Page 49 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
He approached the center of the selection circle and greeted each lady with a bow.
Elizabeth watched, transfixed, as Darcy moved from woman to woman with an easy grace and warm attentiveness that surprised her.
He complimented Mrs. Thompson’s daughter on her embroidery, inquired after Miss Wilson’s grandmother with genuine concern, and made young Miss Appleby blush with pleasure at his comment on her ribbon.
This was not the stiff, forbidding man who had refused to dance at the Meryton assembly—the one who had found her merely “tolerable.” This Darcy smiled, his eyes crinkled at the corners, and he leaned in slightly when listening as though each response truly mattered.
He possessed a natural charm she had never witnessed in Hertfordshire, where his reserve had been mistaken for pride and his reticence for disdain.
Elizabeth wondered briefly whether his injury had somehow altered his personality, or if this warmth had always existed beneath the surface, hidden behind protective walls that circumstances had now dismantled. Perhaps this was the true Darcy—the man his sister and closest friends had always known.
Only after he had greeted each lady, including Mary and Georgiana, did he turn his attention to Elizabeth. Her breath caught in her throat, heart fluttering as his dark-eyed gaze drank her in.
“Mrs. Darcy,” he said formally, offering his hand with a bow that managed to be both respectful and intimate. “Would you do me the honor?”
The title hung in the air between them, acknowledged publicly for the first time since their arrival at Bellfield Grange. Elizabeth met his gaze steadily, seeing the question and the hope that lay beneath his formal request.
“The honor would be mine, sir,” she replied, placing her hand in his with a sense of reliving the few times he’d stood to dance with her.
Yet this was different. As they took their places at the head of the set, Elizabeth saw not the proud, aloof man who had dismissed her as “tolerable,” but the Darcy who had held her through a storm-lashed night, who had played with her son with genuine enjoyment, who had kissed her with a tenderness that belied the passion beneath.
The musicians struck up a country dance as Darcy led Elizabeth onto the cleared floor, their joined hands creating a circuit of warmth that seemed to flow between them.
Other couples began to form sets around them, but Elizabeth was aware only of the man whose touch sent fire racing through her veins.
“You look beautiful tonight,” Darcy murmured as they took their positions, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear.
“You flatter me, sir,” Elizabeth replied, though she could not suppress the smile that curved her lips at his praise .
“I speak only truth,” he replied seriously. “Though I confess my motivation may not be entirely altruistic.”
“Whatever do you mean, Mr. Darcy? I had not taken you to be so devastatingly charming.”
The familiar steps of the country dance separated them before reuniting them in patterns that seemed to mirror the complex choreography of their acquaintance.
When the movement brought them together, Darcy’s touch lingered longer than strictly necessary.
When they were apart, his gaze never left her face.
“The tenants seem pleased by your choice of partner,” Elizabeth observed during a brief moment when the dance allowed for conversation.
“Their approval matters far less than yours,” Darcy replied, his thumb brushing across her knuckles in a caress disguised as adjustment of their grip. “I find myself increasingly convinced that the standards of London society has nothing to offer that can compare to the pleasures of your company.”
The loaded compliment sent heat spiraling through Elizabeth’s body, intensified by the memory of his lips on hers.
It was madness to encourage this—whatever was developing between them was built on a foundation of misunderstanding and half-truths.
Yet she could not bring herself to withdraw, to maintain the safe distance of polite acquaintance.
That particular ship had sailed a long time ago.
The lively opening dance ended, though convention dictated they remain partners for the second. This was a slower, more stately affair that allowed for conversation as they moved through the figures.
“William appears to have found entertainment,” Darcy observed, nodding toward where their son was watching the dancing with wide-eyed fascination from Mrs. Honywood’s lap.
“He rarely sits still for so long,” Elizabeth agreed. “Though I suspect his patience will soon be exhausted.”
“A common affliction among gentlemen his age,” Darcy said with a small smile. “I recall Georgiana at similar gatherings, demanding to join the dancing long before her legs could manage the steps.”
“Did you indulge her?” Elizabeth asked, curious about this glimpse of their shared childhood.
“Shamelessly,” Darcy admitted. “Much to our father’s amusement and our mother’s concern for proper form.”
“I imagine you standing at the edge of the dance floor, a serious boy with a tiny sister balanced on his feet,” Elizabeth said, the image forming with surprising clarity in her mind.
“Precisely so,” Darcy confirmed, looking startled. “Though I cannot recall sharing that particular memory before.”
Elizabeth’s heart skipped a beat. Had she revealed too much? Did Georgiana or Lady Eleanor tell such stories already? “I have a vivid imagination,” she said quickly. “And you have the air of a man who takes responsibilities seriously, even those acquired in childhood.”
“Some responsibilities are pleasures rather than burdens,” Darcy replied, his expression softening as his gaze returned to William. “I confess I have grown quite attached to your son. His company has been… unexpectedly meaningful to me.”
The simple statement, delivered with such evident sincerity, threatened to undo Elizabeth’s careful composure. How was she to respond? To thank him for caring for his own child? To explain that William’s attachment was not mere childish affection but the natural bond between father and son?
“He is equally attached to you,” she said instead, choosing the safest path. “You have been very kind to him.”
“It requires no effort,” Darcy assured her. “He is a remarkable child. Intelligent, curious, good-natured—all qualities that speak well of his upbringing.”
“You give me too much credit,” Elizabeth demurred. “William came into the world with his own distinct personality. I merely try not to interfere with its natural expression.”
The dance required him to draw her close, his breath close to her ear, as they promenaded around the crowded barn. “I must confess, Miss Bennet, Elizabeth, that I find myself not minding the ruse among the tenants.”
“The ruse being that I am already Mrs. Darcy?” Elizabeth whispered, her lips barely moving as they turned together in the figure of the dance.
His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around hers. “Indeed. A title that, after proper consideration of all circumstances, I find myself wishing to make truth rather than mere supposition.”
The directness of his statement nearly caused her to miss a step.
“Miss Bennet—Elizabeth,” Darcy said, his voice dropping to ensure their conversation remained private.
“I find myself in an unusual position. Convention dictates that I should maintain a polite distance from you, given what I understand of your circumstances. Yet I find that prospect increasingly… intolerable.”
Elizabeth’s heart began to race, hope and fear battling for supremacy in her chest. “Mr. Darcy?—”
“Please,” he interrupted gently. “Allow me to finish. I have spent weeks attempting to reconcile my feelings with what propriety demands. I have told myself that my interest in you and William stems from mere sympathy for your situation. I have reminded myself of the gulf that society would perceive between our positions.”
He paused, his expression reflecting an internal struggle that Elizabeth understood all too well.
“Yet I find these arguments increasingly hollow. The truth, which I can no longer deny even to myself, is that I care for you. Deeply. In a way that has nothing to do with sympathy and everything to do with admiration, respect, and… affection.”
The declaration, delivered with such earnest intensity, left Elizabeth momentarily speechless. This was what she had longed for, what she had scarcely dared hope might happen—Darcy choosing her not out of obligation or memory, but from genuine feeling born of their present connection .
The dance forced her to turn away from him as her steps dipped and swayed between the other couples before returning to his side.
“Your silence concerns me,” Darcy said after a moment, uncertainty creeping into his tone. “Have I spoken too boldly? If so, I apologize.”
No,” Elizabeth hastened to assure him, finding her voice at last. “Not too boldly. I am not the maiden you once knew at Hertfordshire. One who laughed and danced merrily at assemblies and balls.”
Darcy’s brows furrowed slightly as he turned her around in his arms, the slower movement fraught with feeling. “We were acquainted? In what manner?”
“Mere acquaintances through your friendship with Mr. Bingley,” Elizabeth said, knowing she was treading on dangerous paths. “What I meant to say is that I am now a mother. My considerations have changed.”
The dance had come to an end, and as courtesy required, he bowed and she curtsied, moving apart to make way for the next set. Graham approached, bowing and asking for the next set as Darcy parted to stand up with her sister, Mary, who had handed William to Mr. Honywood.
And that was the nub, wasn’t it? William Fitzwilliam Bennet.
How could she accept less than his rightful place?
For her son deserved not the diminished status of a ward, taken in through charity and condescension, but the full birthright of his father’s name and consequence.
William was a Darcy by blood and by law, entitled to all the privileges and position such lineage conferred.
She would not see him relegated to the shadows of Pemberley, forever marked by the stain of impropriety that existed only in his father’s injured memory.
No, if Mr. Darcy could not honor the sacred vows they had exchanged at the Red Lion, then he should make no pretense of honoring them at all.
Half-measures and partial acknowledgments would not suffice.
Her son would stand as his father’ s true heir or not at all.
On this principle, Elizabeth would not yield, regardless of what tender sentiments Mr. Darcy might now profess.