Page 23 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious “Miss B”

Elizabeth

E lizabeth’s nerves fluttered as their carriage drew closer to Lord Matlock’s imposing residence in Grosvenor Square.

Through the window, she caught glimpses of the grandest houses in London, each more magnificent than the last. These were the homes of dukes, earls, and the most powerful families in England—and tonight, she would walk among them as if she belonged.

“You look pale,” Darcy observed. “There is nothing to fear.”

“Easy for you to say,” Elizabeth replied, attempting levity. “You were born to this world. I am merely visiting it under false pretences.”

As the carriage stopped, Darcy reached over and briefly squeezed her gloved hand.

The unexpected contact sent a jolt through her entire being—a peculiar prickle that spread from where his fingers touched hers up through her arm and into her chest. She stared down at their joined hands, transfixed by the sight and sensation.

“Elizabeth,” he said, and she looked up to meet his gaze. “You belong wherever you choose to be. Do not let anyone convince you otherwise.”

Her mother’s words from earlier echoed in her mind: This could become a true romance.

The thought sent her pulse racing in a way that had nothing to do with nervousness about the ball.

She pulled her hand away and turned towards the window, forcing herself to focus on the mansion before them rather than the way Mr Darcy’s touch had made her feel.

“Goodness,” she breathed, grateful for the distraction.

Lord Matlock’s house was a palace in all but name—four stories of gleaming white stone with classical columns and elaborate cornices.

Light blazed from every window, and a steady stream of elegant carriages deposited London’s elite at the grand entrance.

“Impressive, is it not?” Darcy said as he helped her down from the carriage. “My uncle believes in making a statement.”

Elizabeth accepted his arm, acutely aware of the solid strength beneath the fine fabric of his coat. “Will the Hursts and Miss Bingley be in attendance?”

Darcy laughed, a genuine sound of amusement. “Good heavens, no. Even if they were invited, which they most decidedly are not, Miss Bingley would go nowhere with me after being so ridiculed, as she put it.”

“I heard she did not take the news that she was not Miss B very well,” Elizabeth said as they approached the entrance.

“That would be an understatement,” Darcy replied. “It has been quite uncomfortable, especially since they are still staying at my house. Fortunately, they return to the Hurst home in Grosvenor Square tomorrow—the renovations have finally been completed.”

They climbed the marble steps, joining the glittering throng of guests.

Elizabeth had attended grand balls before, but nothing had prepared her for this.

The entrance hall alone was larger than the drawing room at Longbourn, with soaring ceilings painted with elaborate frescoes and dominated by a chandelier that must have contained a thousand candles.

“Fitzwilliam!” A booming voice called out, and Elizabeth turned to see a distinguished gentleman with silver hair and kind eyes approaching them. Behind him walked an elegant lady who could only be his wife.

“Uncle,” Darcy said. “May I present Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Elizabeth, my uncle, Lord Matlock, and my aunt, Lady Matlock.”

Lord Matlock’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he bowed over her hand. “Ah, the elusive Miss B herself! My dear, you have set all of London talking.”

Elizabeth’s hands fidgeted with her skirts while an uncomfortable stab of guilt bore into her side.

These people were Mr Darcy’s family, and here she was, participating in a deception that involved them all.

But then she remembered Jane’s radiant smile when she spoke of being reunited with Mr Bingley, and her resolve strengthened.

“I am honoured to meet you both,” she said, curtsying gracefully.

Lady Matlock stepped forward with a smile. “Miss Bennet, you are even lovelier than Fitzwilliam described. That gown is exquisite—the colour suits you perfectly.”

“You are too kind, my lady.”

“Nonsense. Come, we must introduce you to everyone. Though I suspect half the ton is already dying to make your acquaintance.”

As they entered the ballroom, Elizabeth’s breath caught.

If the entrance hall had been impressive, this was overwhelming.

The room was enormous, with walls lined in silk damask and gilded mirrors that reflected the light from a dozen crystal chandeliers.

Hundreds of guests filled the space, all dressed in their finest silks and jewels, and Elizabeth suddenly felt very much like the country gentleman’s daughter she was.

All eyes turned towards them as they made their entrance, and Elizabeth heard the whispers that followed in their wake.

“That must be Miss B.”

“A country family, I heard…”

“Whatever can Mr Darcy see in her?”

“Hardly the sort one would expect him to choose…”

The words stung, even though she had expected them. She felt her shoulders tense, but then Darcy’s hand settled at the small of her back—a steady presence that grounded her.

“Ignore them,” he murmured close to her ear, his breath warm against her neck. “They know nothing of consequence. We know why we are here. Let them all talk—it will be yesterday’s news soon enough.”

Elizabeth nodded, drawing strength from his calm confidence. “You are quite right, of course.”

“Besides,” he added with a slight smile, “half of them are only jealous that they did not think to place a mysterious advertisement about themselves in the scandal sheets.”

Despite her nerves, Elizabeth managed a smile. “You have a point.”

As they moved through the crowd, accepting introductions and making polite conversation, Elizabeth began to relax. The initial scrutiny faded as guests became absorbed in their own conversations and the evening’s entertainment.

“Would you honour me with a dance?” Darcy asked as the orchestra struck up a quadrille.

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “I seem to recall a time when you declared me tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt you to dance.”

Darcy had the grace to look embarrassed. “I remember saying those words, and I was a fool. I vowed never to make the same mistake again.”

“I see you have learned wisdom since then,” Elizabeth said, accepting his offered hand.

As they took their places in the set, Darcy asked, “How is Miss Bennet faring? She seemed much improved when I saw her today.”

“She is much better,” Elizabeth replied as they moved through the figures of the dance. “At first, she was reluctant to make her peace with Mr Bingley out of fear of being hurt again, but her good heart and genuine regard for him won over.”

“I am relieved to hear it. It has been very nice not to have Bingley brooding around the house anymore. He seems much more at ease and considerably happier.”

They completed a turn before Elizabeth asked, “How long do you think we must maintain this charade?”

“Not very long, I suspect. I would suggest several weeks, until the end of the season perhaps. That should be sufficient time for the gossip to die down and for other scandals to capture society’s attention.”

Elizabeth nodded. “That seems reasonable.”

“Your mother appears to be taking the news of our courtship very well,” Darcy observed.

Elizabeth laughed. “My mother is a very boisterous woman. It is where Lydia gets her spirit from. She has her heart set on a wedding this year, and I truly hope Mr Bingley can deliver it.”

Darcy’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “I believe he can. I overheard him yesterday talking to Georgiana, asking her about what sort of cake women prefer for wedding cakes.”

“Did he truly?” Elizabeth’s face lit up with delight. “Oh, that is wonderful news indeed.”

“Speaking of Georgiana,” Darcy said as they completed another figure, “she and Lydia have renewed their friendship. Lydia has been a great influence on my sister.”

“And Georgiana has been equally beneficial for Lydia,” Elizabeth replied. “She has brought out a liveliness in your sister that I think had been suppressed. You should not feel badly about having thought poorly of Lydia—grief changes people in ways we cannot always predict.”

When the dance ended, they made their way to the refreshment table, where crystal glasses of champagne and delicate sweetmeats were artfully arranged.

“I see my uncle has purchased a new piece of art” Darcy asked, gesturing towards a large canvas that dominated one wall of the ballroom.

Elizabeth studied the work—a dramatic landscape with stormy skies and a lone figure standing atop a cliff. “It appears to be in the style of David Ludwig, though I cannot be certain of the attribution.”

Darcy turned to her with obvious surprise and pleasure. “You know Ludwig’s work?”

“I have always been passionate about art,” Elizabeth said. “There is something about the way he captures the sublime in nature—the way humanity appears both significant and insignificant against the vastness of the natural world.”

“Exactly!” Darcy’s face animated with enthusiasm. “Most people see only a pretty landscape, but Ludwig understands that art should evoke emotion, should make the viewer contemplate their place in the universe.”

They moved closer to the painting, their conversation flowing as they discussed technique, composition, and the philosophical implications of Romantic art. Elizabeth found herself genuinely enjoying Darcy’s company—his intelligence, his passion for subjects beyond the mundane concerns of society.

“I had not expected to find such an appreciation for art in…” she paused, realising how her words might sound.

“In a proud, disagreeable man?” Darcy suggested with a wry smile.

“I was going to say in someone of your station, but that is equally presumptuous of me.”

“We all have our depths, Miss Bennet. I suspect you have many yet to be discovered.”

As their looked at one another, that peculiar flutter in her chest rose again. There was something in his gaze—an intensity that made her pulse quicken and her breath catch.

Just then, someone jostled Elizabeth from behind, causing her to stumble forward. Her glass of wine tilted, and she watched in horror as the dark red liquid splashed across Darcy’s pristine white waistcoat and cravat.

“Oh! I am so sorry!” she exclaimed, instinctively reaching into her reticule for her handkerchief.

Without thinking, she pressed the linen against the stain, dabbing at the wine.

It was only when she felt the solid wall of his chest, that she realised what she was doing.

She was touching him in a way that was entirely improper—her hands moving across his torso, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing.

She looked up to find his gaze fixed on her face, his expression intense and unreadable.

They stood frozen for a moment, her hands still pressed against his chest, his gaze burning into hers.

The noise of the ballroom seemed to fade away, leaving only the sound of their shared breathing and the wild beating of her heart.

“Elizabeth,” he said, her name barely a whisper.

The sound of her given name on his lips sent a shock through her entire being. She became acutely aware of everything—the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric, the scent of his cologne, the way his eyes had darkened as he looked down at her.

“I—” she began, but found she had no words.

Her hands were still on his chest, and she could feel his heart beating beneath her palms, as rapid and erratic as her own.

The air between them seemed charged with charge she had never experienced before.

She knew she should step away, should apologise and laugh off the incident, but she found herself unable to move.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice rough. “You should—”

“Yes,” she whispered, though she made no move to withdraw her hands. “I should.”

But still, neither of them moved. The moment stretched between them, taut with possibility and fraught with danger. Elizabeth felt as though she stood on the edge of a precipice, knowing that one step forward would change everything, yet unable to step back to safety.

It was only when someone nearby cleared their throat that the spell was broken. Elizabeth snatched her hands away as if burned, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment and something else—something she was not quite ready to name.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, her voice shaky. “I did not mean to—that is, I was only trying to—”

“Of course,” Darcy said, though his voice was as unsteady as hers. “Think nothing of it.”

But even as he spoke the words, Elizabeth knew that was impossible.

She could still feel the phantom shape of his body beneath her hands, could still see the intensity in his eyes when he had spoken her name.

Whatever this thing was between them—this strange, thrilling attraction—it was growing stronger by the day.

And that realisation terrified her more than any ballroom full of London’s elite ever could.