Okay, while 'Never mind' is almost over I guess it's time for something more traditional again. A little break from all the craziness of my other story to not completely lose my, at any rate too few, remaining marbles. Just something cute for Christmas time and beyond.

A very big THANK YOU! to Shey72, who has offered to be my beta for this story. - Your advice really made all the difference and I really appreciate your help.

So, I hope you'll like this story.

Love

Nic

P.S. I am also still trying to assemble a new Sherlock and Harriet story as well as a new adventure for Little Sherlock, but as yet it might take me a while. I am so stuck with the former, I think I need to step back a little and then start from scratch. But there will be more, I have not forgotten about them.

Chapter 1

Men would not live long in society if they were not the mutual dupes of each other.

- François VI de la Rochefoucault

Early spring 1811:

"What a lovely evening, do you not agree, Mr Darcy?" Caroline Bingley inquired, looking up at him through darkened eyelashes, heavy with the charcoal she had used, while next to her, her older sister pushed her décolletage just a little bit further into his line of vision.

In Fitzwilliam Darcy's opinion, the evening was tolerable at best and even that just barely. The ballroom was a crush of people drenched in heavy perfume and dressed to impress while their faces were nothing but pretty masks, awkwardly painted and expressionless. Empty smiles and hollow chuckles, affected laughter and false joviality were all around him. It was a farce, a well-practised piece on the stage that called itself London society. It was also a cattle-market, where young women were paraded around like horsemeat to be given away to the highest bidder. Darcy was generally considered a very eligible bachelor, though if he were honest, he had little inclination marrying any of the young ladies he had seen so far in the eight years since he himself had entered the salons, dining parlours and ballrooms of town.

"What do you think of Miss Haversham?" the younger of the two sisters carried on, even though he had not deigned reply to her first question.

Following the lady's gaze, he spied a girl of at most sixteen with an expression that spoke of the pressure she was put under, presumably by her parents. Intimidated summed it up best. Her mother, judging by the striking similarity of the two women, stood next to her, obviously giving her even more instructions while glancing in his direction. Naturally, considering his wealth and connexions. He was used to the scheming matchmakers who called themselves quite harmlessly 'mother'.

"She is tolerable, I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me, Miss Caroline."

Both Miss Bingleys gave a tinkling laugh and the elder cried out with undisguised glee: "Oh, Mr Darcy, you are too cruel. But I have to say I do agree. She certainly is quite plain and she is so very artless and without any style and stance; besides, her father is said to have been in trade until very recently when he came into an inheritance from an uncle or so, I cannot remember the particulars. Not that it matters, one never knows with these upstarts, does one, now?"

It was a little surprising to Darcy that his two companions were want to ignore the fact, that their brother's and with that their own fortune had been acquired as much by trade as that of the Havershams if not more so, for they had not had a wealthy relative who had left them his fortune. No, their means were all down to their late father's hard work and wise investments that had now made his children independent. Not that it would have mattered to him in the slightest anyway. Darcy preferred to judge a man by his conduct and not by his profession (or lack thereof) and from what he had heard, the old Mr Bingley had been as upright a man as any: educated, friendly, and wise. His son had long since become one of Darcy's closest and most trusted friends. Besides, after an evening spent with either of the two Miss Bingleys always close by, artlessness did not sound bad at all. His best friend's sisters were anything but artless. Yes, they thought they hid their designs well and thought that they could fool anyone into believing them sincere and knowledgeable, yet, their education extended no further than what was necessary to build a glittery façade behind which was nothing but vacuous complacency and idle vanity. If Miss Haversham was tolerable, the Miss Bingleys were not. If he was not tempted by the young and frightened looking girl with her delicate features, he was even less so by the painted and gaudily dressed women by his side and yet, as long as they were close by, it kept the others in check. In short, it was a matter of choosing the lesser of two evils; a matter of better the devil you know than the devil you don't, that he bore with their company. That, and he did it for their brother's sake.

"You are very dull this evening, Mr Darcy. Is something the matter?"

As far as he could discern, he behaved just as he did at any other ball he had the duty to attend. When he had last gone to a ball for pleasure, Darcy was not quite sure. It must have been years since.

"I thank you for your concern, but let me assure you, I am perfectly fine, Miss Caroline."

Or at least he would be if she deigned to stop trying to rouse his attentions. Shifting a little to the left, he remedied the fact that the young lady had come almost indecently close to him. With a small sigh, hardly suppressed but skilfully disguised as a chuckle, Darcy glanced towards the dancefloor where the two ladies' brother was presently dancing his fourth dance with a pretty young lady with golden blond hair, a rosy complexion and a fine figure that any man would find worth looking at. But throughout the evening her eyes had stayed as vacant as those of any other woman present, the smile merely dabbed onto her face for decoration, not from enjoyment. After eight years, Darcy himself did not bother to smile any longer. A smile in the ballrooms across town meant nothing; unless one happened to be Charles Bingley. It was presumably this that had endeared Darcy to his friend in the first place. An open soul, cheerful and friendly without pretence and devoid of falsehood. No traits that either of his sisters had inherited.

Thankfully he was presently relieved of the presence of the older of the sisters by a young and heavy built man with a pasty face asking her for the next two dances and as it was, she was not yet engaged. Since she had declined two dances already, it left Louisa Bingley no choice but to accept the man's hand for the next set unless she wanted to forgo all dancing for the remainder of the evening and though she was, in general, a more languorous and complaisant creature than her sister, she was intent to marry within the next twelve-month, come what may. In short, she had to dance. Caroline Bingley, on the other hand, had deftly declined the third man already and as the consequence of which, Darcy had to suffer her presence for yet another indeterminable period of time unless he managed to come up with an excuse to leave the ball there and then. But with both her brother and her sister dancing, it would be impolite, to say the least, to leave her to her own devices.

So it was fortunate that this was the second set Bingley had danced with his latest infatuation and even more so that the dance was about to end, the other couples already gathering to join or replace the current dancers. In a few moments, he would be free to leave and leave he would;nless Bingley had already engaged himself for yet another dance, of course. One could never know, for Charles Bingley, unlike himself, was an avid dancer.

However, as it was, for the first time this evening, Dame Fortune smiled down to him. Not five minutes later his friend took his place beside his sister. Fitzwilliam Darcy was free to leave early as he did at most balls. He had made an appearance to keep appearances and that would have to suffice. At least for today.

Ah, a glass of port, a few pages in a book, and the evening would not be completely wasted after all.