It was once revealed to him in biting repartee that dancing encourages affection.
But of what kind of affection may dancing fortify? The senseless flirting? The fleeting? The erroneous meet-me-by-the-church-bells-at-midnight elopement? Or how about the turbulent, passionate nightmare that refuses to be acquiesced by anything besides irrational my feelings will not be repressed speeches and proposals of marriage?
Mr. Darcy ponders all of these questions in the storminess of his introspective mind as he monitors Elizabeth Bennet and her fine eyes from across the room. He stands near the fireplace all tall and silent and stoic. Staring. Staring sensuously and not-at-all subtly at the dark-haired girl in the flowing white gown with pearls dangling from her earlobes. At the bewitching young woman whose witty remarks tumble from lips and splash sarcasm across cheeks in the most flattering of pinks. Brightening the room with white teeth. And diverting poise. And laughter. And liveliness no harshness will dare deplete.
And before he knows it, Mr. Darcy's striding across the floor—in the middle long before he realizes he has begun—weaving around twirling couples and silly, giggling girls with that refined, purposeful strut he's perfected. Shoulders back, head tall, he's approaching the beautiful fairy who eludes his tired attempts to woo, to incite something other than indifference.
She sips daintily from a saucer and chats idly—unconcernedly—with Miss Lucas near a bowl of punch. His sudden appearance casts a shadow over their liberal chatter with the force of a slamming door. Words wilt against her mouth. Eyes shuffle, dropping to the floor.
Miss Bennet must suspect what comes next, surely.
Surely she must expect him to request the honor of taking her by the hand? Escorting her down the floor? Marking her as his esteemed partner for two lovely but brutal songs? Surely she must see that he seeks to partake in a ritual he believes to be fit for savages? Not for his sake, but for hers.
Surely she must perceive the spell behind his taciturn sighs? The symptom that is her responsible for his watchful, twinkling eyes? The reason for his blundering, painful attempts to focus on book passages and letters to Georgiana in a manner of hushed disguise?
I am in agony. I desire to win your affection, can't you see? his miserable, toiling heart seems to squeak. Will a waltz suffice? Maybe two? How about three?
He bows in salutation to the two young ladies. Gulps. Swallows back that last festering acorn of reserve, catches her withering gaze and says, "If you are not otherwise engaged, may I have the honor of the next two dances, Miss Elizabeth?"
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm BEYOND obsessed with all things Jane Austen (it's a problem haha), so this was a fun, random P&P outtake I concocted. Thanks for reading!
Reviews are lovely.
xx Ashlee Bree