It was a little thing. On another day he might have missed it altogether. It could have passed unremarked and unremembered.
But it didn't.
Fitzwilliam Darcy was visiting his friend Bingley at his newly rented estate in Hertfordshire. Darcy, a quiet, reserved fellow who hated the press and impertinence inherent in social events peopled by strangers, had been dragged all unwilling to a local assembly. Bingley had mingled, formed acquaintances, danced, and had a capital time. Darcy had brooded, glowered, rebuffed overtures, and avoided the dance floor. He had performed the requisite set with his hostess, and one with her sister to avoid any imputation of preference for the former, then retreated to the margins, where he tried his level best to be invisible for the remainder of a long, tedious evening.
It could easily have faded from his memory along with countless similar evenings before it.
But it had not.
On this particular evening, Darcy had glanced across the room to see the most remarkable thing: a young lady was laughing – an open, joyful, laugh – and her eyes were fixed on his in challenge. In a room full of people obsequiously seeking his attention and approval, this young lady chose to laugh at him. He had no idea why, but his attention was caught.
And on that tiny moment, his world turned.