how long he had spoken with Lady Julia.
But perhaps he planned to ask for a release from the engagement.
Naturally, she agreed to dance with him. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves as he took her hand. Whatever he says, I will be composed. I will be dignified. He was never truly mine to begin with.
Still, she could not infuse her countenance with much warmth when she faced him. He had ignored her for days. When he arrived at the ball, he had danced with another woman before greeting Elizabeth. His conduct was not that of a doting fiancé.
The dance was a waltz. Why must it be such an intimate dance when my mood is decidedly the opposite?