Page 7 of Disarmed

D arcy lingered in his chamber, contemplating how he might avoid the first part of the ball.

He hated meeting and greeting people and making small talk, and he would do anything to evade having to open the dancing with Miss Bingley.

It was a private ball in the country, with just the local gentry in attendance, so his dancing the first with her held little importance, but he could not risk raising the lady’s expectations even one iota.

He paced his room, delaying going downstairs. Miss Elizabeth would be there tonight, of course. He longed to dance with her, but would it be wise to do so? Surely just one dance to remember when he returned to London, never to see her again, would do no harm…

But he may well see her again. If Bingley’s love was true this time, he would soon marry her sister.

Darcy and Miss Elizabeth would be at the wedding, perhaps both standing up at the front with the happy couple during the ceremony.

He ran his fingers through his hair. That would be intolerable!

And then he would see her often as his friend’s sister.

She might even live with the Bingleys, attending the same events as he did in town.

That was of course if she did not marry Mr Collins.

Revulsion coiled in his gut at the thought.

Miss Lydia would also be at the ball, of course.

He had been surprised but pleased the previous day at Longbourn when she had discreetly let him know that she believed what he had said about Wickham.

In return, he had tried to tell her that he had understood by recommending she read that sonnet.

It had been a ridiculous notion. As her sister had said, the girl did not read books, and she probably would not understand the reference in any case.

But at least one of his worries was now alleviated—that of how to protect the young girl from the cur. He imagined she would do that very well on her own. He suspected that being on the receiving end of the youngest Bennet’s wrath would not be pleasant.

A noise from somewhere in the house brought him out of his reverie, and he consulted his pocket watch. It was past time to go down. He took a deep breath and strode from the room.

Sometime later, he found himself standing on the edge of the ballroom, a glass of punch in hand, observing the dancers lining up for the first set.

Hurst had been obliged to partner Miss Bingley, and the lady’s sour expression revealed just how she felt about it.

He did not feel good about neglecting to ask her himself, but his guilt was outweighed by his relief in not singling her out for the first and putting ideas in her head.

Bingley was dancing with Miss Bennet, of course.

How could Darcy have failed to miss the sentiments of either party before?

His friend was a naturally jolly fellow, but the look on his face as he stared across at his partner was full of a happiness that Darcy had rarely seen.

Miss Bennet was less open in her feelings, but her little smile, light blush, and sparkling eyes were subtle signs of her attachment that Darcy had not noticed before.

He still had reservations about the match—the lady’s mother, for one, whose screeching voice could be heard from the other side of the room—but he had no doubt that Bingley would be happy.

The man cared little for such things as connections, and he did not need to. Not like Darcy did.

His eyes moved down the line and alighted on the lady who consumed his thoughts.

She looked resplendent in her ivory gown, which perfectly defined her lithe figure.

Her chestnut curls were swept up in such a way as to define her elegant neck, and her fine eyes glowed in the candlelight.

The lightness and grace of her form was beauty itself.

Standing opposite her was her ridiculous cousin.

The sight of him sent an icy blade through Darcy’s heart.

Miss Lydia believed the two would be married, and the fact they were dancing the first set together only added weight to the possibility.

He imagined stepping forwards, pushing the pathetic parson aside, and taking her hand in a gallant way, promising to save her from a spiritless existence under the critical gaze of his aunt.

She would slap him, of course. One conversation about Shakespeare did not a courtship make.

The musicians struck the opening notes, and the dancing began.

Darcy kept his eyes on Miss Elizabeth, inwardly wincing at every misstep by the clumsy clergyman, observing her biting her lip to prevent herself from either laughing or crying—he knew not which.

After a few minutes, Darcy became aware that someone was observing him from farther down the line.

Miss Lydia. As soon as his eyes met hers, she looked away, but he knew she had seen him watching her sister.

She was dancing with an officer he did not know, and she seemed in high enough spirits; evidently the loss of Wickham had not broken her heart irreparably.

He was sure Wickham would not attend; the scoundrel would not risk appearing at a house in which Darcy was a guest, no matter the number of young and impressible women he might find there. Still, he cast a glance about the room, his eyes lingering on each red coat, just to be certain.

He did his duty and danced the second set with Miss Bingley. The lady seemed a little disgruntled at his failure to open the ball with her, but her unusual restraint meant he was not required to exert himself to converse, and for that, he was grateful.

Shortly afterwards he was once again standing at the side of the room, his eyes sweeping the space, looking for a certain pair of sparkling eyes, his ears straining to hear a particular tinkling laugh.

“She is over there, Mr Darcy. Behind that group of officers. Talking to Charlotte Lucas.”

He started. Miss Lydia was at his elbow. She was thankfully alone. He glared at her, but he found he was not truly angry. He had come to see enough of the na?ve young girl in her to feel a sort of brotherly wish to protect her.

“I do not know whom you mean, madam.”

She laughed. “Oh, I know you admire her, Mr Darcy. There is no point in denying it. I also know you will not act on it, though. As I told you on Friday, we Bennets are far too lively for you anyhow, even if one of us has turned out to be handsome enough to tempt you.”

If the girl had said the last to him when they were in the cottage, it would have stirred his ire, but now her tone was gentler; she did not say it to wound him, he believed. In fact, she sounded like her teasing older sister.

He gave her another half-hearted stern look, and she continued. “You may have been right about Mr Wickham, but that does not mean I entirely approve of you, you know.”

He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Goodness, Mr Darcy, if you do ever want to court a woman, you are going to have to learn to speak! Or do you expect any lady will just say yes to a proposal because you are the exulted master of half of Derbyshire?”

“Probably,” he replied with a small smile, and she flung up her hands.

“You are a hopeless case,” she said. “I thought to help you along a bit, but perhaps you are right, and charm is not required when one has pots of money. Of course, as we have determined, you are not going to pursue Lizzy in any case, so you do not need any help in wooing her. If you were to change your mind, however, you should know that she would never be prevailed on to marry someone who showed such scorn towards her family and believed himself to be better than everyone around him because of his noble connections .” She said the last with her chin jutting out and in a nasal tone that sounded so like Miss Bingley that Darcy nearly spat out his punch.

“And why would you wish to help me, Miss Lydia? I thought I was a nasty, cruel man.”

She regarded him for a moment. “You tried to warn me about Wickham. I did not want to believe you, but when he began scratching like he had fleas, I knew you had been telling the truth.”

He nodded. “It is not the only good deed I did for you.”

She frowned, then looked at him expectantly.

“I told Bingley that I believed your sister to hold him in affection.”

Her face lit up, and it pleased him to see it.

Part of him wished he could speak to his own sister in this way.

He had dismissed Miss Lydia Bennet as a spoilt and petulant child with nothing to recommend her, but he had been wrong.

He had refused to look beyond the surface.

She was a bright and discerning young girl, wanting in refinement certainly, but she had lacked the guidance of a nurturing mother figure.

Mrs Bennet may love her daughters, but from what Darcy had seen, she was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper.

How Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth had turned out so well, he could not say, but he was sure there was hope for Miss Lydia.

She would certainly have benefitted from the guidance of an elder brother.

At that moment, the third set was called, and on an impulse, Darcy turned to the young lady beside him. “Would you do me the honour of dancing this set with me, Miss Lydia?” he asked.

“I shall, Mr Darcy,” she replied, placing her hand on his offered arm.