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T he carriage ride after the assembly had been even more tiring than the assembly itself. Darcy had been in a foul mood, more upset with himself than anyone else for having given offence to an innocent lady without intending to, and then not being given the chance to even apologise for it, let alone dance with the said lady. His mood had not improved when he was further accosted into a conversation (or was it a rant?) with the Bingley sisters. Charles Bingley's very particular attentions towards the eldest Miss Bennet that night had made that family his sisters' targets, and they had come well prepared with ammunition. It seemed as if the entire night, all that the two ladies had done was collect gossip about the Bennets.

The family was in possession of the second-largest estate in the area, Longbourn, which generated around two thousand pounds per annum. The estate was entailed, however, to the male line, and since Mr. and Mrs. Bennet did not have a son, it was to eventually go to a distant cousin. The family consisted of both parents (though the father had not attended the assembly. He was considered to be something of a hermit.) and their four daughters- Miss Jane Bennet, Miss Mary Bennet, Miss Catherine Bennet, and Miss Lydia Bennet. The first two daughters were said to be fairly sensible and genteel, though other than their beauty, of which the second had very little, no other accomplishments were known. The last two were universally acknowledged by everyone in town to be the silliest of girls, equal amounts dim-witted and crass. Darcy had seen some of that vulgar behaviour for himself on that night- with both girls taking advantage of the spiked punch, imbibing too freely and flirting too boldly.

The Bingley sisters had also learned a few things about the visiting Miss Braxton, and though he might have pretended disinterest, Darcy found himself listening with all due attention as they narrated her history. Miss Elizabeth Braxton was the only child of Mr. Bennet's older brother, the late Mr. Christopher Bennet. Her father had passed away when she was only a babe, and the estate fell under the current Mr. Bennet. Miss Braxton's mother had then returned to her parents' house in Wrexham, where the daughter was raised as a Braxton instead of a Bennet. Not much was known about the lady's family, though the Bingley sisters speculated from Miss Braxton's clothes and hair that she must be fairly well-to-do compared to the Bennets, but not by much.

Miss Braxton had apparently spent a month or so each year at Longbourn ever since she had turned sixteen. She was supposed to debut in Town when she turned eighteen, but her mother passed away only a few weeks before her birthday, and instead of being presented at court, Miss Braxton went into mourning. She had only recently turned nineteen, and after spending a year grieving her mother's passing, was said to be finally participating in her first London season in December.

As to who the Braxtons were, nobody in the area knew. For one fleeting moment, Mrs. Hurst had suggested, in jest, the Earl of Wrexham who was from the same county and shared the family name, but Miss Bingley had laughed so abruptly and so jarringly loudly at just the idea of it that Darcy had taken too much offence at her manners and given it not another thought.

They were late.

As always, Miss Bingley had spent an inordinate amount of time getting dressed for the soiree that was being thrown by the Lucases at their estate, the Lucas Lodge. It was to be a fairly informal affair, with only a couple of families invited alongside a few officers whose regiment would soon be encamping at Meryton for the season. But, as Miss Bingley glided down the grand staircase of Netherfield Park in a garish, green-trimmed, orange monstrosity of an evening gown, Darcy had to concede she looked more appropriately dressed for an evening at the St. James's Court .

With that ginger hair and that coral rouge, she looked like a freshly dug up carrot. He thought to himself, and then had to scowl fiercely so that he would not burst into laughter instead. Bingley was faring little better than himself, the corners of his lips twitching, his gaze riveted on the plume of three dyed-green ostrich feathers that bobbed from atop his sister's orange turban with every step she took.

"Caroline! You look…" Charles trailed off for a moment before smiling widely, "... absolutely inspired! My dear sister! Like the most fashionable of the ladies in London!"

It was true. Miss Bingley would not look out of place in any of London's most exclusive ballrooms. It was also true that Darcy found women's fashion in all those ballrooms completely ridiculous and especially unflattering.

Miss Bingley gave her brother a part satisfied, and part condescending smile, "Thank you, Charles." Then, horror of horrors, she turned to Darcy, "What do you think, Mr. Darcy?" Her eyes lighted on his waistcoat, and she gave a fake gasp of surprise, "Why, Mr. Darcy! It seems we are matching! What a serendipitous coincidence!"

Darcy looked down at his understated and elegant hunter-green waistcoat and then back up at the bright lawn-green ribbons and lace that were embellishing Miss Bingley's gown. He was offended at her implication.

Disguise of any sort was abhorrent to him, and yet, to tell Miss Bingley his true opinion on her knowledge of colour theory would be unpardonably rude.

"Quite." He muttered under gritted teeth and decided that was compliment enough. Nodding at the rest of his party, he turned around and walked over to the doorway where Mr. Rutting, Netherfield's butler, was standing alongside three other footmen to help them into their coats.

By the time the Netherfield party arrived at Lucas Lodge, the gathering was at its most raucous. Men had been imbibing; women had been gossiping, and Mrs. Bennet and her two youngest daughters were doing both in extremely loud and vulgar levels of volume. Bingley was blind to it all, and as soon as he had greeted his hosts, walked over to the eldest Miss Bennet, who was talking to a young and handsome newly arrived officer. Darcy, following his friend's footsteps, looked around for Miss Braxton and found her standing across the room near the fireplace, talking with an older soldier and, if the way the young woman leaning into him was any indication, his wife.

Darcy had every intention of talking to Elizabeth, but with every step he took in her direction, she seemed to grow more intimidating. It was a stupid thought, for Miss Braxton had the sweetest countenance, the brightest smile and the bounciest curls. She was slighter than was fashionable with a small frame and soft curves and was at least a foot shorter than him. Speaking to her should not be so terrifying.

And yet, it was her mind that unnerved him. She had such intelligence in her eyes, such a quick wit on the tip of her tongue. She looked at him as if she knew exactly what he was about and then she further looked at him as if he did not impress her at all.

He owed her an apology, he knew, and he would not be completely comfortable in her presence until she had forgiven him. But he could not imagine trying to make amends in a setting so very crowded, and yet could hardly fathom when he would get an opportunity to get her alone enough to beg her pardon.

Darcy's mind was such a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts as to render him quite speechless when he did get close enough to Elizabeth. He wished to talk, and yet all he could do was listen to her conversation, her teasing, her impertinence, her laughter. She was like a hummingbird, jumping and flitting from one topic to the next. What Darcy found so very difficult about society seemed to come to her as easy as breathing, and he could only watch, struck dumb by her charm even when he wasn't the recipient of it, how she captured the attention of the people around her.

Miss Bennet might be considered superior in beauty by many, but it was obvious to him that it was Miss Braxton who was more sought after.

Darcy watched her exchange a glance with her friend, Miss Lucas, and then suddenly, she turned to face him,

"Did you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?" She wore a delightfully impish grin on her face and looked wholly amused at his idiocy as she teased him.

Darcy wished he were in control of his faculties enough to be able to tease back. As it was, all he could manage to say was,

"With great energy- but it is a subject which always makes a lady energetic."

She pursed her lips, her head tilted just so as she studied him with eyes that glittered with merriment. Darcy was almost entirely sure she was laughing at him.

"You are very severe on us, Mr. Darcy."

Charlotte, looking between her friend and her newest object of fascination, grinned and decided she knew exactly what she needed to do to make Mr. Darcy fall head over heels in love with Elizabeth. Catching her younger sister's eye, Charlotte signalled Maria to open the pianoforte and then turned to her friend,

"And now it is Elizabeth's turn to be teased. Come Eliza, Maria is opening the instrument, and you know what follows."

Elizabeth pouted, "You are a very strange creature by the way of a friend! Always wanting me to play and sing in front of anybody and everybody! If I had enjoyed performing in front of an audience, you would have been invaluable, but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best and most consequential performers."

Here, she raised a brow at Darcy, and he flushed, wanting to hit himself for the millionth time for being so hasty with his words. He had determined to beg her pardon, not caring if he would be humiliating himself in front of Miss Lucas when the lady herself spoke before him, insisting Miss Braxton play.

She, realising resistance was futile, acquiesced.

Elizabeth started with a charming rendition of Carl Maria von Weber's Invitation to the Dance , which she played from memory. When her audience demanded an encore, like a true performer, she followed the piece with one of John Field's Irish melodies, accompanying the music with her own singing.

Her choice in compositions was not particularly complex or impressive, and yet they were appropriate for the informal gathering. Whatever recognition Miss Braxton might have lost by playing such comparatively simple pieces, she regained by her skilful fingering and by her understanding of the music. Her singing voice was clear, soft and very distinct. Darcy was mesmerised.

When Elizabeth's second piece ended, the applause that followed was both effusive and genuine. Before anybody could once again call for an encore, one of the Bennet girls, Miss Mary, if his memory served him, quickly replaced her cousin and started playing herself.

Her playing, Darcy thought, was tolerable, but nothing more. Her choice of music was darker and more morose than her cousin's and though her singing was not so very bad, her voice did crack quite a few times during the high parts.

Darcy wondered why she would be so eager to follow a performance which was in every manner superior to her own.

Elizabeth found herself wondering what Mr. Darcy was thinking.

Since he had entered Lucas Lodge that evening with the rest of his party, he was never too far away from her. She had waited for him to start up a conversation, or perhaps politely interject into one she was already having with someone else, but the gentleman seemed content to simply eavesdrop as she talked.

Or well, perhaps 'content' was not the right word, for more than anything else, Mr. Darcy looked very uncomfortable, if not downright severe, and though Elizabeth prided herself on sketching characters and passing accurate judgements based on first impressions, in Mr. Darcy's case, she was completely flummoxed.

That man was a study in contradictions, and he both fascinated and discomposed her.

It did not help that his dark gaze seemed to follow her every move. Even when she could not see him, she could feel him looking at her. The sensation of disconcertingly thrilling.

Mary's music number ended, and she was implored by her younger sisters to next play a livelier tune, something they could dance to. Request accepted, the carpet in the parlour room was rolled up, and the furniture pushed aside enough to make space for a dance floor of sorts. Kitty and Lydia and Maria, along with a couple more young ladies, giggled as they danced either with each other or the young gentlemen officers who were new to the neighbourhood. Elizabeth watched them with an almost longing look in her eyes. Society in Wrexham was very different from Meryton. The principal families in her neighbourhood did not have nearly enough young people, and though Elizabeth appreciated the sensible and intelligent conversation of older ladies and well-bred married women, she could not help but sometimes miss Meryton's silliness.

She looked around the room, and her eyes caught Mr. Darcy conversing with Sir William Lucas. The latter man, Elizabeth had concluded from her previous interactions with him, was a fellow blessed with the most amiable disposition, though he seemed completely unaware of the feelings of the people around him and their impressions of him. It was no surprise then, that Sir William continued on and on ceaselessly on some subject or the other and was completely unaware of how irate Mr. Darcy seemed to be getting by the minute.

Elizabeth, curious as to what at all was being said that was making poor Mr. Darcy look like a caged animal, very nonchalantly walked in their direction, and had every intention of simply walking past them and onto the other side of the pillar on which Mr. Darcy was leaning against so that she could eavesdrop to her heart's content when she was stopped by Sir William himself,

"My dear Miss Braxton, why are you not dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this lady to you as a very desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is in front of you."

Sir William took Elizabeth's hand and would have passed it over to Mr. Darcy, who, though surprised by the turn of events, was more than a little eager to receive it, when the lady herself drew back. Elizabeth falsely concluded that it had once again been the subject of dancing that had the gentleman looking like he would prefer the gallows and decided she had no desire to dance with a partner who would have to be coerced by propriety to accept her.

"Indeed sir, I have not the least intention of dancing! I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner."

Mr. Darcy, with his perpetual grave tone, requested to be allowed the honour of her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was nothing if not stubborn, and nothing either man said could shake her resolve,

"You excel so much in the dance, Miss Braxton, that it is cruel to deny me the happiness of seeing you. And though this gentleman dislikes the activity in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half hour."

"Mr. Darcy is all politeness, Sir." Elizabeth replied with a dismissive smile.

"He is indeed- but considering the inducement, my dear Miss Braxton, we cannot wonder at his complaisance; for who would object to such a partner?"

Here, Elizabeth's smile turned a little wicked, her fine eyes once again glowing in amusement as she looked at the gentleman in question, "Oh, I am sure Mr. Darcy prefers his partners to be those of a little more consequence. "

Darcy blushed. Miss Braxton curtsied, turned around and left. It might have been unintentionally done, but that night, Mr. Darcy did get a little taste of that humble pie that Elizabeth thought was desperately needed by him. Instead of her impertinence injuring her in the eyes of the gentleman, Mr. Darcy was left feeling confused for wanting more of Miss Braxton's special brand of cheeky reprimands.