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"Miss Eliza," she began, her voice low and laced with artificial sweetness, "I do not profess to understand your intentions, but I feel compelled, as a friend to Mr. Darcy, to warn you. He is not one to be caught by rural charms or games of artless airs. I trust you comprehend me."

Elizabeth set her glass down slowly, meeting the other woman's gaze with quiet amusement.

"Indeed, Miss Bingley, your solicitude is most flattering.

I assure you, I play no game. And should Mr. Darcy be so weak as to fall prey to mere country wiles, I must think better of your opinion of him than you do. "

Miss Bingley's smile tightened. "You mistake me. I only mean to caution against misplaced hopes."

"And I thank you for it," Elizabeth said with a curtsy just sharp enough to sting. "Though I assure you, my hopes are always precisely placed."

At that moment, Jane approached with her usual serene countenance, glancing between the two women with gentle inquiry.

"Lizzy," she said, her voice soft, "was Miss Bingley just now speaking to you? I hope all is well."

Elizabeth turned to her sister, her tone tempered but pointed. "She was merely cautioning me regarding Mr. Darcy’s susceptibility to rustic charms. "

Jane's brow furrowed. "Oh, there must be some misunderstanding. Miss Bingley always speaks with such... concern."

Elizabeth could not suppress a laugh, though it was touched with weariness. "Indeed, concern for herself, most ardently. But let us not speak of it. Jane, you must show Mr. Bingley that your affections are not wanting. He will not know if you do not let him see."

Jane blushed and looked away. "I cannot be so forward, Lizzy. If he truly feels as he did before, he will act."

"But you must meet him halfway," Elizabeth urged gently. "He is not Mr. Darcy, slow to believe himself admired. A kind word from you would mean everything."

Jane hesitated, then smiled faintly. "You always think the best of me, dearest Lizzy. I shall try."

Mr. Collins was deep in discussion with Charlotte when he abruptly broke away and walked directly up to Mr. Darcy.

Elizabeth, who had been watching with an increasing sense of dread, knew precisely what he was about.

A blush rose to her cheeks even as she looked away, thinking bitterly, And so the evening, so thoroughly beyond the reach of reason and civility, begins in earnest.

When they sat down to supper, Elizabeth prayed fervently that Mr. Darcy would take a seat some distance away—perhaps beyond hearing range of her mother.

Yet fate, ever mischievous, placed him directly opposite.

And as the platters were passed and the punch flowed, the scene unfolded just as it had before.

In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother’s words or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible whisper; for to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, whose face remained composed, though his eyes betrayed an attention too keen to ignore.

Mrs. Bennet, with flushed cheeks and an ill-timed sense of triumph, scolded her daughter for being, as she said, nonsensical. "What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing he may not like to hear."

Elizabeth leaned in, her voice low and strained. "For heaven’s sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be to you to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by so doing."

But nothing that she could say had any influence.

Her mother would talk of her views, and of Bingley's regard for Jane, in the same intelligible tone.

Elizabeth blushed and blushed again, mortified beyond measure.

She could not help glancing frequently at Mr. Darcy, though every glance confirmed what she dreaded: though he was not always looking at her mother, his attention was fixed upon the conversation.

The expression of his countenance shifted—from indignant contempt to something graver, a steady, composed gravity that was no less painful to behold.

At least when the music began again, Mary, true to her word, waited to be asked and only performed once, following Miss Bingley.

Yet what brief relief Elizabeth felt was shattered when her younger sisters were discovered running through the dining room, one of them waving a soldier’s sword above her head, both clearly in their cups.

Mr. Bennet, ever idle in the face of folly, did worse than nothing—he laughed at them.

Elizabeth’s heart sank as she observed the triumph that lit the features of Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. Through it all, through the noise and impropriety, through her mother’s indiscretion and her father’s apathy, she felt her composure faltering.

She could bear no more. She made her way outside into the cool night, desperate for air, for silence, for sense.

She felt his presence before she heard his step, but there was no doubt in her heart who it was. He had followed her. She did not turn at once. Her breath trembled in the stillness, mingling with the gentle breeze that stirred the autumn leaves.

Why had he come? Did he suspect she would cry again? She had wept enough this week—too much for a woman of sense. And yet, she could not deny the comfort his nearness brought, even when his heart was still such a mystery.

A part of her had feared she had ruined everything. But perhaps—perhaps their love, though not yet spoken in this life, was still strong enough to find its path.

She glanced back, unable to suppress the mischief in her tone. “Mr. Darcy, I must ask—does it not strike you as unwise to follow a young lady out into the dark alone? If I truly meant to compromise you, you could not have made it easier for me.”

He stopped a few paces away, grave and still, the moonlight tracing the solemn lines of his face. “I do not believe you would,” he said quietly. “I find that I trust you… without quite knowing why.”

She turned to him then, her expression gentler. “Then why are you here?”

He hesitated. “I saw your distress… and I thought… I believed you might be crying again. I cannot say why, but I could not remain inside.”

There was a bench nearby, opposite the one she had settled herself upon. He moved toward it, his steps slow, deliberate, and lowered himself into it with the same quiet deliberation .

For a moment, neither spoke. The hush between them was not uncomfortable—only heavy with thought.

Once or twice he stirred, as if to speak, but faltered. She watched him with quiet patience, uncertain whether to prompt him or wait. His struggle was visible, a man of logic attempting to articulate the unaccountable.

At last, he said, “Miss Bennet… there are things you say—things you know—which you ought not. And yet you speak them with such certainty. I cannot determine how it is done. I wonder… how is it you seem to know me so well?”

She did not answer immediately. The question was fair, and dangerous.

“Perhaps,” she said at length, her voice soft, “because I see you clearer than most. That is all.”

He frowned, not in displeasure, but in a deeper kind of thoughtfulness. The silence stretched again, but this time it was companionable.

Elizabeth sighed, her eyes still turned toward the stars, as though they might whisper guidance.

How she longed to speak freely, to tell him what he ought to know.

Do not leave. Do not take Mr. Bingley with you.

Let my sister have her chance. Spare her the pain I have seen already come to pass.

But how to say so without exposing herself more fully than she dared?

She turned her gaze to him, searching his profile, lit in silver by the moonlight.

"Mr. Darcy," she said at last, her voice hushed but steady, "I ask only that you do not interfere with what you may observe between your friend and my sister.

Whatever your judgment, I pray you allow him to act according to his own heart. "

He turned to look at her, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he gave a slight nod. "I give you my word, Miss Bennet. I shall not interfere, either in encouragement or dissuasion. That is… the furthest I may promise."

A weight lifted from her chest, though her heart still beat with uncertainty.

He looked at her again, more intently this time. "You speak with such insight," he said slowly, as though he weighed each word. "Not merely about Miss Bennet and Bingley. About me. You seem to know what I think before I think it. How is that possible?"

Elizabeth gave a short laugh, tinged with nervousness. "If I were to tell you, sir, you would think me fit for Bedlam."

He raised a brow, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "I cannot be certain that I have not already considered myself fit for such a place. Your presence, Miss Bennet, has frequently left me quite unmoored. An impossible explanation might scarcely worsen the effect."

She hesitated, torn between laughter and confession.

Her hands clenched in her lap. Should she tell him?

Should she lay bare the truth that she herself scarcely comprehended?

To say she had lived this life before, that she knew what was to come, that she loved him already, long before he could understand how—it was too wild, too extraordinary.

And yet he waited, not with impatience, but with something deeper. Hope, perhaps. Or the ache of a soul seeking answers.

She opened her mouth to speak—but the words would not come. Not yet.

Instead, she looked away, the cool air brushing her cheek, the scent of rain still lingering on the breeze. Somewhere in the ballroom, the music resumed, faint and distant.

He said nothing more.

And so they sat, side by side, on separate benches beneath the stars, with silence stretching once more between them—fragile, wondering, and unresolved.

Eventually, the sounds of laughter and music beckoned them both inside. Without another word exchanged, Mr. Darcy offered his arm in perfect formality, and Elizabeth accepted it with equal composure. They returned to the warmth and light of the ballroom, each cloaked in private thought.

The remainder of the evening passed much as it had before.

Elizabeth moved among her acquaintance with the grace expected of her, but her gaze strayed more often than she intended toward Mr. Darcy.

More than once she caught him watching her in return, his expression unreadable save for a quiet intensity that stirred her heart.

Miss Bingley, observing these glances, grew ever more agitated.

Her smiles became tighter, her compliments more edged, and her attentions to Mr. Darcy increasingly desperate.

That he remained distracted only sharpened her envy.

Her displeasure at Elizabeth’s presence was ill-concealed and whispered readily to her sister.

The Longbourn party was the last to leave, delayed by Mrs. Bennet’s maneuvering, which allowed them to see how little the Bingley sisters wanted them to stay.

Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley barely spoke, clearly eager for the house to themselves, while Mr. Collins continued his endless praises of the evening.

Darcy remained silent, his mind elsewhere, though not as lost as Miss Bingley, who shot frequent glances of jealousy at Elizabeth.

Mr. Bennet, amused by the scene, watched in silence as the others exchanged polite, but strained, pleasantries .

As the family descended the steps and exchanged farewells, Elizabeth paused.

Her eyes found Mr. Darcy's, and for a moment, the world seemed to fall still around them.

His gaze held hers—steady, searching, and solemn.

She returned it, her expression laced with quiet emotion—uncertainty, perhaps, but not regret.

Nothing was said, and yet so much passed between them in that silent look.