Rupert Fitzwilliam was nervous. He wasn't one for events like this, he could dance and make conversation, of course, but as for talking to people he didn't know, then he was completely flummoxed. The suit felt tight, his collar uncomfortable, the fashionable dancing shoes his mother had chosen pinching his toes a little too tightly. He smoothly pulled a cigarette from a monogrammed silver holder. It had belonged to Fitzwilliam Darcy, an heirloom bequeathed from his grandmother, Mabel, the engraving inside reading 'Unum factum ex multis, the Darcy family motto, usually imprinted or embossed in the customary Latin on books, over doorways, sometimes even badly embroidered onto cushions or pillowcases by impatient, bored daughters. He threw the cigarette into his mouth, casually accepting a light from a stiff waiter stood at the entrance to the saloon, and taking a long luxurious drag.

At every corner, there were girls standing with their parents, fathers in ink-black cocktail jackets with waxed moustaches, mothers with glittering tiaras. When he was a child he always remembered Mabel getting ready for this event, the Matlock coronet perched on her head, the Bennet diamonds dripping from her ears and wrist, and her velvety voice calling him up onto her knee, the beads of her dress scratchy through the legs of his pyjama trousers as the impatient nursery maid tapped her foot at the doorway. Rupert always remembered how his grandmother had loved the pomp and circumstance of the Lady Anne Ball, the bustle of silks and satins, a giggle, the scent of powder. His hand moved back to his pocket, and he fingered the smooth silver case through his gloves as he had done when he had been much younger. His grandmother may have been a Fitzwilliam by marriage, but it was Darcy blood that flowed through her veins. She had been gone for a few years now, but he only remembered how long it had been when he thought about how much she had missed.

"Fitzwilliam!"

"Delancey," he took a final drag of the cigarette and stubbed it out in a marble ashtray, strategically placed between two large drooping arrangements of azaleas, carnations and lilies of the valley.

Kit pulled him into a friendly embrace, already merry with the copious amounts of champagne on offer, his jacket heavy with the scent of cigars. Whilst Rupert was tall and broad, with a whisp of blond curls, he always felt clunky and out of place, whereas Kit was tall and smooth with his dark hair slicked back, dashing across the ballroom with the effortless grace that his height afforded him, his wandering eye passing his approval across the bevvy of debutantes hiding behind fans and coy smiles. For a fleeting moment, Rupert was certain his cousin looked positively predatory as Kit whisked him through to the library, where Agatha was looking impatient, and next to her, swathed in beads and ivory silk was Penny.

"She won't have you, you know," Kit smiled softly, "and don't take that as a personal slight. She won't have anyone."

"She will have to have someone eventually."

"I don't know, old chum," he sighed, "times are changing."

"Even at Pemberley?"

"Especially at Pemberley. They even have electricity upstairs now," he raised an eyebrow as they both remembered the arguments between Edward and Cecily the previous summer. "Why don't you ask her to dance?"

"Who?"

"Penny."

Rupert glanced over, trying not to make it obvious, "she wouldn't agree."

"Now you are doing her a great disservice, she might not have any inclination towards marriage, but she is a Darcy. We are all very polite."

"You're as much a Darcy as I am, Kit."

"Maybe a touch more," his eye twinkled as he spotted Violet Molyneaux reaching the bottom of the staircase and made a move toward her, "go on, man, Penny won't bite…at least not too hard."

Rupert couldn't quite recall the moment he had realised he was in love with Millicent Darcy, it seemed as if he had been in the middle of it before he knew it had begun, and even though it was inconvenient and desperately unrequited, he knew it was love. Not that big, thunderbolt love that they wrote about in plays and poems, but a rare, precious thing that he needed to keep secret and safe.

"Lord Fitzwilliam," she said, with a gentle curtsey.

"Lady Darcy."

"Rupert," she said with a smile, "We haven't had you here at Pemberley since Christmas and Gig says you have been missing in action since Easter. I was half suspecting that you had been snapped up by one of the ravenous fathers of Grosvenor Square and catapulted into matrimony before we even had a chance to blink."

"Chance would be a fine thing, Penny, I have been in Yorkshire for most of the season."

"Oh yes," her smile dropped slightly, "I am so sorry to hear about your Papa."

"He will be well again," he said, not believing it.

She saw the sadness pass across his eyes and placed her hand on his shoulder, "that's a relief to hear, and I have been missing your darling face."

There was something about the way she said it, the way that made his heart catch in his mouth. 'His darling face'.

"I've been busy, of course," he flustered, "Waddingham is a constant job to be done."

"Oh yes," she nodded in agreement, "Papa is always complaining, and Gig is no use at all."

"He does not help your father?"

"Not a jot," she rolled her eyes, and he remembered how blue they were, "although it does give me the opportunity to learn how to deal with tenants and their maladies..."

"…and sheep!"

"Yes," she laughed, "you remembered from my letter."

"You do write so eloquently."

"Flattery will get you precisely nowhere with me, Rupert Fitzwilliam."

"I wasn't intending for it to get me anywhere."

"Well, that's a shame." There was a moment where she looked at him, where she caught his eye, where his heart throbbed in his chest and he felt immediately exposed. She must have seen the flush rush up his cheek, the redness catching against the white blonde of his hair. "Oh, darling, I am being such a tease."

"No, not at…erm… should we have a dance?"

"Yes!"

Her eyes lit up as she linked her arm through his and they walked through to the dining room, where a small group of musicians dressed in cocktail suits played jaunty old-fashioned tunes to the merry audience squeezed into the room, the air heavy with smoke, raucous with gaiety.

"What do you think of the decoration?"

The comment was offhand, Rupert knew that Millicent never sought approval from anybody. He glanced around the room, where the grand plaster ceiling installed by Wyatt was gloriously lit by the new electric lights, the portraits of previous residents smiling down on the partygoers. Outside in the garden, the grounds were illuminated by burning torches stabbing the late spring soil, and even the Lantern, standing gloriously on top of the hill, was alight. Pemberley always looked magnificent when playing its role as party hostess, and tonight was no exception.

"It's beautiful," he said.

She looked up quickly, her eyes dark and round, "thank you. That means a lot coming from you."

"It does?"

"Of course," there was a pause. It lasted forever. "You are damned terrible at shooting, but you do have a good eye for decoration. I saw the work you did with your mother in the London house."

There was a moment when he thought the conversation may take on a different turn, but whatever it could have been was interrupted by the bang of a gong, and the band marked the arrival of Edward and Cecily with a flourish. There was a short shuffle as everyone moved back to create space in the centre of the room, latecomers clamouring at the edges to see the Duke of Derbyshire in his finery, and the glamourous American Duchess, Cecily, in her New York couture gown. Rupert could hear the excited chatter of the Wyndham sisters who were perched in front of them, hair curled upwards, dotted with jewels, wearing fashionable dresses with loose fabrics and beaded hems. On the opposite side of the dining room, Gig and Bertie waved his attention, before nodding reverently as Edward and Cecily stood centre stage.

The Lady Anne Ball was a massive event in the social calendar, a Pemberley fixture for over one hundred years. Edward Darcy had not been born to become the Duke of Derbyshire, and it was only evident when he was required to speak publically as he was now. His career as the Member of Parliament for the area had been short-lived and he was glad of it. Things like this always made him feel far more nervous than he supposed they ought. He spent the hours before the ball pacing his rooms like a madman, shouting at his wife, smoking far too much and generally being hideous to be around. Cecily took his hand in hers and squeezed it quickly, a reassuring marital shorthand, and he felt relief course through his veins. It was either that or the glass of whiskey she had made him drink a few moments ago, he could never tell.

"Thank you one and all for accepting our invitation to the Lady Anne Ball and to our home at Pemberley. The ball was started in 1795 to celebrate the life of my revered ancestor, Lady Anne Fitzwilliam-Darcy, who was responsible for… shall we say… encouraging the work that makes our beloved country estate the grand retreat that you see before you today and not the Elizabethan manor house it was built as."

There was a small cheer and some clapping, a Fitzwilliam brother called out 'To the Lady Anne', and everyone raised their glasses and repeated it with a solemnity that verged on religious.

Edward smiled at his guests, the sea of faces filling the dining room, "as is the custom we shall begin with our traditional dance 'Haste to the Wedding'. Now, everyone needs to get in position," Edward gestured to the couples standing nearest, "don't worry if you don't know the movements, hardly anyone does! We'll just ask Mr Gregory here to play very loudly and keep going until we've all done!"

Mr Gregory, the bespectacled, moustached leader of the band, tapped on his music stand with a long baton, nodding agreeably. Millicent took Rupert by the hand and pushed him into his place on the dancefloor, a giggle escaping from her lips as she smiled across from him. Next to him stood Gig, partnered by Emily Chartwell, looking devilish in a purple gown and a feathered headdress, Kit further down the line with Violet as the music began to play and Cecily and Edward made their way down the line, laughing as they did.

"I don't know the dance," Rupert said over the loud Celtic tune, "what should I do?"

Millicent grabbed his hand, "nobody knows it, just do what I do!"

Bounding down the line of people, Rupert span and bounced from side to side with Millicent's hands in his, until they reached the end and joined the lines of couples again. Breathless, he reached for a glass from a convenient waiter, the pop of bubbles down his throat, Millicent took one too, and they grinned at each other, as Gig and Emily swirled past them. But all Rupert could see in the room was Millicent. How her hair was curled and pinned up, little diamond and sapphire clips holding it all in place, how the jewels at her neck sparkled, and then it was every kind word she had said, every moment they had shared, every letter they had exchanged and all of it was written beautifully across her face and there it was, the thunderbolt.

"Time to go again," she shouted, "give me your hand!"

She reached for him, firmly grasping his hands in hers as they went back up the dance, under and over, arms arching as they tangled and clapped amidst the rest of the dancers.

There was that laugh again.

The moon was high over Pemberley, the light reflecting off the lake at the front of the house. Millicent sat on the steps in front of the Orangery, there were faint giggles to be heard in the distance, probably Kit and Emily hiding away on the top lawn and whispering sweet nothings to each other, and the clink of glasses from behind her, where Cecily and Catriona Fitzwilliam were drinking champagne and swapping gossip between them. The whole house was illuminated in the dark, the soft lamps in the window of the library She lit her cigarette, slipping the silver lighter back into the embroidered clutch bag that perfectly matched her dress. It had been a long few days back in Derbyshire and she was ready to call for her maid and get into bed. The next few days were to be fraught with planning and travelling, but she couldn't tell anyone. Not just yet.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

She hadn't heard the soft shuffle of Rupert's shoes on the grass, and he stepped down slowly and sat next to her. He lit his cigarette and looked out on to the lake.

"You wouldn't be interested in my thoughts," she said, "I think they would be too controversial for you."

He raised his eyebrow and took a pull on his cigarette, and she noticed that his eyes were the same colour blue as hers. There was the way his bottom lip drooped slightly too, it was quite adorable, although she wouldn't ever tell him this.

"At a guess, Penny, I would say you were referring to your…ahem…political activities."

She harrumphed a little, "there is no need to be dismissive."

"I wasn't."

"Oh, I suppose you are going to say you take a great interest," her voice rose an octave and he was equal parts scared and amused.

"No," there was a cough, nerves? Cigarette smoke? He was unsure, "not at all, I think setting fire to Viscount Ribble's house was highly amusing, and it got you out of your predicament with Lord Dungarry."

"That wasn't me!" Her voice edged with defiance, "although I must thank whoever it was for…well, the Dungarry fiasco."

He looked at her knowingly, "it was you then… I wasn't sure, but I thought it may have been you and your Manchester women."

"Don't be like that, Fitz."

"I like that you are so passionate about it. I think the whole cause is damned admirable, why shouldn't women be given the vote? Yes! It's been a long time coming, I think…"

"You agree? You agree that women should be allowed to vote and have equal rights with men?"

"I do," he nodded, "maybe not all women at first, I should say that- "

"Not all women? But Rupert, you must understand that it has to be all women… and all men too. Why should such a large majority of the population of our country be disenfranchised because of an abhorrent and outdated system?"

Rupert was vastly out of his depth. He did not care for politics, but he did care for Millicent.

"But what when you marry? What will your husband say? What would Lord Dungarry have said?"

"Oh, who cares what Thomas Dungarry would have said. The man is a complete oaf! Besides which, I am never going to marry regardless of who Agatha throws under my feet," she said, stubbing out her cigarette angrily against the stone steps, "but if Idid marry…"

"When you marry, you mean."

He looked over, a teasing smile caught on his lips and her anger dissipated.

"Rupert, why are you trying to vex me so? Remember I am a much better shot than you and I could easily make your death look like an accident."

"I'm not trying to vex you, dearest Penny, although I fear I may have succeeded without any attempt, and who can forget your talent with a shotgun? I, for one, am bloody glad that I'm not a pheasant in these woods when you are about with Big Bertha!"

"There is no need to be rude," she smiled softly, "I know you must marry… provide a whole stableyard of baby Fitzwilliams to keep Waddingham's hunger for status sated, but the same is not required of me."

"I must provide an heir, yes," he stubbed out his cigarette too, rising to his feet and stepping down onto the pathway that circled the lake. "but I want a wife. Who wouldn't want someone to be part of a team with? It's like spending every day with your very best friend, do you not think?"

"You have a very idealistic view of marriage," she guffawed. "Marriage is a constant slog of compromises and bloody hard work."

"But what about your parents," he gestured to the glowing house behind them, "they are the epitome of love and respect. Your father adores your mother."

"My father adored my mother's dowry and the money she came with, he fell in love with her later. That is all we can hope for in our position."

"Are the women you fight for any different?"

"Do you even care about the women I fight for?"

As they walked up the stairs towards the top lawn, he felt his fingertips catch hers.

"I do care, actually. I know you must think I am a frightful oik, but I'm not like that. I promise you."

She paused, turned her full face to him, the light from the house and the moon catching her features in the darkness. He heard her breath catch, "I don't think you're like that at all, quite the opposite in fact."

"Oh," he said, hoping that the sound of his heart beating in his chest wasn't loud enough for her to hear.

"Oh, indeed," she said softly, putting her hand in his and holding it tightly.

Pemberley glistened in the darkness of the estate, a faint melody and the distant trill of laughter still heard in the distance.