Mr. Darcy was in a decidedly bad mood. He had been forced to spend an entire day in the company of Bingley's two insufferable sisters, the weather looked to be turning foul, and his head hurt (either from natural causes or as of the result of Caroline Bingley's obnoxiously shrill laughter). He wanted to take some scotch, lock himself in his room, and chat with the only amiable female he knew (other than Georgiana) before going to bed early. What he did not want to do was go to this ball.
It was a country gathering, filled with people who made less money in a year than what Darcy spent on his shoes, and, so far, all the people were utterly intolerable. To make matters worse, he hadn't had time to properly confer with Elizabeth, his one solace, for weeks on end.
The excuses ran rampant in his already pounding head. He had been too tired. He had been too bad-tempered. He had been too anxious. Too busy. Too exhausted. Too overworked and ill prepared even to hold a conversation with the one person he looked forward to talking to.
Unconsciously, Mr. Darcy ran a hand over his gloves. They covered his obsidian-black fingertips rather well; though whether he should take that to be a blessing or a curse was anyone's guess.
It meant that no one could make nosy assumptions or pose weighted questions about things they did not understand. Namely, his relationship with Elizabeth and whether or not he would take a mistress to preserve the family name (the latter of which always prompted a resounding 'NO', though very few people "of quality" actually listened).
However, concealing his Inked status also meant he would be subject to all the women flinging themselves at his feet. God, he was sick of it. It got embarrassing to watch, really. He only would love one person in his life, even if he never had the good fortune to lay eyes on her.
"Mr. Darcy? Mr. Darcy!"
The man in question snapped his own dark eyes open at the sound of his name, and glanced bewilderedly around the carriage. Caroline Bingley smiled at him. She showed too many teeth.
"Oh dear, Mr. Darcy. You seem to have fallen asleep!" She simpered.
He did not even attempt a reply. He simply set his mouth into a firm line and inclined his head enough to be polite. Not that this harpy cared whether or not he responded.
"I daresay that would be a pleasant way to spend the evening," Miss Bingley chuckled, her lips riding up her pinched face and revealing brightly colored gums, "To sleep away the night and not be subject to.. ah, undesirable company."
"I wonder why you insisted we attend, if your opinion were so, Miss Bingley," Mr. Darcy replied, his annoyance creeping into his deep voice (not that anyone noticed).
"Yes Caroline," Mr. Bingley piped up, "I thought you were anticipating this ball with much.. ummm.. much, um, anticipation."
Miss Bingley sniffed delicately. Her nose remained high in the air. "I suppose you are right."
She then turned towards the window, which was a great relief for all parties involved. Especially the Inked gentleman with the dark unruly curls, and brooding expression that quickly soured as the man realized the carriage had stopped and he was about to be expected to be civil.
Darcy sighed. Could this night get any worse?
Could this night get any better? Elizabeth thought as she twirled around the room. Her dress was a pale green, the color of forest mist and mint plants, and it caused her bright green eyes to flare with color whenever she smiled, which was often.
There was just so much to smile at! The music was light and pleasant, the food was superb, and there were so many eager dance partners!
Despite the fact that gentlemen were scarce, Elizabeth found her dance card to be a popular one. Much to her mother's chagrin however, all the gentlemen were simply seeking advice to pursue other ladies; Elizabeth, being marked, was seen as a more filial figure than a potential bride (even if her laughter was intoxicating, and her hair rich and wavy).
After thanking the youngest Lucas boy for the enlightening information of his preference towards Miss Mary King, Elizabeth sat out for a dance, conversing quietly with Charlotte Lucas. So there she was in a perfect position to regard the newcomers to the ball.
They arrived "fashionably late" as Londoners would say (Elizabeth preferred straightforward punctuality), and the dance floor all but came to a standstill when they entered the room.
One of the gentlemen, the shortest one, with an unfortunate build and wine red face, was nothing out of the ordinary. He immediately made his way to one of the dining tables, dragging along a shortish woman whom Elizabeth supposed to be his wife. A tall, spider-like woman with an absurd amount of feathers in her hair, stood elegantly against a wall. Her dress was eye-scorchingly bright.
That left two gentlemen. The first was of average height, with a blue coat and a great aire of playful joy about him. He smiled like a Labrador retriever and bowed to Sir William Lucas, introducing himself as the fabled Mr. Charles Bingley. He wore gloves and a bright grin that seemed to be fixed on his handsome face. His hair was ginger. Elizabeth immediately felt that he would be a welcome addition to their neighborhood.
The last gentleman however, she wasn't so sure.
He was a great, tall man, with impeccable posture and an expensive raven coat, accentuated by pristine white gloves. His hair crowned his regal head with messy black curls. He had chiseled features that would have made Elizabeth blush furiously, had they not been set in so disagreeable a manner. He grimaced as an acknowledgment to Sir William Lucas, and glared about the room.
He locked eyes with Elizabeth, and she thought she could feel her heart stop. His intelligent eyes were dark pools of earth and magma, strata leading down their dark corridors, leading up to his very soul. They were framed with thick lashes, shining with the light of a thousand stars. He rolled them delicately.
All favorable qualities Elizabeth may have seen before fell away and she raised her chin defiantly. This man was going to be insufferable, she just knew it. And the rest of the night only heightened this belief. Whoever this man was, she was glad she would never have to tolerate his company for more than a night. Fate couldn't possibly be so cruel.