Author's Notes

Things I learned from Pride and Prejudice: If it looks like an arrogant bastard and acts like an arrogant bastard, then say hello your future husband.

Nothing More Than Propriety

Darcy fixed himself into a corner of the room, just far enough from the crush to observe without being paid much mind in turn.

If his eyes seemed to return to one individual more particularly than the rest, it was certainly not something he would profess, least of all to himself.

As he was not being questioned on the matter by his conscience or otherwise, he felt himself at liberty to continue following the pair of fine eyes as they made their way across the ballroom of Netherfield. Their unguarded vibrancy while admiring an adornment here or alighting upon a friend there captivated him in a way that he could not explain, for the feeling was as alien to him as it was exhilarating.

He was not, however, permitted to indulge in this pursuit as singularly as he would have wished. Several times, he was approached by a few of the braver—or rather, the more brazen—residents of the neighborhood and subsequently forced to uphold his end in insipid conversation. All attempts concluded in the same fashion, with his utter discomfort and propensity for reserve allowing silence to eventually reign until the intruding party withdrew to leave him to himself again.

When at last he was free of the attentions of Mrs Long, Bingley was motioning the players to take up their instruments for the first set. Darcy watched as his beaming friend then ushered a serene Miss Bennet onto the dance floor, trailed by other couples who joined the queue, among them Miss Elizabeth.

His glance quickly left her to see with whom she had partnered. It was no one he recognized, but the man provoked his ill will almost immediately. He stared far too openly at Miss Elizabeth, both his eyes and his hands lingering indecently on her person. Elizabeth herself looked miserable to be in his company, an expression made all the more unmistakable as the dance began. As an onlooker, Darcy's degree of embarrassment on her behalf was acute as the man bungled his way through practically every maneuver. He could only imagine her own mortification and so was scarcely surprised when she fled the floor the moment the music ended without waiting for her hapless companion to attend her.

"They are well suited, are they not?"

Darcy averted his eyes from where Elizabeth—Miss Elizabeth—was speaking with her sister and Bingley to discover Caroline at his side.

"I have not the pleasure of understanding you," he said coldly.

Caroline would not be dissuaded by feigned ignorance. With an unbecoming shade of schadenfreude marring features that might otherwise have been considered handsome, she went on, "I was only remarking that your dear Miss Eliza and her cousin boast the same level of skill in dance, among other attributes, I am sure."

Her cousin? Darcy was careful not to let his countenance reflect his astonished distaste.

"But then, country breeding and manners are so separate from our own. I suppose no one noticed save we who know better." Her hand wrapped around the sleeve of his coat as if he had proffered it to support her. "Perhaps those of us who were taught the art properly in town could show these simpler folk how it is meant to be done?"

Her hint was as subtle as it was devoid of venom.

"Perhaps," Darcy rejoined, "and I am certain Mr Hurst would be willing to oblige you."

The flush of success that had come over her when he began his reply rapidly degenerated to one of poorly concealed peevishness. With a curt nod, she released him and stalked off to the other side of the hall, leaving Darcy to experience guilt and vindication over his behavior.

Alone once more, his gaze unconsciously swept the ballroom. When he found his unacknowledged quarry, he nearly choked.

It was a long and terrible moment before Darcy regained enough of his senses to realize that the man in regimentals who was escorting Elizabeth to the center of the room for a dance was not, in fact, Wickham. He could see from this new angle that the officer's hair was lighter than that of his childhood friend, his frame stockier. As the spike of adrenaline which had flooded his being gradually ebbed, he released a shaky breath, intensely grateful in that moment that Wickham had not come. Although it was a dubious hope to entertain, and a more foolish one still, Darcy wanted to believe that Wickham's absence meant that he would leave Elizabeth—all the women of Meryton, he reiterated firmly—be, would not dare try anything with him so near.

He focused again on the dancers as they glided to and fro, determined Wickham would not lay waste to his peace of mind anymore to-night. Elizabeth went lightly tripping past him at that moment, one dusky, loose curl springing temptingly along the white column of her neck. A pleasant, heady sort of madness seized Darcy as he wondered just how it would feel against his bare fingertips if he were to reach out and touch that errant lock—

Heat rose to his cheeks and he clenched his teeth. What had come over him? That was no way to think of a lady, the daughter of a gentleman no less, especially one to whom he could make no promises. How could he condemn Wickham's debauchery and yield to such coarse reveries in all but the same line of thought?

He was in still somewhere between shock and self-rebuke when he was caught by her smile. He had taken notice some time ago that Elizabeth's—Miss Elizabeth's, he hissed to himself—smiles were very different from the kind he saw in his circles. Hers were true, with a blend of archness and sweetness that set her eyes afire and gave the impression that a laugh could not be far behind, as though a smile were insufficient to contain the magnitude of happiness of which she was capable. It was a smile she now directed at the soldier across from her.

Darcy felt an irrational but sharp stab of...something. He would have called it displeasure, but for the fact that it smarted more of—of jealousy. The idea unsettled him. She was a nobody, an impertinent country miss who was intelligent and passionate, and, yes, he would admit it to himself, very pretty, but she had nothing to offer in a substantial way. For all intents, her family lived in genteel poverty, yet poverty it was nonetheless. He could not allow himself to become attached, could hardly forge such a connection with—

Darcy stiffened, his sharp intake of breath easily lost in the din of the crowd.

Attached? A connection? Of what was he thinking? He could not be so far gone as to be contemplating marrying the girl. It was possible there might be some stirrings of attraction, but he would overcome that with a little time and distance.

Right then and there, he resolved to think of Elizabeth Bennet no more. She could be nothing to him.

…except perhaps an acquaintance. Surely he was master enough of himself for that? He knew what he was about.

The set concluded, and while Elizabeth was being led from the floor, Darcy was suddenly struck with the notion that she might agree to dance with him now. He should at least socialize a little, and she was unengaged at present. There was nothing in a dance; it was only good etiquette to stand up with an acquaintance or two at these sorts of events. Bingley had seen to the eldest Miss Bennet, though he thought to himself in exasperation that there was little to do with etiquette about it. Why should he not do the same with Miss Elizabeth? What could be more natural?

It was the polite thing to do, after all.

End Author's Notes

Writing Darcy as a proud, conflicted jerk is fun. I can just imagine Jane Austen bent over her escritoire, repressing wicked laughs as she wrote more and more haughty and ridiculous things for him to say. God knows I was.