Page 60 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

D arcy followed Mr. Bennet back into the ballroom just as dessert was being served. Silver spoons clinked softly against china, and the low hum of conversation floated beneath the notes of a harp playing from the corner.

They entered quietly. No one seemed to notice them at first. Mr. Bennet made his way to a seat near his wife, while Darcy, to his dismay, found himself placed beside Miss Bingley, who—as hostess—was seated at the upper table.

The moment he lowered himself into the chair, Miss Bingley leaned toward him, perfume thick in the air between them.

“My dear Mr. Darcy,” she murmured, voice like honey curdled in cream, “how strange that you disappeared for so long during the most important dance set of the evening. And Miss Elizabeth as well—dear me, is she quite unwell? And Colonel Fitzwilliam too. You must forgive my curiosity, but I should hate for anyone to have fallen into harm.”

Darcy’s tone was ice. “All is now well, Miss Bingley.”

“But where did you all go?” she pressed, the flummery on her plate complete abandoned. “You must admit, it was very odd timing. One might think you were all conspiring together.”

He turned fully toward her, his voice clipped. “One might also think better of inventing fancies where none exist.”

Miss Bingley’s eyes narrowed just slightly, but before she could reply, Darcy glanced toward Mr. Bennet, who had just caught Bingley’s eye across the room. A single, subtle nod passed between the two men, and Darcy braced himself for the announcements.

Mr. Bennet rose and rapped the side of his wine glass with the blade of his knife. The chime rang out above the music and conversation, and gradually the crowd fell still.

He glanced toward Bingley, who stood now beside Jane, beaming in helpless delight.

“It gives me great pleasure to inform you all that my eldest daughter, Miss Jane Bennet, has accepted an offer of marriage from Mr. Charles Bingley.”

There was a moment’s silence—and then the room erupted in applause and cheerful exclamations. Jane blushed delicately. Bingley’s eyes never left her face.

But to Darcy’s left, Miss Bingley had turned to stone. Her face went first white, then blotchy red. Her hand gripped her dessert knife with such force that Darcy feared it might bend.

Her voice hissed from the corner of her mouth like steam from a kettle. “That idiot,” she muttered. “He is throwing himself away on a nobody. A pretty face in a mobcap and a jumble-sale gown.”

Darcy did not look at her. “On the contrary,” he said mildly. “He is fortunate to be marrying a gentle, lovely woman who will make an excellent mistress of his home.”

She opened her mouth to retaliate—but was cut off.

Mr. Bennet struck his glass again, this time more firmly.

“If I may,” he said, raising his voice slightly above the renewed chatter, “I was not finished.”

The room hushed once more. All heads turned toward him.

He gave a wry half-smile. “In addition to the happiness of my eldest daughter, I am also pleased to announce the engagement of my second daughter, Miss Elizabeth Bennet… to Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.”

The silence held for a beat longer.

Then Mrs. Bennet shrieked.

“Oh, Mr. Bennet —!” she cried, half rising from her chair, dabbing furiously at her eyes with her napkin. “Two daughters engaged in one night! Two ! Oh, I shall go distracted with joy!”

The corners of Darcy’s mouth twitched slightly at his future mother’s effusions, but he maintained his usual stoic face, conscious of all the eyes looking at him. As the uproar died down and people returned to conversation with those seated next to them, Darcy glanced over at Miss Bingley.

She had turned in her seat with the slow inevitability of a carriage veering into a ditch. Her mouth opened—and remained so. No sound emerged. She looked rather like a carp pulled too suddenly from its pond.

For several long seconds, she blinked, her spoon halfway to her mouth, frozen in disbelief.

Finally, she said in a voice strangled by disbelief and gelatin, “ Elizabeth Bennet?”

Darcy had to stifle a laugh. Not out of cruelty—but from sheer relief and wonder.

He was engaged.

Engaged to Elizabeth. The woman who had faced down Wickham without flinching. The woman who challenged him, comforted his sister, and now—now—looked forward to building a life with him.

He glanced around the room, at the Bennets gathered at one end, Mrs. Philips beaming with warm approval. He saw Jane’s radiant face, Bingley’s unhidden joy, and Mr. Bennet standing tall and composed with something like pride in his eyes.

Darcy met his gaze, then flicked his eyes towards the door. I am going to her now.

Mr. Bennet gave him the smallest of nods. Go, the elder gentleman seemed to say in return.

Darcy stood and slipped from the room, not noticing Miss Bingley’s muttered protest or Mrs. Bennet’s delighted chatter rising behind him.

He went to find Elizabeth.

His betrothed.

His heart beat high in his chest, light with joy and full of purpose.

He could hardly wait to see her again.

∞∞∞

Elizabeth sat curled in the corner of the carriage, the dim light from a single lantern outside flickering across her skirts. After Darcy had left her, she realized she wished for nothing more than to leave Netherfield and had persuaded Peter to assist her to the carriage.

The torn shoulder of her gown had been awkward to adjust, and though a folded wrap had been left for her use, she had yet to pull it around her. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, and every so often they trembled.

Her mind kept returning to it.

The struggle. The cold press of the pistol barrel. Wickham’s rage and the weight of his body pinning her against the wall.

She shivered—but then closed her eyes and forced the memories away.

No. Not that. Not now. Remember - think only on the past as it gives you pleasure .

This was not how she wanted to remember the night. Not forever. Not as the evening she nearly died—but the night she had danced in Darcy’s arms.

The night she had become his.

They were engaged now. She was certain of it, as certain as she had ever been of anything. Mr. Bennet would have announced it, and Darcy had not hesitated to speak so plainly when they had been alone. There was no awkward asking, no coy conversation.

Just… certainty. As if their hearts had already agreed long ago.

She let herself drift backward, recalling the press of his gloved hand at the small of her back during their dance, the way he had looked down at her with solemn wonder, their conversations at Netherfield and Longbourn.

To live in his home , she thought dreamily, her lips curving. To run his household… to walk Pemberley’s grounds, to be known as his wife. To wake beside him. To bear his children .

The thought brought heat to her cheeks. She covered her mouth with her fingers, embarrassed by her own imaginings. But they were tender thoughts—not foolish or scandalous. A picture of love, of partnership. Of trust.

She knew the road would not be easy. For all Georgiana’s progress, she would not become a model of propriety overnight. There would be misunderstandings, perhaps regressions. And Longbourn was four days away from Derbyshire. Four days from her father… and from—

Mark!

She straightened in alarm, heart thudding. Mark knows nothing . She had not written to him in weeks—not since before Georgiana’s incident. What must he think? Had her last letter even hinted at anything close to the danger she had been in?

She bit her lip and made a silent vow. Tomorrow . She would write the moment she awoke.

But tonight…

Tonight she was engaged.

Tonight, she would let herself be happy.

The carriage door opened, and the steps creaked as someone climbed in.

Darcy.

He slid onto the seat beside her and reached to close the door, drawing them into a warm, quiet space of shadows and lantern light.

She smiled, tilting her head toward him. “Did it all go well?”

He gave a low hum of amusement. “Your mother was elated, Miss Bingley was… unhappy, and most others were surprised, though they seemed to be pleased for us.”

She grinned. “And you? Which group do you fall into?”

He turned toward her fully, one brow arched in that way she now found completely irresistible. “My own category, I am afraid. Far above all the others.”

His gaze was steady, intense. Her breath caught at the sheer warmth in it.

A small shiver ran through her.

He frowned at once. “You are cold.”

“No—” she began, but he was already rapping twice on the roof to signal the driver, then wrapping an arm around her shoulders. His palm settled against her bare skin where the fabric of her torn gown had slipped, just above the place where the stitches were.

The carriage lurched forward, and she leaned instinctively into his side.

He reached for the folded carriage rug and pulled it across both their laps, then pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

She sighed into his chest.

He was warm. Solid. The scent of his coat was cedar and smoke and something distinctly his own.

She had never felt quite like this before—not even with Mark, and certainly never with her father.

There was a comfort in Darcy’s presence, yes, but also a thrill.

A sense of safety entwined with something deeper, wilder.

Something she had not realized she wanted until he gave it so freely: intimacy.

She tilted her head to look up at him.

He was already looking down.

The kiss, when it came, was soft—tender as a breath, hesitant as if he feared he might overwhelm her. His lips brushed hers gently, asking rather than taking.

Her heart surged.

She kissed him back.

The love she had held inside her for so long burst forth in that moment—not with drama, but with complete, instinctive joy. She leaned into the kiss, her hands rising to his chest, and his fingers curved around her side, holding her more firmly.

She felt his surprise at first.

Then he deepened the kiss.