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Chapter Nineteen

Darcy stood at the periphery of the Netherfield ballroom, observing the gathering with a contentment that would have been utterly foreign to him a year prior.

The provincial society that had once seemed so tediously beneath his notice now appeared in a warmer light, each face a potential friend rather than an imposition to be endured.

As master of Pemberley, he had attended countless more impressive affairs, yet none had given him the particular satisfaction he felt tonight, watching Elizabeth move gracefully among the guests, her smile illuminating the room far more effectively than any chandelier.

Bingley had spared no expense in preparation for this evening.

Garlands of winter greenery adorned the walls, interspersed with flowers that must have been procured at considerable cost given the season.

Musicians from London occupied the raised platform at one end of the room, their skills a significant improvement over the local ensemble that typically provided entertainment at Meryton assemblies.

The refreshment tables groaned beneath an abundance of delicacies arranged with evident care.

Yet Darcy found his attention repeatedly drawn not to these material flourishes but to Elizabeth, who stood conversing with Lady Lucas near the punch bowl.

His wife wore a gown of deep emerald silk that complemented her complexion perfectly, her dark curls arranged with elegant simplicity and adorned with pearl combs.

The transformation in his feelings since the last Netherfield ball struck him as nothing short of miraculous.

Then, he had fought against his attraction to her, finding fault with her family, her connections, her sometimes impertinent manner.

Now, he watched her with undisguised admiration, proud to claim her as his wife before the very society he had once disdained.

“Your thoughts appear most agreeable, Darcy,” observed Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Mrs. Darcy looks particularly handsome tonight.”

“She does,” Darcy agreed, feeling no need to elaborate on what was obviously apparent. Elizabeth’s beauty tonight transcended mere appearance; it radiated from her evident enjoyment of the evening, the warmth of her interactions, the natural grace of her movements.

“If you will excuse me,” Darcy said, draining his glass and setting it aside, “I believe I shall claim my wife for the next dance.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam’s knowing smile accompanied him as he made his way across the room.

The crowd parted easily before him, though Darcy noted with some amusement that the reactions he received differed markedly from those of a year ago.

Where once there had been wary deference to his wealth and position, tinged with resentment of his perceived pride, now he encountered genuine smiles and respectful nods, the occasional curtsy offered without fear.

“Mr. Darcy,” Lady Lucas greeted him with a polite curtsy as he approached. “What a delightful ball. Mr. Bingley has outdone himself once again.”

“Indeed he has,” Darcy agreed, inclining his head before turning to his wife. “Mrs. Darcy, I believe this next set is ours.”

Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Is it, sir? How fortunate that I have not promised it elsewhere.”

“Most fortunate,” he returned, offering his arm as the musicians struck up the air for the next dance. “I should have been most disappointed.”

As he led Elizabeth toward the forming sets, Darcy caught several speculative glances from the local gentry.

Mrs. Long leaned toward her niece, whispering something that caused the younger woman to look at him with evident curiosity.

Sir William Lucas, resplendent in an outdated but well-maintained coat of bottle green, bowed with particular flourish as they passed.

“You have become quite the object of fascination, my dear,” Elizabeth murmured as they took their places for the dance. “I believe half the room is watching to see if the great Mr. Darcy of Pemberley truly deigns to participate in a country dance.”

“Let them watch,” Darcy replied. “They will see a man who considers himself fortunate beyond measure to stand up with his wife.”

The music began, a country measure that required them to part and rejoin several times throughout the figures.

Each time Elizabeth returned to him, Darcy felt a fresh surge of pleasure in her company.

Her hand in his was warm and certain, her steps perfectly matched to his own, creating a harmony of movement that reflected their growing understanding of each other in all aspects of life.

“Do you recall when we danced together at the Netherfield ball last year?” Elizabeth asked during a moment when the pattern brought them side by side.

“Vividly,” Darcy admitted, guiding her through a turn with careful precision. “Though I suspect we remember it rather differently.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrow arched in that particularly challenging way he had come to adore. “And how do you remember it, sir?”

“As an exercise in exquisite torture,” he replied honestly. “To be so near you, yet unable to express my true feelings. To engage in conversation that felt more like verbal sparring than pleasant intercourse. To be consumed by admiration I could neither acknowledge nor suppress.”

A becoming blush coloured Elizabeth’s cheeks. “I remember thinking you looked as though you were enduring some particularly unpleasant medical procedure.”

Darcy laughed, the sound drawing surprised glances from nearby dancers. “Not inaccurate, perhaps. Though the affliction was of an entirely different nature than anyone might have supposed.”

They separated again as the dance required, and Darcy found himself partnered briefly with Mrs. Goulding, a matronly local lady.

“Such a lovely couple you and Mrs. Darcy make,” she remarked with maternal approval. “I must say, Mr. Darcy, marriage appears to agree with you exceedingly well.”

“Thank you, madam,” he replied, somewhat taken aback by the personal nature of the observation, though not displeased. “I find it does.”

“We all remarked upon it, you know,” Mrs. Goulding continued as they turned in the figure. “Such a transformation! Why, when you first visited our little community, many thought you quite the most disagreeable gentleman they had ever encountered.”

Before Darcy could formulate a suitable response to this startlingly direct assessment, the dance carried him back to Elizabeth, whose eyes reflected her awareness of what had just transpired.

“I see Mrs. Goulding has been her usual forthright self,” she observed with barely suppressed amusement.

“Indeed,” Darcy agreed dryly. “Apparently, my prior disagreeable nature was the subject of general discussion.”

“And your current, much improved disposition is equally noteworthy, it seems,” Elizabeth replied. “Take it as a compliment, my dear. The entire neighbourhood approves of my influence upon you.”

“As well they might,” he acknowledged, surprising himself with his lack of offense at being so openly discussed. “Though I wonder that they speak of it directly to my face.”

“You are less intimidating than once you were,” Elizabeth explained as they moved through another figure. “Less likely to crush impertinence with a single withering glance.”

The dance concluded, and Darcy led Elizabeth toward the refreshment table, seeking a quiet moment before social obligations claimed them again. As they paused near a large potted palm, partially screened from the main floor, he became aware of a conversation taking place just beyond their position.

“Remarkable, is it not?” came the voice of an elderly gentleman Darcy vaguely recalled as a retired solicitor from Meryton. “I would never have believed such a change possible in a man of his age and position.”

“Love works greater miracles than any physician’s cure,” his female companion replied, her tone knowingly sentimental.

“Why, when he first came among us, the man could scarcely bring himself to speak to anyone outside his immediate party. So proud, so cold! And now look at him, smiling at his wife as though she hung the moon and stars.”

Darcy glanced at Elizabeth, finding her already watching him with barely contained mirth. They remained silent, both aware that to move would reveal their presence and embarrass the unwitting gossips.

“Mrs. Bennet must be congratulated,” the man continued. “Whatever one might say of her methods, she has secured a most advantageous match for her daughter, and apparently a happy one at that.”

“And transformed the forbidding Mr. Darcy into almost an agreeable gentleman in the process,” his companion added with a chuckle. “Though I must say, I never thought to see him laugh aloud in company. Nearly dropped my punch when I heard it during the dance just now.”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together, valiantly attempting to suppress her own laughter. Darcy found himself similarly afflicted, a most unusual sensation of amusement welling within him at hearing himself so frankly discussed.

“Shall we avoid subjecting them to potential embarrassment?” he whispered.

“And deprive ourselves of such enlightening commentary?” she returned, her eyes dancing with suppressed laughter. “Very well, if we must.”

They moved away from their secluded spot, their appearance causing a momentary startled silence from the conversing couple before social training asserted itself and greetings were exchanged with slightly heightened colour on both sides.