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Elizabeth gave a startled laugh. “He is most severe, is he not? I cannot say whether I like him for it—but I will admit, there is something compelling about him. He is… unlike anyone I have ever met.”

They sat for a moment in companionable silence, the warmth of the fire reflecting their private joys and uncertainties.

Downstairs, Mrs. Bennet presided over a modest glass of sherry, dispensing predictions to an audience consisting almost entirely of her own reflection in the window.

“The Bennet girls will set the county on its head, mark my words. Before the year is out, there will be two—no, three—weddings at Longbourn, and I shall go to town in a new carriage with a pair of greys to match. Lady Catherine herself will be forced to invite me to tea.”

The house grew quiet, save for the murmurs of the sisters above and Mrs. Bennet’s self-satisfied soliloquy below.

In her bed-chamber, Elizabeth found herself unable to sleep, her mind replaying the music, the lights, and the charged moments on the floor.

She remembered the brush of Darcy’s hand at her waist—no more than a moment, yet enough to betray the faintest tremor in his fingers—and the intensity with which he met her eyes as they turned through the dance.

She now closed her eyes and saw Pemberley—imagined it as she wished it, grand yet not unkind, filled with ancient books and silent corridors, a place of shadow and possibility.

Elizabeth wondered if she would ever see it if she could ever belong in such a place.

She also wondered what it meant that Darcy had risked not only his fortune but his pride to spare her family embarrassment.

As the first hint of dawn crept across the ceiling, Elizabeth turned onto her side and smiled. Whatever tomorrow brought—whether it was balls or banter or only the ceaseless schemes of her mother—she would meet it with wit and warmth and no little curiosity.

For the first time in many weeks, she fell asleep believing herself—if not triumphant—then quite content.

***

Netherfield, Saturday 2nd November 1811

The morning after the ball dawned bright but brittle. A thin veil of frost clung to the windows of Netherfield Park, though within, the breakfast room was warmed by a steady fire and the quiet clink of porcelain.

Mr. Bingley arrived first, his curls still damp from a hasty toilette and his cravat slightly askew. He greeted the butler with a distracted nod and made a perfunctory circuit of the sideboard before selecting a single slice of toast. He did not eat it.

Moments later, Mr. Darcy entered. Impeccably dressed and uncommonly silent, he took his seat opposite Bingley with the solemnity of a man who had not slept well and did not intend to say why. He took tea as if it were a duty—then helped himself to a second cup without remark.

A silence, companionable only in habit, settled between them.

“Miss Bennet appeared in good health last evening,” Bingley said at last, studying his plate.

“She did,” Darcy replied, his voice low and neutral.

“And Miss Elizabeth?” Bingley prompted with a glance. “Surely she had also a few partners.”

Darcy’s smile was faint, almost private. “Only one.”

Bingley blinked. “Ah. Well... a discerning lady. Ah, you were referring to you. A remarkable endurance on her behalf.”

Darcy offered a half-smile, though it was more in acknowledgment of the effort than of the jest. “Indeed.”

Bingley cleared his throat. “Do you suppose the Bennets enjoyed the ball?”

“Most likely.” Darcy turned his gaze to the window and look at his friend again. “Listen, Bingley. Before the event, you hoped for universal delight. Now your concern seems narrowed to a single household.”

“If they were pleased,” Bingley replied with a lopsided smile, “then I am satisfied. One cannot delight every guest, Darcy—but if the right few are happy, I call it a success.”

Darcy gave a noncommittal hum, neither agreeing nor contradicting. His fingers circled the rim of his teacup with idle precision.

“I should like to speak with Miss Bennet again soon,” Bingley added after a pause. “Perhaps in a quieter setting.”

Darcy nodded once, slowly. “That can be arranged.”

They both spoke at once: “With her father!”

A beat of surprise—then laughter, genuine and unguarded, broke the quiet tension between them.

Darcy shook his head faintly, a shadow of a smile still on his lips. “We are becoming predictable.”

“Or simply proper,” Bingley said, lifting his cup. “Which, for us, is nearly the same thing.”

Darcy hummed in reply.

The silence returned.

“I meant to say something to Miss Bennet,” Bingley added, almost to himself. “But the moment was never quite right. You know how such evenings are.”

Darcy looked up. “Yes. I know.”

A footman entered to refresh the teapot, saving them from further effort. Once the door had closed again, Bingley turned toward the fire, cradling his cup.

“It was a fine ball,” he said, a little too lightly. “Everyone seemed pleased.”

“Not everyone, I daresay,” Darcy murmured, but Bingley did not press him.

As though summoned by the unspoken thought, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst entered shortly thereafter, wrapped in shawls and expressions of well-bred fatigue.

Miss Bingley made a soft show of being unwell, claiming the strain of planning and the company had rendered her unable to manage more than a spoonful of marmalade.

Darcy offered her the most perfunctory attention.

Mrs. Hurst, too, looked wearied, though it was more from wine than exertion. She fixed herself a plate without comment and cast a knowing glance at her brother.

“I trust,” she said to no one in particular, “that all the excitement of the evening has not undone our poor brother. He looks as if he danced every set twice.”

Bingley smiled faintly. “I am well, Louisa.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of that,” she replied, sipping her tea with exaggerated care.

“Morning, evr’one,” Mr. Hurst said aloud, his eyes bleary and his attempt at a smile rather limp. “Breakfast. Seems to me I haven’t eaten in a week.”

The conversation thereafter turned to trivialities: the lateness of Lady Lucas’s carriage, the regrettable color of Mrs. Long’s gown, the inexplicable enthusiasm of Sir William for country reels. But neither Darcy nor Bingley contributed. Their thoughts—unguessed at by the ladies—drifted elsewhere.

The breakfast table might have offered sustenance, but it could not satisfy their unrest. As Mr. Hurst swept up the last of the crumbs, Mr. Bingley leaned back in his chair and gave Darcy a glance of quiet understanding.

“Shall we walk the grounds before the rain returns?”

Darcy nodded. “Or the library, perhaps.”

Bingley agreed, and they rose together, leaving behind half-eaten toast, untouched tea, and two sisters only too eager to draw their own conclusions.

***

The library at Netherfield was still and wood-scented, the fire laid but not yet lit, its kindling dry and waiting. Bingley crossed to the window while Darcy moved to the hearth, both men absorbing the silence as if needing a moment before speech.

“You know, Darcy,” Bingley said at length, his gaze fixed on the windowpane where the pale morning light gathered.

“I find myself upon the threshold of something—though whether it be bliss or disaster, I cannot yet say. At times, I am overtaken by a joy so sudden, a contentment so profound, it leaves me quite unmoored. It is a feeling unlike any I have ever known—persistent, blessed, and impossible to name.”

Darcy turned toward him, one brow arched. “Shall I assist you in naming it? Miss Bennet.”

Bingley gave a sheepish smile. “Jane Bennet. Yes. I can think of little else. I have never known a young woman so composed, so gentle of manner. At moments, I have feared she felt nothing in return—until I remember she danced with me. Twice.”

“She is not indifferent,” Darcy said, his voice low and measured.

Bingley looked at him then, hope stirring beneath the uncertainty in his eyes. “You truly think so?”

Darcy paused before replying. “I would not offer you false comfort. Her manner may be reserved, but it is neither cold nor inattentive. Miss Bennet does not lavish her sentiments—but when she speaks, or listens, it is with a delicacy that betrays real regard. She would not show such quiet care to a man for whom she felt nothing.”

A breath escaped Bingley, part sigh, part release.

He turned back to the window, absently tracing the edge of the glass with one finger.

“Then why do I still hesitate? Why does every reassurance feel so fleeting? Perhaps it is Caroline—her constant observations. Or Louisa’s smug advice.

They would have me believe the Bennets are beneath notice, unworthy of such consequence as ours. ”

“They would have you believe that you are above consequence,” Darcy replied evenly. “Neither opinion deserves your attention.”

“I cannot ask her anything yet,” Bingley said at last, his gaze fixed on the fire. “Not until I’m sure. But I cannot leave things as they are.” He cast Darcy a curious glance. “And what of you?”

Darcy turned away slightly. “Of me, Bingley? I have not decided.”

There was a pause. Bingley waited, attuned to the tension in his friend’s tone, suspecting that Darcy might—at last—speak more freely. But Darcy appeared lost in thought, his expression unreadable.

“I rather suspect,” Bingley ventured gently, “that you have already made your decision. You are only determining whether to act upon it.”

Darcy said nothing at first. Then, in a low voice: “There is the matter of her family. Of certain improprieties. Her mother’s conduct, her younger sisters’ lack of decorum—these are difficulties that cannot be entirely overlooked.”