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The long-anticipated evening of the Netherfield ball arrived with all its promised gaiety, and Elizabeth bore herself with a composed air.

She had dressed with more care than was her usual custom—her hair arranged with a grace that did not court attention but merited it, and her gown of soft ivory muslin was adorned with a modest ribbon of blue, the very shade her husband—no, Mr. Darcy—had once said suited her complexion best. Though he had not yet uttered such a sentiment in this life, she could not help but hope he still thought it.

She had overheard Mr. Denny remark, with a pointed glance, "I do not imagine Mr. Wickham’s business would have called him away just now, had he not wished to avoid a certain gentleman here.

" That it was said to provoke she had no doubt, and it succeeded; her spirits were discomposed. Mr. Wickham’s absence spared her a scene, yet the falsehood he continued to spread regarding Mr. Darcy stung.

To be forced to witness her beloved regarded with suspicion and disdain, while he bore it in silence—it tried her temper grievously.

She had scarcely time to brood on the matter before her first partner approached.

Mr. Collins, beaming and stiff, claimed her for the first two dances, as he had done before.

His conversation—such as it was—proved unchanged in character, though less florid in compliment than formerly, which Elizabeth chose to interpret as a hopeful sign.

Still, she could not quite escape the idea that he simply spoke what most aligned with his own view of the world, and noticed little outside it .

Charlotte Lucas stood nearby, and Elizabeth, seizing a moment when Mr. Collins paused for breath, drew them together.

"Mr. Collins, may I present my particular friend, Miss Lucas?"

Charlotte curtsied with propriety, and Mr. Collins, startled but gratified by the attention, offered a ponderous bow.

Elizabeth observed them with a satisfied air.

Though her own engagement to Mr. Collins must never come to pass again, she could not resist the thought that Charlotte—so sensible and accommodating—might yet find comfort in such an arrangement.

Her next partner was an officer, Mr. Forthright, newly stationed with the militia. He was young and pleasant-mannered, though inclined to flatter.

"I confess, Miss Bennet, we were all greatly disappointed to learn Mr. Wickham would not be in attendance this evening. He is much admired amongst the regiment. Such affability—such openness of temper."

Elizabeth forced a smile. "Indeed, he is affable—to a fault."

He looked puzzled. "You do not admire him, then? But everyone speaks so well of him."

"Do they?" she replied, her tone light but pointed. "Then I daresay he has been most diligent in the management of his reputation. A skillful gentleman indeed."

Mr. Forthright blinked, uncertain whether he had received a compliment or a censure. "I had thought—he seemed most agreeable—"

"As agreeable as one who tells you all that you wish to hear, and nothing of what you ought."

He laughed nervously, and turned the conversation to the weather. Elizabeth sighed inwardly, regretting her sharpness, but unable to suppress it.

She became aware, then, that Mr. Darcy stood not far off.

His countenance was stern, his gaze unwavering.

In the shadows of the ballroom’s candlelight, his eyes were dark and searching, his brows drawn with grave intensity.

Yet, though the severity of his expression might have discomposed another, to Elizabeth it was painfully familiar—this was the look he wore when troubled, when disappointed, when forced to repress emotion for the sake of honour.

His handsome features, ever marked by a certain noble austerity, were now clouded by an emotion she could not read—was it jealousy?

Disapproval? Pain? She wished, not for the first time that evening, that she could take his hand and lead him to some quiet corner to say, "It is not as you think. I love you still. "

But he had not yet earned those words—not in this life. And she had not earned his trust.

Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, before she turned once more to her companion and resolved to finish the set with as much cheer as she could muster.

When she returned to Charlotte, her friend was quick to question her sudden introduction of Mr. Collins. Elizabeth only smiled and said, "I thought you might get on well."

Charlotte raised an arched brow. "And Mr. Darcy? He has been watching you with far too steady an interest for a man of mere acquaintance."

Elizabeth, caught off guard, had no answer ready.

Indeed, she was still attempting to frame a reply when Mr. Darcy himself approached—his countenance grave, yet undeniably striking beneath the soft glow of the chandeliers.

He bowed with the utmost propriety, and applied for her hand in the next set.

So startled was she by the request that she accepted without thought, and he was gone again almost before she realised it.

She remained motionless for a moment, the murmuring crowd and strains of the pianoforte fading as her thoughts rushed inward. What could she say to him? What ought she to say? Her mind, usually quick and witty, was now clouded with doubt and longing.

Charlotte, ever perceptive, began to speak again, but Elizabeth, distracted, missed her counsel entirely.

The musicians struck up anew, and Mr. Darcy returned to claim her hand.

Charlotte, uncertain of Elizabeth’s feelings, leaned close and whispered encouragement.

Elizabeth groaned softly, mortified by the word hope .

If he heard it, no wonder he would deem Meryton mercenary.

They took their places. For a time they danced in silence, the music weaving around them, the candlelight flickering across polished wood and fine attire. Elizabeth could scarce bear the silence, her thoughts racing with all she could not say.

At last, she spoke. "I am surprised you asked me to dance, Mr. Darcy."

He looked down at her with his usual inscrutable expression, but his eyes searched hers.

"I know I confuse you," she said, quietly, earnestly. "To confess, I confuse myself. I wish I could tell you... I long to tell you what you seek—but I am afraid."

His brow furrowed. "Is someone harming you? Threatening you? If so— "

"No, no! It is not that," she interrupted quickly. "It is not something one would dare believe."

His expression darkened, puzzled, yet softened by concern. "Miss Bennet, you puzzle me exceedingly."

She almost laughed—indeed, it bubbled to her lips—but restrained it.

It would only confound him more. Instead, with a lightness that belied her turmoil, she said, "I could wish, Mr. Darcy, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either. "

A slight smile touched his lips. "But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity."

Her heart beat faster at the warmth in his tone, but before she could reply, Sir William Lucas bustled towards them, effusive and beaming, eager to congratulate Mr. Darcy on his condescension in honouring their humble assembly.

“I have been most highly gratified, indeed, my dear sir; such very superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not disgrace you: and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Miss Eliza,”—here his eyes flicked meaningfully toward Jane and Mr. Bingley—“shall take place. What congratulations will then flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy;—but let me not interrupt you, sir. You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.”

Elizabeth coloured, uncertain whether to laugh or frown. Mr. Darcy’s gaze had indeed strayed towards her sister and Mr. Bingley, thoughtful and unreadable. She dared not pause.

“Please, sir,” she said with careful urgency, her voice low so as not to draw more attention, “my sister hides her feelings as you do. She is not prone to show affection in a crowd, but with her most intimate friends she—”

Mr. Darcy’s head turned sharply, his eyes narrowed with sudden intensity. “How do you know what I am thinking?” he demanded. “We have only just met, yet you speak things you cannot possibly know. Even if you had a spy—” he broke off. “I cannot make you out.”

Elizabeth, caught between fear and a rising desire to be honest, merely answered, “I have no words, sir.”

He studied her closely, disbelief mingled with something more searching.

“My logical mind tells me you are in league with someone—to compromise me, to harm me in some way—for you possess knowledge you cannot reasonably have. And yet—your actions, your manner…” He shook his head, as though dismissing his own suspicions. “They speak the opposite.”

The music ended. The dance was over. They bowed. Mr. Darcy led her from the floor, still looking as though the words he longed to say warred against his better judgement.

But just as his lips parted, Miss Bingley descended upon him with a determined expression and linked her arm through his. With a final glance at Elizabeth, unreadable and intense, he allowed himself to be led away.

Elizabeth remained still, the echoes of the dance and conversation reverberating through her chest. Her pulse had not calmed, and she could not decide if it was dread or something far more dangerous that stirred within her. She walked the ball and then grew thirst.

She had scarcely reached the refreshment table and was lifting a glass of punch to her lips when Miss Bingley, graceful and gliding as ever, approached her once more, her expression too smooth to be sincere.