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“The officers are expected to arrive presently,”

said Bingley, his cheerful gaze surveying the room.

“That should make up the numbers, I dare say.”

“I hope it does, Bingley,”

replied with a wry smile.

“I most earnestly hope it does.”

The room began to fill, as it always did, with a steady rustle of silks, lively chatter, and good-natured speculation. The local families were well-represented, their daughters alight with excitement and expectation. Of the Bennets, however, only Mrs. Bennet and the eldest Miss Bennet had thus far made their entrance, having been conveyed thither in Bingley’s own carriage—a gallant attention which Mrs. Bennet had lost no opportunity of recounting to every acquaintance within reach. The remainder of the Bennet party were expected to arrive presently in their own modest coach.

glanced about the room, and the sight that met him was one only too familiar in these unsettled times: ladies in abundance, gentlemen in short supply. The war, as ever, made free with what society could least afford to spare. Procuring four willing partners for Miss Mary might, he feared, prove a campaign worthy of Wellington himself.

’s gaze returned to the entrance, where a welcome flash of scarlet announced the arrival of the officers. They entered with easy confidence and ruddy cheeks, nodding to him in passing, before descending, with all the alacrity of hawks, upon the flock of young ladies nearby.

turned towards his ward, who was seated beside his mother. There was a slight stiffness in Georgiana’s manner on seeing the officers.

"He is not among them, dearest," he said gently, taking his place beside her. "You need not fear."

"I know," she replied, her voice calm, though her hands trembled in her lap. Then, brightening, she cried, "Oh! There are the rest of the Bennets! And—is that Miss Mary?"

turned, his breath catching unbidden in his chest.

Miss Mary Bennet entered on the arm of her father. She wore a gown of so brilliant a yellow that it seemed chosen by one entirely indifferent to the notice it must attract. Her hair, formerly confined in a strict and unflattering style, was now dressed in soft, shining waves, artfully twisted and adorned with the faintest glimmer of gold. The effect was not merely an improvement; it was, indeed, quite arresting.

She paused on the threshold, her eyes moving over the room—until they found him. For a moment, she smiled: a small, secret smile meant only for him.

But the moment was fleeting.

"Mary!" cried Mrs. Bennet, her voice cutting through the company with unforgiving clarity. "Is that Jane’s gown? Why are you wearing Jane’s gown?"

There are moments in a soldier’s life when the temptation arises to rouse another to sense by whatever means might serve. had endured such moments in the Peninsula more times than he could easily number. Never before, however, had he considered applying such methods to a lady. Yet Mrs. Bennet, it must be owned, was doing her utmost to test the limits of his forbearance.

Happily for him—and for Miss Mary—reprieve arrived from an unexpected quarter.

Darcy, walking with determined steps and an expression that brooked no interruption, crossed the hall. Upon reaching the Bennets, he bowed—a deep, deliberate bow that commanded immediate silence—and by so marked a courtesy, drew every curious eye in the room.

"Good evening, Mr. Bennet, ladies," said he, his voice even and grave. Then, turning to Miss Mary, he added, "Miss Mary, you are looking particularly well this evening. Might I hope for the honour of your hand for the first dance?"

It was as though the entire room had drawn in a collective breath—and then forgotten to release it.

Mrs. Bennet’s mouth fell open so wide, it seemed an act of wonder. Miss Lydia and Miss Catherine appeared no less astonished. Even Miss Elizabeth looked startled—and , observing from a short distance, realised that he would need to speak with her regarding their plan.

Mr. Bennet stood a little behind the others, his countenance marked by a quiet and amused detachment, as though the whole affair had been staged for his particular diversion.

Miss Mary, however, did not move. She stood there, her eyes fixed on Darcy with an expression that might have been alarm, or awe, or both. For a moment, feared she might faint—or, even worse, feel compelled to quote one of those sermons.

Thus it remained until Miss Elizabeth gave her sister a nudge.

“I… I would like to dance with you, sir,”

said Miss Mary at length, her voice trembling slightly.

“Thank you, Miss Mary,”

said Darcy with a bow, as though she had conferred upon him a great honour.

Then, with the practiced neutrality of a man well accustomed to the intricacies of polite society, Darcy turned toward Miss Lydia and Miss Catherine, and requested dances of them as well. He concluded the interaction with a brief nod to Miss Elizabeth, whose smile had now set into one of serene satisfaction. caught it at once and gave a silent, approving nod of his own. There was no need to speak to her after all. She understood.

"Well done, cousin," murmured, with a slight smile. "Charming, indeed. I never would have guessed you had it in you."

He then turned to Miss Mary. Her eyes were no longer flitting nervously from one corner of the room to the other. She was not tugging at her sleeves or adjusting the lace at her neckline. And for once, she was not quoting Fordyce or inquiring after the moral propriety of a waltz.

She was simply smiling.

And it suited her.

Mary

“I would be delighted to dance the second dance with you, Mr. Bingley,”

said Mary, smiling up at the man who would soon be her brother.

“Would you be willing to call me Bingley—or Charles, if you please, as Jane does?”

said he.

“We shall be brother and sister before long, after all.”

Mary gave him a nod.

“Charles it is, then. And please—call me Mary.”

“Thank you, Mary,”

he said, clearly pleased.

“Now, I shall return for you at the second dance. But first, I must first find the most handsome lady for my opening set—no offence to you, of course.”

Mary laughed—truly, for once without restraint.

“None taken. Jane is standing just there with Charlotte.”

“Ah, excellent,”

said Charles, spotting his prize.

“Thank you!”

And with all the eager, unrestrained joy of a young man on his way to a long-awaited reunion—though he had barely left Jane’s side all evening—he bounded off in the direction of his betrothed.

Mary turned, still warm with amusement—only to find herself directly beneath the gaze of the Colonel.

“Well, Miss Mary,”

said he, hands clasped behind his back, the very picture of feigned innocence.

“you look radiant this evening.”

The compliment was not unexpected, yet it caught her off guard all the same. She immediately looked down, her hands clasping tightly at the edges of her gown.

“Now, now. That will not do,”

said the Colonel, tilting his head, his voice both teasing and warm.

“You could listen to that dull Darcy’s compliments with a face of perfect calm. But when I give you one, you must stare at your shoes as though they might answer back?”

Miss Mary looked up at him, startled into a smile. His eyes were dancing.

“It is only that you say such things with such—”

she began, faltering.

“Charm? Conviction? Or perhaps, unparalleled elegance?”

he offered helpfully.

“I was going to say mischief,”

said she, trying and failing to sound reproving.

The Colonel placed a hand over his heart, as though struck.

“You wound me, Miss Mary. I do not bring mischief. I bring truth—with a flourish.”

She laughed again—this time, less startled. More certain.

“Then I shall try to listen to your truths with courage,”

she said, raising her chin just slightly.

“I should like that,”

he said, and there was something softer now behind the smile.

“Very much.”

Mary had hoped—no, she had rather expected—that the Colonel would mention their supper dance. It seemed only natural to her that he should do so. She was ready, perhaps even eager, to dance it with him, even if she did not partake in the six dances before that.

But before she could voice any of this—or even try to drop a hint—the first note of music began to sound through the hall, and immediately, chaos descended. Couples were forming, gentlemen rushing to secure their partners, and ladies adjusting their skirts with the precision of a well-rehearsed routine.

Mr. Darcy arrived with perfect timing and offered his hand to her.

“Shall we?” he asked.

Mary, for a fleeting moment, glanced back towards the Colonel, whose grin was full of knowing.

The dance began, and Mr. Darcy, as expected, proved to be the epitome of grace—an elegant, refined dancer, though entirely silent. Mary did not mind the silence. Her mind was elsewhere, and she found a kind of solace in the stillness between them.

However, the silence around them did not last. All about her, the curious gazes of everyone seemed to rest upon her. Her mother was speaking animatedly with Mrs. Long, her fingers gesturing in a way that Mary had come to dread. It was clear she was the subject of their conversation.

“Miss Mary,”

came Mr. Darcy’s voice, breaking through the din.

“Just ignore them. Believe me, I am no stranger to being the object of attention in a gathering. Looking at them only worsens your composure.”

Mary looked up at him, and for a moment, the steadiness in his expression calmed her. She gave a slight nod, though she could not quite escape the sense of every eye fixed upon her.

“I shall try, but it is not so easy.”

“Oh, not as difficult as that,”

he said, with a faint, mischievous glint in his eye.

“You could always concentrate on conversing with your partner. One young lady, not long ago, advised me that there should be conversation during a dance. A most useful piece of advice, I must say.”

Mary felt a slight warmth rise to her cheeks. She had a fair idea of which young lady had provided him with such counsel.

“A prudent observation,”

she replied, casting a brief glance toward Lizzy, who was then dancing with the Colonel.

“I dare say, it is easier said than done, for those who do not find idle chatter second nature.”

“Ah, do not be so modest, Miss Mary,”

said Mr. Darcy, his tone touched with amusement.

“I observed you but a moment ago, speaking with my cousin in quite animated spirits.”

A blush immediately crept up Mary's cheeks, and, to her great discomfort, she felt Colonel Fitzwilliam’s gaze resting upon her.

“Mr. Darcy,”

she began, but before she could say more, he interrupted with a quiet chuckle.

“And another prudent piece of advice,”

he continued.

“would be to refrain from discussing weighty matters whilst upon the floor.”

He gave a slight glance, his smile betraying his amusement.

“You need not offer any explanations, Miss Mary. Simply enjoy the dance. I am content to be your partner.”

Mary looked up to find him smiling. His gaze held steady—neither reproachful, nor marked by expectation. She smiled in return; and though her former embarrassment lingered, she felt herself, in some measure, at ease.

“I thank you, Mr. Darcy,”

said she, with quiet sincerity.

“Indeed, I am no less pleased.”

The remainder of the dance passed in silence—a stillness well suited to them both. The gaze of the assembly lingered steadily upon them; yet Mr. Darcy’s calm and unshaken composure lent her a quiet fortitude, and their scrutiny troubled her far less than it might otherwise have done.

She could not help but think that she should take much pleasure in having him for a brother, if only Elizabeth could perceive what was so plain to everyone else.

After their dance, Mr. Darcy joined Jane, while the Colonel led Lydia to the floor. Mary, for her part, found some enjoyment in her dance with Charles, who maintained an easy and agreeable conversation. They touched upon various subjects, though—as might be expected—the talk often returned to Jane. Mary bore it with considerable composure, even a touch of amusement. She could hardly object to hearing of Jane, a subject near to her heart.

It was near the end of the second dance that Mary began to observe a few particulars which had previously escaped her attention.

Lydia and Kitty had each danced the first set with an officer—Mr. Chamberlain and Mr. Denny, respectively. Kitty was now engaged in her second with another officer, while Lydia had secured the Colonel as her partner.

It was the alteration in her sister’s conduct that mostly struck Mary. Neither Lydia nor Kitty displayed the affected airs so long habitual to them. There was no excessive flirtation, no overt coquetry. They simply danced—responding when addressed, their manner neither impertinent nor timid.

Mary had never before witnessed such restraint in either. What, indeed, could have occasioned such a transformation?

Another detail caught her attention: Mr. Collins had danced the first two sets with Charlotte, a clear sign of his intentions.

Finally, instead of withdrawing to the back parlour, as was his wont, her father had remained in the hall, conversing with Mr. Goulding. Yet, his gaze often strayed to the dance floor.

As she pondered these peculiarities, the dance came to an end, and Charles led her towards her sisters, where he was soon near Jane. Mary turned to look for the Colonel, hoping he might seek her out.

She found him across the hall, engaged in conversation with Mr. Darcy.