A long chapter after a long wait.
Beta Love to: Lenniee, Badb, PhryneFisher, Myshl, Putitbriefly, and Skydreamer (who took away many of my anachronistic words!).
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Chapter 11.
Elizabeth looked at the collection of boxes as if one–or indeed all of them–might bite her.
Nearly a dozen cases covered in varying hues of leather, and one large roll of velvet, were all laid out on her escritoire. A rather ominous view, to her, at least. She had no doubt her mother would be in raptures over such a bounty; beyond the obligatory transfer of the meagre collection of Bennet pieces, she was not aware of Mr. Bennet ever gifting his wife with anything, decorative or otherwise.
Uncle Gardiner, a both generous and prudent man, could be relied upon to provide thoughtful gifts to all his family members. He outdid himself at birthdays, but was also prone to buy things on a whim for his loved ones. Elizabeth fingered the garnet cross at her throat. It had been one such spontaneous gift. He had seen it, thought of her, and decided she must have it! Or so he claimed.
Mrs. Gardiner had the loveliest collection of jewellery, not because her pieces were overly expensive, but because of the depth of feeling represented in each item. Her aunt's favourite piece was a highly unusual bracelet, done in green gold in the shape of vines wrapped around a red heart made up of expertly cut garnets. The bracelet had been neither purchased on impulse nor for a birthday, but rather as an apology.
Naturally, her aunt had not provided details of the quarrel, but, with a wistful smile, had told Elizabeth that Mr. Gardiner had presented the box with an air more devastated than mildly contrite. She had also related his words, "I must have your forgiveness for my blunder. Your good opinion is as essential to me as the air I breathe, for you hold my heart in your hands." The romantic sentiment–even if a little over the top when three long years of marriage ought to have cooled his ardour—had tickled her aunt's sensibilities. The vines entrapping the heart had been worn almost daily ever since.
Elizabeth wondered if her aunt was wearing it even now, while she stood on the deck of some far away vessel, looking out over the wide expanse of ocean.
Had she seen the way Elizabeth behaved yesterday, she would have been ashamed, or, at the very least, heartily disappointed. Tears pricked in Elizabeth's eyes. To open herself to her husband would only increase her vulnerability beyond that which she could endure. They had brief moments of light banter, but he was so changeable, her guard had become reflexive. The sublime tenderness of their wedding night, followed by the intense scorn, floated to the surface of her thoughts.
Elizabeth shook herself, then leaned back precariously on her chair trying to catch a glimpse of Mrs. White. Though she could not see her, the sound of muttering suggested the maid was occupied pressing her dress and would likely not trouble her for a few minutes at least.
Since her birthday was still months away and it could not be a gift of affection –for he felt none–she could only surmise the boxes represented an expression of contrition or matrimonial obligation. Though his transgressions were many and ongoing, she could not imagine him lowering himself to apologise through jewellery. He never deigned to offer a verbal apology, and certainly any admission of wrongdoing was pulled with all the resistance of extracting a tooth. No, certainly not an apology; she doubted that her absence at dinner had even been noticed, let alone lamented. She equally doubted he was aware that she had intentionally eaten breakfast early, as a device to avoid his company at the morning table. That only left obligation, probably grudging, which fit more closely with his character.
Presumably he wished her to pick something to wear to tonight's ball, for it would be noted if she did not. So they represented obligation, with a pinch of self-interest. She could have been disappointed if she had not hardened herself to being sensible.
She looked for White again, just before reaching a finger towards the square box on the far right. What was she so afraid of? She twisted the small hook-shaped catch—it was a little stiff—and then slipped her finger under the lid, opening it slowly and cautiously. There you go, that was not so scary! Except that it actually was. The light met a frightfully distasteful necklace and everything about it was wrong! Elizabeth had the irreverent thought that if she attended the ball nude none might notice, so distracted they would be with this monument to pretension.
She frowned as she inspected the piece, trying to find some redeeming feature, and came up short: there was much to see, but little to like. The gem stones that made up the central choker were monstrous, both in size and colour. A central fleur-de-lis was created with clusters of large emeralds and was flanked by enormous rubies that decreased in size as they wrapped around the neck, nevertheless the smallest rubies were still of a size with her thumbnail. A row of pearls sat above, connected by heavy gold links, then whimsically much thinner gold chains were suspended from small links under the rubies. The loops they formed criss-crossed back and forth. The end each finished with a small emerald, then a larger ruby and finally pearls also. She groaned quietly, it was almost painful to look upon.
Thankfully her husband seemed to have sent her a selection of jewels to choose from, ostensibly the entire Darcy collection, which appeared to be vast. She fingered the gaudy necklace again, but soon brought her fingers to her temples. What could he mean by giving her such a thing? Would he intentionally try to humiliate her? It did not seem his style somehow. And no-one in their right mind would spend such an exorbitant amount of money on a practical joke: each individual stone would have cost a small fortune, the price of the whole must have been hundreds of pounds, if it cost a penny.
Elizabeth eyed the other leather cases suspiciously, but decided to plough through them. If she did it swiftly enough she might just discover something passable.
Quick work, by quick fingers, revealed a number of gem heavy pieces. She was relieved they showed a little more taste than her first example of the collection, but nevertheless none of them were for her. Aside from the overuse of vulgarly large stones, the general heaviness of the decoration was not to her liking. She fancied she would never feel comfortable wearing such excess: she would feel like a child dressing up in her mother's ball gown, a bit wistful but mostly immature, unable to fill out the dips and swells of the garment.
Left now with only one box and the velvet roll, Elizabeth worried that she might not find anything suitable. She opened the last box with the same trepidation that had characterised her first unveiling, but to her great surprise enjoyed a very different outcome once the faded buff leather surrendered its treasure. Also, the roll of velvet and its many pockets universally supplied trinkets to inspire delight rather than dismay. It appeared at least one Darcy wife had some taste and that her pieces favoured detailed workmanship accentuated with the tiniest of gemstones, which not only increased their beauty, in Elizabeth's estimation, but explained why they had survived the arrival of a new Darcy mistress.
~~~v.-O-.v~~~
Darcy would never come to know the intense speculation that had surrounded him most of his adult life and the unique and puzzling picture he presented to his peers, most especially those of the gentler sex.
When he had burst onto the London scene the year he reached his majority, obviously eager to meet every debutante on offer and even more eager to fall in love, all the matrons of the ton had rubbed their hands together in glee. Those same hands had feverishly pushed unattached daughters, sisters, nieces, and even granddaughters into the path of the earnest and wealthy young man.
The Darcy heir was so open and artless in his intention to enter the married state, his capture by the end of the season was considered as sure as the rising sun.
It could have been viewed as a conquest too easy, yet the question remained: which young lady would incite that calf love to which he seemed so susceptible? Which young lady would slip the ring in his nose to lead him to the altar of marriage?
Everyone wanted their shot. He was both wealthy and potentially pliable, a winning combination despite his lack of a title. Silly girls might cry that they had hoped for a suitor more in the way of a Corinthian or another variety of cock-sure, but their matronly relatives would be quick to point out that rakes were better admired from afar. The shine dissipated very quickly once a girl found herself entirely dependent on their often thin goodwill. And it could not help but fade completely in the face of their string of affairs frequently paid for with the wronged wives' money.
No, a stupid husband was to be preferred; one that could be managed, and if he were managed well he would never realise it. It gave women a small measure of power in the otherwise subtle slavery of matrimony which could usually only be found aligned to fortune in the old goats trotting toward senility. Darcy was a fine physical specimen, without any known excesses and from a family known to treat their wives with utmost respect and care, and had the added benefit of being incredibly naïve.
So the ladies were thrown at him, wave upon wave of girls: at every event he was utterly inundated. The lesser man they believed him to be may have buckled at such pressure, swiftly choosing a girl of fine enough figure and fat enough dowry merely to halt the onslaught. But the young Mr. Darcy was on a mission, a family mission of long standing: he was there to meet his mate, not to merely pick a bride.
Thus, while he had met each girl with warm anticipation, after a few minutes conversation his smile would often become forced. Those who watched him–and there had been a surfeit of observers–might have fancied they could determine the exact moment when he discovered a lady was not the one for him. When dancing he was prone to stiffening up, his movements, though still elegant, would become inexplicably haughty and he would begin to avoid eye contact.
At the end of the first month, no prospective bride had made it more than a half hour before incurring the disbelieving frown which seemed to grow harsher the longer they detained the Darcy heir. And when the girls eager to become mistress of Pemberley would swipe at each other, a look of wondrous scorn would appear, chased by a thunderous scowl.
Maybe he was not so even tempered nor so tractable after all, but he was still very rich–or rather he would be once his father passed—so the swell of debutantes kept battering the shore of his temper, stripping away the soft sand and exposing his sharp edges.
His mask of hauteur made its debut during his second season and remained largely fixed to his countenance throughout every season thereafter. Perversely, the young things need not be pushed by their guardians anymore; Mr. Darcy was so dark and mysterious, and rich, very rich and growing richer by the minute—if the reports of their fathers and brothers were to be believed... Yes, being Mrs. Darcy would really be something. Worth fighting for? Most assuredly!
The news that he had taken a mistress made a few feet shuffle. It increased his dark aura with the young and foolish. The older ladies might have counselled their charges to caution, but he was engaging in customs in which nearly all men of his class indulged. At least he only had the one paramour, they rationalised. The primary source of their dismay was not the existence of the mistress, but rather the change it wrought in his behaviour. They all noted his increasing absence from those parties which heretofore had given them the slim chance to engage him. And when he did appear, he was brusque and closed off.
The mode of pursuit had to change. Mothers pursed their lips and said that though a scandal was not desirable, it was a tolerable trade-off for such a prize. So the assaults commenced, barely concealed in the undulating tides of eligible ladies. But it was confirmed yet again: Darcy was no simpleton, on the contrary he was an observant and slippery man.
All the attempts fell flat, but his anger spiralled. Other daughters baulked, they did not want such an ill-tempered man in control of their fate; many refused to gratify their guardians' schemes. The braver ones even shirked the chance to be introduced to the young yet forbidding gentleman.
Always hovering on the edge of the ballroom, he looked at everyone in a petticoat as if they were his sworn enemy. One intrepid young lady dared to publicly voice the opinion that she could bring him to heel with her curling blonde locks and sweet, heart-shaped face. Her own father had scoffed. "Darcy? Who only looks at a woman to see a blemish? Your charms will be wasted in that quarter. Look elsewhere, I tell you, sweetling, look elsewhere." Judging by the murmurs of assent that met his statement, and the chorus of nods that met similar protestations all around the city, the men of the older generation had decided Darcy was not worth the effort. Of the women of a similar age, all but the most foolish, desperate, or ambitious agreed. The relentless flow of female pursuit persisted, but though the numbers thinned, the violence of the waves of feminine interest did not permit him to perceive the alteration in the quality of the interest.
Darcy had only the vaguest idea of how he was viewed in years prior, nor could he appreciate the great shock he had provoked when the news of his unorthodox union had finally hit the drawing rooms of the ton. He was likewise unaware of the great sensation his uncharacteristic intensity of expression was causing amongst the guests to his aunt's ball.
Oh, he did not smile, or there may have been a handful of guests who would have heaved over and died of shock at such an expression on his face–and at a ball, of all places. But no one could miss the way he watched Mrs. Darcy, with such intensity, almost as if no other woman existed in the room. He did still adopt that thunderous expression he was famous for, but it was not directed at his wife, even once, but was instead directed at any that displeased her, or even appeared likely to attempt to displease her.
The matrons consoled themselves with the knowledge they had done their best, but could not help but bemoan the loss of such a fine marital prospect to an unworthy outsider. The bitterness of the finality and failure was most keenly felt by their girls, most intensely by those approaching the designation of 'on the shelf'. They would not easily forgive, nor could they be trusted to show restraint in dealing with the newcomer who had snatched their prize.
The paternal guardians–excepting those in financial straits–were the least affected, in fact the guests of the male persuasion were on the whole more bemused by the great alteration in their comrade than distressed. A few even harboured a desire to find out what exactly made Mrs. Darcy so special.
Though he was not aware of the exact pattern of his peers' opinions–present or past–Darcy was perceptive enough to pick up on the general tension. It was more than that which was carried by the stream of guests that snaked their way past the receiving line, blithely speculating on or subtly needling the newly minted Mrs. Darcy. The members of his family were universally wound tight also, the degree varying by individual, excepting perhaps Lady Carbeck.
Why her place should be in the receiving line was not entirely clear: Lady Carbeck had lived at Matlock House for but a few short weeks before the family threw over their previous ideals of economy and communicated their intention to terminate the lease on the Viscount's townhouse, forthwith. That the tenants could not be induced to leave early might have been a disaster, but to everyone's surprise Lord Carbeck expressed a firm desire to take his wife on a belated and extended wedding trip to Wales of all places!
What had seemed absurd at the time now made sense to Darcy, in light of recent disclosures. The Viscount's townhouse had been available when a much altered, but in no way subdued, Lady Carbeck had returned with her husband.
Similarly, a failed experiment during the next set of warmer months had seen Lord Carbeck reclaim the house on his estates, not lived in by his father or his father's father, but then, neither of them had ever had such a wife.
Darcy could not deny the ties of family, though Lady Carbeck's actions had cut all chances of genuine familiarity with him and the other Fitzwilliams. The intention may have been to present a totally united front, which would have been beneficial. But why had anyone thought that Lady Carbeck would go along with a plan that provided little to no advantage to her specifically?
She presented like an enemy behind the lines. Her all-pervading bitterness was wielded like a weapon, a subtle stiletto, a slash, a crisp thrust here and a sharp stab there.
"Oh look, here comes Mrs. Ashford. Her eldest daughter was rumoured to be the next Mrs. Darcy in the year seven, but it all came to nothing. I wonder that Miss Ashford has not elected to attend, and yet what would be the point? Six and twenty as she is… a middling fortune is not enough to overcome… six and twenty. Mrs. Ashford is always such a stickler for protocol, I would watch what you say to her." An exploratory thrust.
"Pray, what is your age, Cousin?" Elizabeth provided a neat parry.
"And Lady Decarnett shows her face… she is a brave thing. Do try and make time for her this evening, Mrs. Darcy. She is free with her advice and experienced in the whole gamut of marital ills, most notably she's an expert on how to maintain one's dignity in the face of husbands who stray," Lady Carbeck's stab slid under Elizabeth's guard, her eyes darted to him, the question bleeding out of the dark depths. Darcy's fingers itched to wring the venomous lady's neck, it was not the sort of discussion he wished to have in the entryway, it could do nothing but cause a scene.
Darcy placed a reassuring hand at the small of his wife's back, as he had half a dozen times since this damned event began, her persistent tremble was even more pronounced than before. He barely resisted the urge to curse, and his was not the only stony face that regarded Lady Carbeck with unfriendly eyes. Belatedly, his cousin acted. Darcy watched Lord Carbeck take his wife firmly by the elbow, leading her toward the closed off part of the house.
Lord Matlock, Lady Matlock and Colonel Fitzwilliam all gave an almost synchronised sigh of relief. Darcy knew there would be more mischief to come, likely his wife thought the same, for he could still feel the tension thrumming through her body, vibrating through his glove, into the skin of his hand and settling in his heart. What a miserable start to the ball in her honour, or rather, their honour.
Another large group of guests approached. Darcy edged closer to his wife as Lady Matlock made the introductions, rushing through them, in his opinion. Darcy allowed a frown to descend onto his features. A dozen names rattled off in a span of but a few minutes. Alarming enough, but they had been preceded by another group, and another, and another, and another. All told, over a hundred or so guests had come to accept his aunt's hospitality and pay their respects. And more were arriving every minute, though the flow had dropped off considerably. No wonder Elizabeth was trembling, and as he regarded her face, he realised how pale she had become.
Her suddenly bloodless countenance was indeed the only thing he could fault about her appearance. Her shimmering peacock blue silk gown was exquisite. In keeping with her prior choices in attire, the cut was again simple, but perfectly suited to her dainty figure. It hung gently at this moment, but when she turned, the swaying fabric moved hypnotically, changing shade in ripples as it caught the light, hugging and releasing her frame, giving the observer brief hints of her allure. It was made for a night of dancing.
The print of two stylised peacocks reaching from her hem right up to her neckline were rendered in gold, and mirrored the economy of the cut in their succinct lines. Not cheap, but refined and tasteful.
The greatest surprise was her choice in jewels, though he used the term loosely, as there was not a gem to be seen on his wife.
The night prior Darcy had been denied the chance to make amends. He had been eager to apologise or say anything to ameliorate the hash he had made of his aunt's request, but for the first time in their marriage his wife had not come down for dinner. He had not realised how much he looked forward to the little ritual of their descent until the pattern had been interrupted. White had passed on his wife's regrets along with her excuse of a headache or fatigue—he could not remember which—either case seeming a paper-thin justification for the absence from what was merely a family meal.
His night of disturbed rest had caused him to rise later than his usual wont. Darcy had lingered at the breakfast table in vain, until Soames had taken pity on him and obliquely referenced Mrs. Darcy's schedule for the day, which included an observation on her early breakfast, that preceded intense preparatory activity. A meeting long scheduled had proved resistant to being put off, and when he had become free to seek out his wife, he had been informed she was taking a rest ahead of their long evening. Reasonable, the ball may last all the way to dawn, but nevertheless frustrating; and the other emotion that he had felt—that he was likely hesitant to admit—was loneliness.
After retiring for a brief rest of his own was duly accomplished, but before his valet subjected him to all the primping and nonsense deemed necessary, Darcy had taken care of a small errand. He had made his way to the safe in his study with measured steps, calling for Soames also. He then had opened the heavy metal door and reached behind his stack of ledgers to extract the boxes that had been confined to the safe without variety or excursion for many a year. With trembling fingers, Darcy had even taken a peek at a few and thus found himself surprised at the great gulf between his memories of the Darcy jewels and the reality of the pieces.
They were awful. Reasoning that his love for his mother must have influenced his perception of such things at a young and impressionable age, Darcy had squinted his eyes. Wishing he had taken the time to commission a new setting for the existing gems or a piece from scratch had been pointless at the advanced hour. Acting too quickly for thought, Darcy had scooped up all the pieces, almost dumping them in a tray for Soames.
Another failure for lack of forethought. He had wondered if he would ever get a step ahead of this marriage business and had dearly hoped that she might find something that would not clash too terribly with her chosen gown.
Shock was a term entirely insufficient to describe the surge of feeling he had experienced when she had stepped out. The lady was luck personified: his wife had somehow found a necklace that was perfectly suited to her, her dress and the occasion, in that undeniably hideous collection. Two rows of open beads, handmade out of beaten gold, graced her neck. The larger sections were vaguely suggestive of grape leaves, and the connectors like minuscule ropes. No gems, not a one.
He could not draw from his memory any recollection of the necklace being worn in his presence, it was certainly not his dear departed mother's style. One string hugged the column of her throat quite closely, while the other sat with the low point just underneath her collarbone, leaving the lovely rounded tops of her bosom unhindered.
He had forced his eyes and his mind to divert from that dangerous path, fixing his attention on her earrings, exposed by the Grecian hairstyle she had adopted. A bead each, identical to the ones repeated in the necklace, had been attached to each lobe.
The misunderstandings and missed hours had been heavy between them, as he stood waiting for her to take his arm so they might depart. His natural inclination had been and would always be to retreat within himself, shying away from the uncomfortable. But so much rode on the evening ahead, much more than his family status… maybe even his own personal happiness?
Darcy had drawn her gloved hand to him, tugging her gently closer, and declared that she was beautiful. It was not poetry, would that he could spout nonsense like his cousin James, but he had hoped his heartfelt declaration would not suffer for its lack of alliteration or eloquence. Placing her captive hand flat on his crisp white shirtfront, in the gap afforded by the waistcoat, he had tipped her face up to his using his other hand and beheld her lovely blush. "You are beautiful," he had repeated again, acutely aware of the huskiness of his voice.
He was no less affected now, but warring with his appreciation was his concern. He would not see the cats of the ton humiliate her, not if he could help it.
Taking a visual circuit of the room, and then looping back to the receiving line, he found his aunt looking at him. His worry was mirrored in Lady Matlock's frown. He could detect her lightly tapping her slipper under the veil of her skirts.
"If my guests do not care to be on time, they cannot bemoan that the guests of honour were not present to greet them. Go… mingle… the first dance will begin soon enough. Might I suggest a glass of punch? I will eat my best riding hat if Mrs. Darcy finds herself sitting out even one set," said Lady Matlock, tilting her head in the direction of the ballroom.
Like metal shavings drawn by a magnet, the guests gravitated toward the couple of the hour. They congregated around them, creating a full circle, closing off all avenues of escape. Darcy blinked, nausea swirled around his innards briefly, but he squeezed his wife's hand, now sitting in the crook of his arm, before letting it go. He stepped forward to greet a couple a shade to the right, a General Danett and his wife, Mrs. Danett, clearly enunciating their names as he spoke. A strategically placed hand, once again in the small of her back, drew Elizabeth forward, but the step she took sideways to come closer to his body was all her own doing, and he delighted in it, even under siege as they were.
Great friends that they were of his aunt and uncle's, the General and his wife were largely above the more salubrious gossip of the ton, and thus provided a few moments of non-threatening inanities before their inherent good manners prompted them to move on and allow other guests the opportunity to engage.
The pleasant discourse was not to last, naturally. There were too many with a score to settle–real or imagined—to truly pass an evening in 'pleasant' conversation. He would like to think he shielded her from the worst barbs and prevented those he could with his trademark scowl.
He took a moment to be surprised at the enmity from unexpected quarters. One of Colonel Fitzwilliam's friends from University approached, a cheerful amiable fellow much in the pattern of Bingley, though from a family with a sight more history. He greeted them with predictable enthusiasm, but the wife, whom Darcy had never met before, regarded Elizabeth coolly, nodding her acknowledgement but looking like she had sniffed scat all the while. Before Darcy could make heads or tails of the business, the next group had stepped forward, followed by another and then another.
The faces changed, the words exchanged varied, but his wife's expression was unfailingly polite. The other constant was his hand that remained, pressed against the silk of her gown, a symbol of possession, an act of reassurance for them both, and a simple pleasure that girded him against the swell of humanity.
He waited for re-enforcements in the form of his family to appear, but the personage who sidled up to his wife was the very last he would have had respond to his subconscious plea.
Lady Carbeck's unctuous smile was completely at odds with her increasingly cutting words, which baited some guests but unfailingly sought to needle his wife.
Throwing in commentary on Mrs. Darcy's origin, tinged with disdain, Lady Carbeck addressed one lady. "Miss Elspeth, please come and make our lovely newlywed feel more at home. Mrs. Darcy, Miss Elspeth hails from a small farming estate, you must talk about cows or chickens or some such," she tittered before addressing Miss Elspeth again. "Though she is married and you are… not, I daresay you could still be charming friends."
"I would hardly call Fenwick Hall a farm," Miss Elspeth replied through gritted teeth, her hard expression extending to encompass Elizabeth as well.
A number of encounters along a similar vein followed, though the specific brand of discord sown was unique to each guest. A flush of impending doom spread across Elizabeth's countenance and across the top her cleavage, enticing surely, but also alarming.
As richly as Lady Carbeck deserved a set down–for she seemed to be affected not a whit from her husband's recent scolding–Darcy weighed the natural justice of the situation versus the lasting effects allowing a scene might cause. He had been on the receiving end of his wife's temper more than a few times and did not see such an outburst as raising her in the estimation of his peers. How to prevent it though? Another delicate mental calculation balanced the threat of leaving Elizabeth unattended versus allowing Lady Carbeck to persist. Loath as he was to admit such, removing Lady Carbeck from his wife's vicinity seemed the only viable option, nay, an absolute necessity.
A young man swarmed up to reserve a set with Mrs. Darcy. The way he lingered over her hand was vexing, but not as vexing as the comment Lady Carbeck made immediately following. "Fear not, you may be the exotic bird of paradise now, but give it a week and a handful of appearances and you will fade into the insignificance that is your due," she said with a superior smile.
To the casual observer it would appear the barb had no effect on Elizabeth, but Darcy could see the sudden stillness that overtook his wife's frame. Enough. A measured breath calmed his own swell of antagonism, so it was with threadbare composure that Darcy stepped behind his wife and firmly gripped Lady Carbeck's elbow. The harridan tried to shake his hold through his mumbled apology and half-baked explanation, but he was not to be put off, in essence dragging her to the far side of the ballroom and into a short hallway.
Intentionally blocking her view of the guests with his broad back, Darcy hissed, "I shall not tolerate you harassing my wife in such a manner, nor will I stand idly by while you pour poison into the ears of –"
"And what, pray, can you do to stop me?" Lady Carbeck interrupted, her chin set in an unbecoming, belligerent angle. "Short of beating me or confining me, I think you would not be able to hamper me, and we both know you would not stoop to such brutish methods."
Darcy glanced over his shoulder. "I might appeal to your better nature, but I strongly suspect I would be wasting my breath. Instead I shall word an entreaty to your self-interested black little soul. You are a hair's breadth from losing everything that is important to you. Your husband, who is inexplicably fond of my wife, has reached the end of his patience. Continue along this vein and you shall tumble into the precipice—"
"Empty threats," she said. "You know nothing of me and my marriage."
Darcy stepped closer. Lady Carbeck stepped back immediately, making a lie of her bravado.
"Are a few petty attacks on my wife's character worth risking your access to your child?"
He would not lie to himself, there was a sense of satisfaction that flowed from watching her eyes widen and her hand involuntarily fly to her chest. Capitalising on the moment, Darcy allowed a smirk to turn up the corners of his lips. "Do we understand each other?"
She nodded, though her expression was dazed, with her brows drawn together and lips pursed. Appeased, for now, Darcy made his way back towards his wife.
It was not difficult to discern her location, though getting a glimpse of his petite spouse was not so easy. She stood at the epicentre of a crush of male attention. Her face was briefly visible while one fop bowed over her hand, at the same moment another shifted sideways. A prickling sensation made its way up Darcy's back and he quickened his pace. Stepping between the men, and perhaps on a few toes, Darcy advanced. The milling crowd shifted again, providing him a point of entry and a clear view of Lord Matlock at her side.
The background droning of the musicians warming up noticeably developed more purpose. A few stuttering bars of a minuet sounded, prompting Darcy to offer his hand. "Would you do me the honour of dancing the first with me, Mrs. Darcy?"
He watched her angle her body, lifting one shoulder playfully. Elizabeth's brow arched as she pretended to consider the question, before a cheeky smile puckered her lips. "I would be delighted."
She looked down from the leading position as the dance assembled, and he thought she might have swallowed heavily as she stepped into formation, but once the couples lined up and the music started in earnest, she gave every appearance of being delighted.
His wife moved through the transitions of the opening of the cotillion with confidence, though he could not describe her dancing style as elegant. Her dancing was spirited, agile, and there was just something so impish in the way she moved. Those ladies who glided through the movements, like swans floating effortlessly on a smooth lake, rich in ennui, were just so lacklustre against his lively wife.
While other ladies' gloved hands might sit in his own grasp limply, Elizabeth's exerted a gentle return pressure as the dance allowed, and when her fingers slipped around within his palm as she twirled in time, he could almost feel sparks shooting up his arm and quickening his pulse.
She was so radiant in motion, her eyes sparkled and her smile bespoke genuine happiness. He would have liked to see her like this more often, mayhap she had been lacking in avenues for exercising her pure animal spirits, confined as she was at Darcy house. The thought could not help but trigger a memory of Elizabeth's wild youngest sister, but where Lydia Bennet was all crass self-indulgence without awareness, shaking everyone around her in her relentless pursuit of pleasure, Elizabeth's exquisite joy in the dance did not affront, but drew everyone who watched her into her gentle enjoyment. His wife's enjoyment was not harsh, but pleasant to behold, like dappled sunlight dancing through the trees.
"Have I not been exercising you enough, my dear?" he asked when the dance drew them together once more. Her step faltered for the briefest fraction of a second in the spin, but his hand behind her back kept her steady. Her look was incredulous and there was a hint of rose to her cheeks, and then she was swept away with the next partner in their grouping.
When at length she returned to him, her lips were turned up in a very sly smile. "Far be it from me to criticise the frequency of our exercise," she said.
Her comment shot straight to his groin, accompanied as the statement was by her lifting her arms over her head to facilitate his spin, which pushed her stays up and thus her ripe bosom. It was his turn to blush as she skipped to the centre.
"I did not… that is, I was… I would not," he stuttered, missing his next step.
"Oh dear," she said, "I think it is you who has neglected their exercise. Done in at one dance! You ought to spend less time in your study."
"Is that an invitation?"
"No."
And with that rather abrupt reply–albeit softened by her cheeky smile–the music of the first dance was closed off with flourish.
Was she flirting with him? His hopes of a second dance, more sedate and less intricate, seemed to have been fulfilled when the musicians commenced a triple minor, but it became apparent this was one of the new dances, "Lord Something-or-Rather's Whim", he half remembered. To his disappointment, his steps required his concentration almost exclusively, precluding him from pursuing the intriguing discourse he had inadvertently started with his spouse.
His wife seemed much subdued as they led the couples through the first sequence, still proficient, but the sparkle seemed to be hidden or maybe absent. On the subsequent switch, her face split into a beatific smile, obviously at something her swain of a partner had said. The fire that flared in Darcy's stomach almost brought him to a halt.
"Might you consider making conversation with me?" he asked during a tight turning pattern.
She cocked her head to the side, in a movement a bit counter-intuitive to the direction of the dance. Her brow was furrowed also, her brief smile run away again. "My apologies for neglecting you… I find that this dance is very different in person than it is on the page. I will own translating the written instructions to actual physical steps across the floor soaked up all of my concentration."
He winced at his own utter obtuseness. The pattern took them apart again. "I ought to apologise, I did not consider—"
"What do you wish to speak of?" she enquired lightly, executing an equally light turn.
"Books?"
She laughed. "I spend hours each day haunting the library like some lonesome spectre, but now in the ballroom you wish to talk of books? I could not possibly do 'books' justice in such a setting, choose again."
"We could address how very well you look this evening, but I am afraid, much in the way of books, I could not do the topic of your astounding beauty justice."
"Why Mr. Darcy, are you flirting with me?"
"Attempting to, I cannot be sure of my success. I have never been obliged to flirt before," he said.
The following separation required by the dance was, to his mind, terrible. Immediately after he had uttered the last, her enchanting smile became brittle. Her movements that had grown into an increasingly carefree fluidity, as her confidence with the dance increased, were again tinged with a stiffness, for all they were still precise and in time.
Too soon the dance was finished and he led her off the floor. He attempted to push through the loitering guests, searching for a modicum of privacy. It was slow going, peppered with polite interruptions, and the barely sheltered gap between two potted palms was hardly the seclusion he sought.
"If you require something of me, I would prefer it if you asked me plainly and not resort to subterfuge and false flattery," she said immediately and quietly.
Darcy, cognisant of the many eyes that must be on them, pulled her close and lowered his lips to the shell of her ear. "My flattery was not false, neither was my enjoyment of our set. I would prefer it if you tried to give me the benefit of the doubt," he said in a low voice.
She shivered and he unthinkingly leant into her hair, breathing in her intoxicating scent. "Elizabeth, I have never –"
"Mrs. Darcy, they are forming the set."
Darcy felt his face heat with a combination of choler, chagrin, and a further pinch of something that might have been jealousy.
"Rutherford." Darcy nodded, stepping back. He was not the worst sort, cold comfort though it was. Elizabeth placed her gloved hand in the young gentleman's waiting one.
So went the next few hours, surrendering his wife to various members of his aunt's circle, even if only for the span of two dances. Depending on the moral pedigree of her partners, Darcy alternated between grinding his teeth, twisting his signet ring, or rapidly and persistently tapping his leg.
He constantly watched her, how could he not? She was so vibrant and beautiful as she weaved in and out of the dancers. How could he bring himself to look away? Even as socially oblivious as he was prone to be, with his prize the focus of the subtle currents of interest from unsavoury or opportunist corners, the shifting tensions became as apparent as signs in large bold print. Maybe he looked like a lovesick fool, circling the ballroom, riveted on his wife, but it lent truth to their story. 'Silver linings and all that rot,' he told himself to ameliorate what might become an obsession, if he let it.
His visual stalking and familiarity with the dances allowed him to position himself near to where she finished each set, and his scorching scowl ensured that the temporary custodians returned Elizabeth to him rather than lead her off. Her shoulders would drop a fraction of an inch when her hand was relinquished into Darcy's care again. He could almost imagine her exhales constituted small sighs of relief, when she was once again where she belonged, by his side. There was no mistaking her appreciation for him when twice he waited for her with a ready glass of punch. She happily accepted his comfort and the restorative, and he obliged her by carrying the conversation with those who approached with more belated congratulations, taking great care to pronounce their names clearly and as often as he could without sounding completely daft.
All too soon she was taken from him, and the whole process would begin anew.
"I would congratulate you on your nuptials, but if your much altered state of behaviour is anything to go by, I should instead offer my sympathies. It is abundantly clear that Mrs. Darcy has you by the cods, friend," said a smug voice just behind his left ear.
Darcy checked the progress of Elizabeth's coupling with the innocuous Mr. Greene before turning to the owner of the obnoxious voice and the similarly obnoxious sentiment. "Braithwaite, no one shot you dead yet? Has it been a slow season?"
His unwelcome companion playfully nudged Darcy with a familiarity he felt was unwarranted, due to the heretofore rather sporadic nature of their acquaintance.
"I'd rather be shot by a pistol than Cupid's arrow, if you please," retorted Braithwaite laconically.
Darcy and the Viscount had oft frequented the same events, not out of a mutual desire for each other's company, but rather because of their status as sought after bachelors. Heir to an Earldom and handsome as the devil himself, Lord Braithwaite's title–and future title–meant he was forgiven many sins, his less than stellar financial credentials for one, and his long, sordid list of affairs for another.
That the lord had made it to five and thirty without tying the knot, despite both of his parents being alive and strongly pressing for him to start his nursery for ten years at least, was quite a feat.
"Your father may just shoot you if you do not get about the business of matrimony soon. An heir with two brothers can never truly rest easy," was Darcy's reply, before he turned his face back to the ballroom, catching sight of his wife and feeling a little bit of the pinch loosen from his chest.
When the lord stepped up beside him, Darcy regarded him out of the corner of his eye, as the man sipped from a very generously filled glass of brandy. "As much as I hate to admit it, you have called the flag perfectly. I must either hoist the banner of matrimony or concede defeat and a severe curtailment to my standard of living."
"Do you have anyone in mind?" asked Darcy.
"Ha, you know the script. The incomparables are all but spoken for before they even set their first slippered toe in the ballroom. Those with the fattest dowries go next, until we are left with the dregs. I'll admit there are a few I would tumble, but none that I would wish to eat breakfast across from every morning."
Darcy raised his eyebrows. "Every morning? I doubt that would be a problem. Could the holy institution of matrimony be sufficient to bring about your reform? I suspect you would still spend more nights abroad than in your own bed, wedding band notwithstanding."
"My thoughts too, and yet if marriage has wrought such a drastic change in you, should I risk my rapscallion self to its tender mercies? Will I find myself stalking the side-lines of a dance like some Ben once I say my vows?"
Darcy merely shrugged.
"Maybe I should follow your example, forego the flush dowry and net myself a comely country girl. I would wager keeping hours at your house is no great chore, am I right?"
Though Darcy gave no encouragement, the loquacious lord seemed to need none to continue, making Darcy suspect he was more than halfway to being foxed already.
"Mrs. Darcy hails from the South, I believe?"
"Yes, Hertfordshire," replied Darcy.
"Oh ho! So I have a hand in the taming of the great Fitzwilliam Darcy, a tale I shall save for my grandchildren, to be sure. How did you find Netherfield?... I must say I would have expected your red-headed friend as being more the type to be ensnared by one of the local wildflowers, but then again, they certainly breed them differently around there."
"I did not know you spent much time at Netherfield," said Darcy, steering the conversation into safer waters.
"I cannot remember when I was last there, before my majority I think. To Aunt Margaret, I was ever a pane of glass, and my transparency, or her perception, ruined all my fun and thus the appeal of visits waned. No, it was Marcus who spent the most time in that social wasteland, though even his visits were sporadic and short. I was nearly dispatched there oh… it must have been two years ago now. Dear Aunty was very close to cocking her toes, so Marcus was hovering over his potential inheritance like a dragon over his hoard, and then starts writing home some romantic nonsense.
"The consensus was that he was fixing to tup some tradesman's daughter or serving girl, but then he writes about Gran's engagement ring, which naturally spurred my father into action. I was recalled express from a bang up party just south of Chesterfield. A total waste, I don't mind telling you. I barely trot into London and dear Papa tells me the silly girl refused him! Can you believe? Poor as a church mouse and yet she still wouldn't have him." Lord Braithwaite laughed.
"I would have had ammunition for years," he continued smugly, "But the crossed lover transferred his commission to the front and ran off to face the French rather than his humiliation. Wait until you see him, he has a scar now, and a beard. All the pretty birds of high and low repute go wild for him. They do love a tortured soul." He finished his little speech with an insufferable sigh.
"Well I guess his sorrow is Bingley's gain. Netherfield provided an excellent introduction to land ownership," said Darcy neutrally.
"Provided? So Bingley will not purchase then? I suspected as much when I ran into him and that vulpine sister of his. Come to think of it, he was a bit long in the face; perhaps the country air agreed with him better?"
"His plans are not yet settled, I believe."
Darcy's eyes raked the ballroom in sudden urgency, he could not see Elizabeth; worse, he had lost count of the dance. His attention was caught by a knot of young men dallying just past the entrance of the cardroom, a less than neat little array of just the wrong sort. Some were talking, others were silent, some were drinking, others stood with hands empty, but they all gazed in the same direction. He followed the trajectory of their stares and finally located his wife. Darcy opened his mouth to make his excuses, and realised his companion was observing the same group, but while Darcy felt consternation at their ill-disguised admiration, Lord Braithwaite's lips were curled in amusement.
"There is a wisdom in the path you have chosen, I suppose," said the lord, and his tongue came out to wet his lips briefly. "I might not be so adverse to the married state if I had met such a woman, fortune notwithstanding."
The lewd implication was readily discernible to Darcy, but he could not throttle the man on so slight a provocation, as much as he would have liked to wrap his fingers around the meaty neck of the blackguard.
"Yes, well, there are not many of her ilk, and if I understand you correctly, you do not have the time for a search. Pray tell me, when am I to wish you joy on whatever horse-faced heiress you and your dear parents compromise on?"
The man scoffed again. "When is your sister due to make her bow?"
"As soon as you are safely married to someone else," Darcy replied crisply, allowing his animosity a bit of rein, before softening. "If you are so against the state, why marry? Couldn't a nephew inherit?"
Lord Braithwaite lifted and dropped his shoulders, holding out his free hand palm up. "If there were such a nephew, I would consider the idea."
Darcy felt his eyebrows lift again. Lord Braithwaite's next brother in age had married exceedingly young, if he remembered correctly. "Does Mrs. Dymond throw girls?" asked Darcy.
"She doesn't throw anything it seems. A decade, and nothing."
"I am sorry."
Another shrug was offered. "Don't be. They do not appear to be. The pair of them seem to take on all the urchins within my brother's parish as if the tiny miscreants were their own. Nauseatingly happy, they are." Darcy thought there was an edge of bitterness in that last statement.
"And I do still have one unattached brother," Lord Braithwaite said with a sly smile. "I called in some favours and secured him an extended leave with the option of a training post just outside of Town. I will endeavour to throw every lovely young thing available his way in the hopes that something may stick. He takes no enjoyment in bachelorhood anymore, if you take my meaning, so he might as well be married, producing the heir I would rather not."
Darcy watched the man drain the rest of his glass in a large gulp. "Might I bring him to call on your lovely wife, and see how your sister has grown?"
"No."
The music had stopped, and Mr. Greene was leading Elizabeth toward the gaggle of rakes instead of where he ought. "Please excuse me," said Darcy, hurriedly making his way through the increasing crush, hoping to intercept the couple.
He was too late. Lord Carbeck was handing his wife a glass of punch and touching her arm in a lingering manner that made Darcy's blood boil. But when Elizabeth noticed his approach, he saw her lips part slightly before they united again in an understated, yet pleased smile.
"And here comes your own personal kill-joy, fair one," said Lord Carbeck in a stage whisper. Darcy nodded gravely to the other men in their little clutch and granted his cousin both a nod and a scowl.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "You must surely be more than half-sprung if you are calling me fair."
"I am not so foxed as to relinquish my much anticipated dance, if that is what you are inferring. Especially as it entitles me to your exquisite company for the duration of our supper."
"I am sorry to disappoint you, my Lord, but I cannot oblige you in this dance."
"Why the devil not?"
Darcy watched her edge away from her companion. She somehow managed to make the defection look natural as she inched to his side. A claim to the dance, false though it would have been, was on the tip of his tongue, but as if reading his intent, Elizabeth gave a tiny shake of her head. His jaw clenched down on the words.
"The dance is spoken for," she replied firmly, "By the very finest of men. I shall not throw him over."
Lord Carbeck's eyes narrowed, though his mouth was slanted in a smirk rather than displeasure. "Darcy, still unwilling to share, tut tut tut. You have had your bride sequestered for over a month, surely you can spare her for the span of two dances?" his cousin said, fixing on Elizabeth with the last.
At that moment a fourth and well known personage made his way into the conversation. "Son, trying to steal dances? I know your mother taught you better manners than that," said Lord Matlock, his eyes sparkling, though Darcy thought he perceived a hint of steel in the older gentleman's tone.
"Damn and blast, well played, my lady! The one man I cannot challenge to a duel over thee, lest I be accused of avarice and patricide. So I shall accept your defection with grace, if you will but grant me a small forfeit."
Darcy could not help rolling his eyes, his cousin would be ridiculous and he thought his language a little coarse for a ballroom and particularly unsuited for a lady's ears.
"A very small forfeit then," replied Elizabeth.
"My choice of dances at the upcoming Killcott ball?"
She sighed, but acquiesced, before being swept off to the dance floor.
The supper that followed was surprisingly pleasant, seated as Darcy was next to his radiant wife, and surrounded by his family. Lord Carbeck had thankfully taken Lady Carbeck off somewhere else for another much needed remonstration.
Darcy put together a selection of foods for his aunt and another for his wife, keeping the choices light as was her preference. His efforts were rewarded with another warm smile. More fond looks had been exchanged this evening than perhaps in all the weeks of their marriage to date. He dared to hope it was more than merely an act. The Colonel did the same service for Lady Matlock's niece, who also sat with them.
Lord Matlock made a very pretty speech about his great joy in adding another member to the family, which caused Elizabeth to blush even more prettily under the attention.
Elizabeth was supremely poised when she succumbed to the calls for her to grace the company with a song. The piece was less provocative than that which she had played for the Bingleys, but no less haunting. This time she sung in Italian. A visual survey of the crowd showed many expressions of surprise at her graceful musicality. To Darcy's dismay, her eloquent expression of longing and love lost did trigger some speculative looks from masculine quarters. But more importantly, no one spoke over her performance, much more telling than applause, which was often faked to ingratiate. Nevertheless, the applause was also effusive.
Naturally, demands for an encore were elegantly declined in favour of giving other—unmarried—ladies the opportunity to play. It could not mollify her harshest critics, but might sway a small few.
Darcy escorted her from the piano and quietly congratulated her on the spellbinding performance. If there was a wry shade to her answering smile, he could overlook it. Any censure was deserved, but she was generous enough to allow him to briefly squeeze her hand beneath the table without pulling away.
He was loath to part with Elizabeth when the dancing started up once more, and if the way she clung to his arm or the slight quiver in her frame were anything to go by, she wanted to stay close also. But a pre-arranged partner arrived to claim her, and Lady Matlock pointedly reminded him of his promise to dance with someone other than his wife. As a result, Darcy found himself being led quite reluctantly to a Mrs. Crosby.
He thanked his lucky stars that it was not a young maiden that he was asked to do the pretty with, and she seemed a sensible enough girl. Pretty in the way of a water colour painting, all a soft blending of soft colours.
Mrs. Crosby asked polite questions about his recent marriage, and answered his own enquiries with a courteous indifference. Her husband was in the Navy, she lived in town, she enjoyed the season. The dance passed, but though it caused him no great pain, he did not derive much enjoyment either.
When the last bars sounded and he had made his bow, Darcy's first inclination was to lead his partner over to where Elizabeth was, alarmingly, surrounded by a new wave of guests and with nary an ally in sight. But Mrs. Crosby resisted with a tug of her hand. "Mr. Darcy, you must remember my sister, Mrs. Applebee, or Miss Hallet as was."
He made a bow, though he could not vouch for the steadiness of the movement. Here stood before him a woman who had attempted to force his hand into matrimony through guile, brazenly helping herself to his aunt's hospitality and partaking of amusements designed to celebrate one she had endeavoured to use so ill.
The idea of making small talk with one such as she was abhorrent to him, but nevertheless he enquired, "I did not meet your husband earlier, a Mr. Applebee, was it?"
She shrugged in a manner that made his hackles rise. "Nor are you likely to. My husband passed the summer before last. I miss his company terribly."
Darcy scratched at his jaw, and raised an eyebrow but could not readily think of anything to say to such a disingenuous declaration. His manners took over. "I am sorry for your loss."
"Thank you," she replied at length.
He fidgeted, as she eyed him in a way that could not be mistaken. Another gentleman approached her sister, leading Mrs. Crosby to the slowly forming set.
The look became more pointed. What would be the price of cutting her? His face felt heated. "Would you do me the honour of dancing the next with me?" he asked through gritted teeth.
She simulated surprise. Though her delight was sincere, the calculation he read in her eyes was… disturbing.
He maintained a stoic silence throughout the first set, the patterns were more distant but in the second she flirted with him, most blatantly. As they made their way up the line, he felt the crawling sensation of many eyes upon him.
The whisperers would say, 'barely married and already courting the favour of a young widow'. He answered the woman as curtly as was possible and more abruptly than was polite, much like he had back when she was a maiden, but also like back then, she would not be put off.
At the end of the set, Mrs. Applebee begged refreshment. While Darcy anxiously stood separated from Elizabeth by a sea of people, his chest constricted. But in a move no doubt calculated to overthrow all previous conceptions, aid arrived in the form of his titled cousin.
Lord Carbeck manoeuvred his way between two guests, deftly twisting his shoulders to avoid spilling the drink he carried. Darcy expected him to move on, maybe with a sneer or wink, but the man halted before them, proffering a deep bow and beverage to the sly widow.
"Mrs. Applebee, it has been too long. Might I humbly offer you some refreshment? Carrying the entirety of the conversation for two long dances must have left you exceptionally parched."
The young widow seemed to weigh the Viscount's words; she cast a sidelong glance at Darcy before licking her lips, then affected a wide smile. "I thank you, my Lord."
She dropped Darcy's arm to take the glass and struck up a heavily flirtatious discussion with his cousin. When Darcy made his excuses she waved an airy farewell, while Lord Carbeck gave him a wink.
That he was not quick enough to catch Elizabeth before she was again led to the dance floor was no surprise, but he was content to watch her and wait for the set to end. Elizabeth returned to him, and again after the next.
To his eye her movements seemed unchanged, but there was something in her air that indicated a deep seated exhaustion, and when he took her hand, it sat limply within his own. Her shoulders seemed to drop a touch when the couples began to once again form.
"Would you prefer to sit this one out?" Darcy whispered, leaning close.
When she looked up, she tilted her head to the side, one curl tickled an exposed shoulder. Her eyes cut to the dance floor and back at him, her gaze searching.
"It is not a test Elizabeth, there is no shame in admitting fatigue and no harm in pleading the same."
"Can you be sure?"
He surprised himself by laughing. "We could leave now if you chose, we are newlyweds after all. A bit of insular fascination is quite expected. Would you like to go?"
He watched her nod her head, but her brow was furrowed. He held his breath.
"I think I would dance one more and then–and only if it would not cause offence–I would like to leave," she said looking ahead.
Her stately partner, a man who was somewhere in years between himself and Lord Matlock, approached. Darcy leant down, his lips almost touching her hair and that one enticing curl, which smelt of honeysuckle. The soft fragrance was like an oasis in the room full of cloying scents. "I will call the carriage and be waiting for you."
She shivered, then nodded minutely as his hand slipped from her back.
Of course their departure could not be executed with anything resembling haste. There were the tedious rounds of goodbyes, the hosts obviously, but there were a great many 'friends' who wanted to give their congratulations a final time and those that did it repeatedly.
Darcy breathed an audible sigh of relief upon attaining the exit and seeing the familiar family conveyance awaiting their pleasure. The sand over the icy steps reduced the likelihood of mishap, but nevertheless, he pulled her tight to him to assist her down the stairs, and tucked her cloak tighter around her slight frame before helping her up into the carriage.
Choosing to sit beside rather than across from his wife, he lightly shook a travel blanket before draping it across her lap.
He found her eyes sparkling. "It was a ball, not the Battle of Towton. This coddling is excessive and unnecessary."
He pulled the corner of the heavy rug over his own rapidly cooling legs. Darcy was saddened to see her stiffen when the movement brought their thighs into contact. "The great contrast between a heated ballroom and chilly carriage is a key ingredient to catching a chill." He paused. "And though there may have been a notable lack of swords and spears, I would not say our evening was not a battle… in many ways. A battle in which we both emerged victorious."
"Victorious you say? I spent half the night shaking like a leaf and not from the ambient temperature," she quipped.
"I know, but I do not believe anyone else did. You were the picture of confidence. I found myself very proud of you." He winced on the last. He had not intended to sound so… condescending?
"Thank you," she replied quietly. She paused, wetting her pert lips with a quick swipe of her tongue. A rut in the road jostled the carriage. "For more than the compliment… I appreciated your attentiveness, your support. I thought my head might crack, trying to stuff all those names and titles into it. And the dancing…"
He waited for more. "Do you not enjoy dancing?"
Her head turned his way, but in the shadow he could not begin to read her countenance. "As much as the next person," she said. "But trying to apply what you have mostly read or observed into your own fast paced steps tends to leech the enjoyment out of the activity."
He was reminded of her statement during the set they had shared and wondered how many of the dances she had struggled through.
"I confess… I had not thought… Did you keep much company whilst under your uncle's care?" he asked.
He cursed the darkness. He could not see her expressive eyes, or much of her face at all, but a tension had entered the carriage. "I can imagine the events you attended were much different, more along—" he continued, but was halted by her small hand on his upper arm. Her fingers compressed his muscle, not in a painful way, but the contact was firm.
"Please don't say anything rude or condescending," she whispered. "I have enjoyed my night, you were everything I would wish you to be… please do not ruin it now with a thoughtless statement. I would like to retire tonight… thinking well of you."
His stomach fluttered. He was suddenly very glad of the concealing darkness, for the burning on his cheeks suggested he was sporting a most unmanly blush. He swallowed.
The carriage slid slightly on the ice, before the pace slowed considerably. Leaning forwards, even though the lightly frosted window Darcy could tell they were still some streets from home.
When he returned to his former position, Elizabeth rested her head on the side of his shoulder. The move scattered his wits. Was her shift motivated by affection or complete exhaustion? When after a handful of shallow breaths she had not moved, he ventured to pull her head further across to his chest and wrap his arm around her shoulders.
She stiffened immediately. He held his breath. His vision was almost swimming by the time she finally relaxed into his one-armed embrace.
"What was your victory?" she asked some time later.
"Pardon?" he asked, jolted out of his peaceful contentment.
"You said that we both emerged victorious…?"
"Oh, that," he said. Her expectation was heavy in the air. "I did not throttle even one of your dance partners."
She laughed, and he could not deny it might be wishful thinking, but he believed she might have snuggled into him just a shade more. He kissed the top of her head, the lightest of kisses, but did not push any further. The change was already remarkable, he dared not hope for the miraculous.
Is it enough? Will it last? Please feed me reviews: praise, constructive criticism and intense speculation. All are welcome.
P.S. Dear Husband contributed a dozen or so dinners towards the writing of this long chapter.