Disclaimer: Pride and Prejudice and Mr Bingley belong to Jane Austen


Only A Dance

It was only a dance. A simple dance. Of course it was always a pleasure to claim the most beautiful girl in the room as one's partner. It was the feel of others watching them. It was the common enjoyment of good company and of wine, if not good at least plentiful. It was the savouring of music; of dancing. He quite enjoyed dancing. Yes, these feelings were commonplace, nothing unusual. Yet, these feelings were unspeakable. They were thick and sweet and seeped in expectation.

Truly, it was nothing but a dance. It was a story told in the touch of hands and of the graceful movement of feet keeping step. Feet... Hers were likely as lovely as the rest of her beautiful figure. Yes, she must possess pale, charming feet attached to the trim curve of elegant ankles. But he must not tarnish his angel any further with such ungentlemanly thoughts. His angel... no. Not quite his. A stranger really – still and once, yet never again.

He nearly missed the change of partners. How inconvenient a parting! But it was only a dance. It was to be expected in a dance for there to be meetings and partings, comings and goings, wretched partings and sweet reunions. He should not allow himself to feel anything at the thought of her hand in another's. He ought to feel just as content smiling to any girl's eyes as he did into hers. In a dance were both shy, longing glances from afar and wonderful, meaningless moments of blissful conversation. And much left unspoken. But it was only a dance: vaguely ridiculous, really, and most certainly meaningless. It was entirely without purpose, save as an excuse to draw to be close to a young lady – any young lady. Yes that was all it was, an excuse to smile and to flirt and to be happy. To gaze into the eyes of the most perfect creature he had ever seen. To capture her smiles and to be happy.

It was pure joy, it was elation, it was perfection. It was a dance, and as is the way with dances the music always fades.

Grinning, with Miss Bennett still on his arm, Charles reflected that life is rather like a dance. He hoped very much to dance with Jane again.


A/N: I rather like Charlie, and felt like he need some attention. Hope you enjoyed it.