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Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley.

They attacked him in various ways, with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all; and they were at last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbor, Lady Lucas.

Her report was highly favorable. Sir William had been delighted with him.

He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly with a large party.

Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively hopes of Mr. Bingley’s heart were entertained.

Elizabeth listened to her family's excitement with an odd sense of detachment.

She had lived this moment before, had seen her sisters' eager expressions, heard her mother's schemes, and yet, she felt no thrill of anticipation.

Instead, she found herself exasperated by the endless speculation.

When Lydia declared that he must be very charming if he was fond of dancing, Elizabeth muttered without thinking, "He is indeed, though he prefers country dances to reels. "

The room fell silent for a brief moment as all eyes turned to her.

Elizabeth froze, realizing her mistake. "Well, that is to say, a man of fortune must certainly enjoy such entertainments, must he not?

" She forced a laugh, waving her hand dismissively as if she had merely been jesting.

Jane gave her a curious look, but Mrs. Bennet was too enraptured with her own excitement to take notice.

The moment passed, and the conversation resumed its usual fervor.

In a few days, Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s visit, and sat about ten minutes with him in his library.

He had entertained hopes of being admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had heard much; but he saw only the father.

The ladies were somewhat more fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining, from an upper window, that he wore a blue coat and rode a black horse.

Elizabeth smiled to herself at the absurdity of it.

She had spent years as mistress of Pemberley, engaging in conversations of true substance, hosting important guests, and managing a great estate.

And yet, here she was again, trapped in the same idle speculations about a gentleman’s attire and his means of transportation.

She might have laughed had she not felt so close to tears.

She had been on the other side of it once, watching as a new gentleman arrived in the neighborhood and became the focus of speculation.

She recalled attending a small gathering in a nearby village with Darcy and his cousin, the Viscount, when he had still been single.

The whispers, the eager glances, the surmises—it had been amusing then, but now she found it all exhausting.

She longed for the quiet dignity of her life at Pemberley, for the comfort of her husband's steady presence, for the sweet weight of her son in her arms. But none of it was hers anymore.

An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all.

Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in town the following day, and consequently unable to accept the honor of their invitation.

Mrs. Bennet was quite disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that he might always be flying about from one place to another, and never settled at Netherfield as he ought to be.

Lady Lucas quieted her fears a little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly.

The girls grieved over such a number of ladies; but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing that, instead of twelve, he had brought only six with him from London, his five sisters and a cousin.

And when the party entered the assembly-room, it consisted of only five altogether: Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another young man.

Elizabeth listened, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

She knew who that other young man would be.

She knew the exact expression he would wear when he entered the assembly room, the studied indifference, the hauteur that concealed his discomfort.

She had long since learned to read him well, to see past the cold exterior to the man beneath.

But would she have to do so all over again?

Could she bear to relive those misunderstandings, to endure his disdain, to navigate the pain of separation before she could have him again?

Elizabeth stood among the throng, her heart hammering as the Netherfield party entered.

The air around her crackled with murmurs of curiosity.

She heard the whispers pass from one eager lip to another, the gasps of admiration at Mr. Darcy’s fine, tall figure, the murmured speculations on his fortune.

"Ten thousand a year at least," someone muttered behind her. "And such a noble bearing!"

"A most eligible young man," another added, with a sigh that spoke of wistful ambition.

Elizabeth lowered her lashes, willing her pulse to slow, but the past and present blurred together.

She remembered the conversation—no, not a memory, a future that had already been lived. She and Fitzwilliam, newly married, lying in the soft glow of candlelight, speaking of this very night. His voice had been hushed, his expression unreadable, as he admitted his poor behavior.

“There was no excuse,” he had told her. “I had just arrived that day, after leaving Georgiana for the first time. I was in no mood to socialize, but to stay back would be to endure Miss Bingley’s company alone. That, I could not abide.”

She had teased him into explaining further, and he had sighed, running a hand through his dark curls. “Miss Bingley had latched onto my arm, and before I had properly stepped inside, I heard it. ‘Ten thousand a year, at least. Such noble bearings. A most eligible young man.’”

His lips had pressed together. “But the worst—Lady Lucas and your mother, saying I had already inherited. As if my father’s death was a boon to my fortune. As if I should be grateful. ”

Elizabeth had felt a pang at the memory of his father, a loss he had never spoken of lightly. “And then,” he had continued, “I heard, ‘He would not be quite so handsome if he were not so rich.’”

At that, Elizabeth had blushed, for she had whispered the same sentiment to Charlotte that very night.

She had confessed it to him then, so I guess I deserved the insult.

At that Fitzwilliam replied his voice softened as he did.

“I knew as soon as I spoke that insult, I had done wrong. I watched you laughing at my expense, trying to justify my words, but I could not. And yet, in doing so, I found myself unable to look away. You, the brightest, most intelligent, most beautiful woman of my acquaintance.”

He had laughed then, shaking his head. “You once asked when I began to fall in love with you. I told you I was in the middle before I knew it. But now, I think I know the moment it began.”

Elizabeth had laughed, too. “And of course, dancing would give consequence, so you refused to dance. You do know that wallflowers would not have thought anything of it?”

Darcy had hesitated, then admitted something she had never expected.

“I used to dance with married women, thinking them safer.” He had exhaled heavily.

“Do you ever wonder why I left for Ramsgate early? I was at a ball, fulfilling my obligation to dance, when a married lady arranged a movement within the set to place me with her unmarried sister. She meant to compromise me. It was only by fortune that I escaped unscathed. That was the sixth attempt that season.”

Elizabeth had felt an ache for the man he had been then—young, wealthy, and pursued for his fortune. She had known his pride, his aloofness, but never fully understood what had shaped him. That conversation had changed much between them.

But now, she was here again, watching the scene unfold, knowing how it would end. Knowing what it would lead to. If she were to change it—if she were to stop the insult before it was spoken—would he ever look at her twice? Would he ever learn to love her?

Her mind raced, flashing through all that followed. Charlotte’s warning. Hunsford. Pemberley. His letter. Their reconciliation. James, their son.

Elizabeth closed her eyes now, standing in the crowded assembly room, and the memory melted into the present.

She did not need to look at him to know that Darcy’s expression was cool, his posture reserved.

The man she loved—the man she would love—was standing mere feet away, and yet she had never felt farther from him.

She glanced in his direction, careful not to linger too long.

He looked just as she remembered from their first meeting—tall, distinguished, severe.

His expression was set in the proud indifference that had so irked her once.

How strange, she thought, to see him thus, when I have known his smile, his tenderness, his love.

Elizabeth debated her next move. It was nearly time to sit out a dance.

If she avoided his line of sight, perhaps he would not make the comment that had stung her pride so deeply.

If he never said those words, he would not feel the guilt she knew had weighed on him later.

But then, was it not that very guilt that had made him take notice of her at all?

If she erased this moment, would she simply blend into the sea of young women he had trained himself to ignore?

She hesitated, knowing the risk, but in the end, fear of altering their course won

"Come, Darcy," Bingley urged, "I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance."

Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. There it is. Go on, say it.

"I certainly shall not," Darcy replied. "You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner.

At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable.

Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with. "

Bingley laughed. "I would not be so fastidious as you are for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them, you see, uncommonly pretty."

Darcy’s gaze shifted. "You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room," he said, looking at Jane.

Bingley was delighted. "Oh, she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you."

Elizabeth held her breath. This was the moment.

He turned. Their eyes met, and for a fleeting second—so brief she might have imagined it—something flickered in his expression.

Not recognition, not yet, but something unreadable, something that made her heart catch.

Then, as before, his gaze cooled, his posture stiffened, and he uttered the words she had braced herself to hear.

"She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me."

She had known it was coming, but even with all her knowledge, all her understanding, the words still stung.

The memories of his whispered endearments, his warm breath upon her temple, his touch so familiar and dear—how different it all was from this man before her, cold, severe, indifferent.

Her heart clenched at the cruelty of fate, to hear these words anew with the echoes of his love still so fresh in her mind .

And yet, as she turned to walk away, she could not help herself—she looked back. Just once. Her expression softened, not with anger or wounded pride, but with longing, with love, with the ache of knowing him so well while he did not yet know her at all.

Darcy faltered. His posture stiffened, his lips parted as if to speak, but before he could, Elizabeth turned away.

She found Charlotte at her side and forced a laugh—not the same one she had given before.

She would not repeat Darcy’s words this time, would not cast his careless remark out for amusement.

Instead, she laughed at some small absurdity Charlotte mentioned, something light and inconsequential.

But even as she did, she glanced back, just once, needing to see if Darcy was watching. He was.

His eyes were still fixed on her, but there was something different in them, something she could not quite name.

Or perhaps she simply knew him better now.

The knowledge unsettled her. Had she revealed too much?

Had her love, so deeply ingrained in her, shone through in that brief moment?

The thought made her heart pound. She worried. She longed. She hoped.