Chapter 35
Darcy lifted her chin and gathered the strength that had carried her through hunger, grief, and every sacrifice made for her sisters.
She would not surrender it now to a roomful of strangers armed with whispers.
Their judgment did not define her. This was not her world, and she no longer desired admittance into a society capable of dressing cruelty in silk and calling it breeding.
“I...” she began, turning toward Elizabeth, prepared at last to accept the duchess’s offer and withdraw with her dignity intact.
A sharp intake of breath traveled through those nearest, sudden enough to still even the whisper of silk and the flutter of fans.
Darcy looked up. Sebastian advanced through the glittering crush with a quiet authority that divided it before him.
Candlelight glanced from the severe planes of his face and the dark perfection of his evening clothes, while men inclined their heads and ladies yielded without appearing to do so.
His mother was no longer beside him. The countess stood among several matrons beneath the blazing chandeliers, composed and elegant, every inch a woman secure in her rank.
Yet Darcy no longer mistook composure for indifference. The vile sheet had dragged the countess’s most private humiliation before the world, and beneath that faultless poise there must be an agony Darcy understood too well.
Sebastian drew nearer, and a soft breath shuddered from Darcy. He walked with effortless command, though a faint tension sharpened the line of his mouth. Something fierce and controlled burned beneath his outward calm, and the sight of it made her pulse stumble.
He was devastatingly handsome, but it was not beauty that held her motionless. It was the terrible uncertainty of his purpose. His path led toward Elizabeth, his hostess, and Darcy’s newly mended heart faltered.
“Go,” Elizabeth urged beneath the swelling music. “Leave now with Agatha, before he reaches us.”
Darcy blinked, cold spreading beneath her skin. “You believe he means to cut me?”
Elizabeth’s pained expression answered before she could speak.
The possibility struck with all the cruelty of certainty.
“Do not surrender to fear merely because Elizabeth has,” Agatha said, her voice quiet but resolute.
“It is too late to withdraw without drawing greater notice. Everyone in this room is watching while pretending not to look. I shall remain beside you. If he cuts you, Darcy, the loss and the shame will be entirely his.”
Shock and pain rooted Darcy more effectively than any command.
The thought that Sebastian might pass without acknowledging her, that he might choose before the whole of society to deny what he had confessed only hours earlier, opened the wound he had once inflicted with his cold farewell.
Darcy remembered its measured civility, and the hollow silence that had followed.
She could not endure such abandonment twice.
She could not move, though every instinct urged her to escape.
She could not think beyond the brutal beat of her heart.
She could only wait as he came ever nearer.
Her stomach knotted until she feared her knees might fail.
The ballroom seemed to draw one collective breath around her.
Candle flames trembled in their crystal sconces, the violins sang on, and beneath the music ran the brittle silence of hundreds awaiting a spectacle.
Even Elizabeth had gone still, her gloved fingers closing protectively around Darcy’s arm.
The Earl of Raine crossed the final distance with unhurried grace, every inch the powerful nobleman society revered and feared in equal measure. When he reached them, he bowed to Elizabeth with impeccable courtesy.
“Your Grace,” he said, acknowledging his hostess as civility required.
“Lord Raine.” Elizabeth’s answering smile was gracious, though her watchful gaze betrayed her unease. “I am delighted you have joined us this evening.”
Then Sebastian lifted his eyes.
They found Darcy at once.
In that instant, the glittering room receded. Memory swept through her: his hands upon her, the broken roughness of his declaration, the tenderness with which he had touched her afterward, and the fear that society’s condemnation might prove stronger than his love.
Relief struck first, followed so swiftly by love that Darcy’s lips trembled beneath the force of both.
There was no indifference in Sebastian’s eyes.
There was no distance, no cautious civility, no apology for seeing her. There was only a depth of feeling so unmistakably tender, fierce, and unguarded that the last of her breath left her.
He bowed. “Miss Whitley,” he said, his voice steady, though a warmth threaded through it that belonged to her alone. “Will you do me the honor of dancing the next set with me? With Her Grace’s permission, I believe it shall be a waltz.”
Elizabeth’s expression transformed. With admirable composure, she signaled to the orchestra leader, who bowed and began issuing quiet instructions for the next set.
Emotion rose so sharply within Darcy that for one perilous moment she feared it would overcome her. Yet she summoned every lesson in grace she had ever been taught and sank into an elegant curtsy, her body composed even as her heart broke open with joy.
“Yes, my lord,” she said softly, and placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers. He did not release them.
As he led her toward the floor, the room shifted around them.
Heads turned openly now. Fans stilled, then fluttered with frantic purpose.
Whispers caught and spread from one jeweled cluster to the next, but Sebastian walked as though no voice in the room possessed the power to alter his course.
Across the ballroom, Darcy glimpsed the Countess of Raine.
Shock had stripped the practiced ease from her face.
Darcy’s heart stumbled with painful understanding. Sebastian had not warned his mother. This was not a gesture arranged in private or softened by explanation. This was his choice, made publicly, irrevocably, before everyone whose approval governed the ton.
“Did you know I would be here?” Darcy asked when they took their places.
His hand settled at her waist, warm and sure, while hers rested upon his shoulder.
“I hoped you would be.” Sensuous warmth softened his voice, and a faint smile touched his mouth. “Had you not come, I intended to remain long enough to fulfill my duty as my mother’s escort. Then I meant to leave, go directly to your house.”
A tremulous smile found Darcy’s lips, the first that had not required courage since she had read the sheet.
“Did you see what was printed this morning?”
A cold shadow crossed his expression, though his gaze never left hers. “I did. Mr. Davenport has already received a visit from me. He understands that another printed word concerning you, your mother, or mine, and our sisters will make him my enemy.”
Her breath caught at the quiet finality of his tone.
“He also understands,” Sebastian continued, “that I am remarkably ruthless and unforgiving toward those who injure the woman I intend to marry.” His thumb moved once against the fabric at her waist.
The first notes of the waltz rose, rich and sweeping beneath the chandeliers.
Sebastian drew her into the dance, and Darcy followed instinctively.
Her body remembered the rhythm even while emotion stormed through her.
The gilded walls, the mirrors, and the watching faces blurred beyond his shoulder until only the strength of his hand and the unwavering tenderness in his eyes remained clear.
“I doubted you,” she confessed.
His brows lifted slightly in surprise.
“I believed the scandal would make you withdraw your offer of courtship. I have never loved before, Sebastian. Not like this. I did not understand how love could make trust feel both essential and terrifying, or how loyalty and tenderness must be chosen again whenever fear gives us reason to retreat.”
Her throat tightened, but she held his gaze. “I will not promise never to be afraid. But when fear comes, I shall remember this night. I shall remember that you crossed a ballroom filled with judgment and reached for me. I will never again doubt your sincerity or the promises you make to me.”
Something warm and gentle softened his expression. With a subtle pressure at her waist, he drew her nearer than strict propriety allowed, until the warmth of him steadied the trembling within her.
“There is nothing to forgive, my love,” he murmured, his hand tightening reassuringly at her waist. “I wounded you. Never again will I hurt you. Even when we disagree, even when one of us has erred, you will never have cause to question whether I shall choose you or whether I love you.” His gaze held hers.
“It will always be you, Darcy. I shall prove that to you every day I am granted.”
Her breath trembled.
“I love you,” he said.
The words entered every broken place within her, mending the last fragile remnants of hurt and doubt that lingered in her heart.
“I love you too,” she whispered, and a breathless laugh escaped her because the joy inside her had become too great to contain.
A fresh wave of whispers swept through the ballroom as the ton witnessed her happiness and the answering devotion in Sebastian’s smile.
Darcy no longer cared.
They danced before them all, before the speculation and curiosity, while candlelight shimmered across the polished floor and the orchestra carried the waltz around them.
Soon, the world seemed to narrow to the space between their bodies, to his hand steady at her waist and her own resting upon his shoulder.
Scandal might follow them. Society might whisper. Yet Darcy neither faltered nor felt the slightest worry at the prospect. Sebastian’s hand remained steady at her waist, and his gaze never left hers. At last, she was no longer facing the world alone. She had been chosen openly and without shame.
More wondrous still, Darcy had chosen him in return.