Page 47 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)

They wove in and out of the other couples, their steps crisp on the polished floor. The heat from the mass of bodies and the hundreds of candles made the air warm, scented with beeswax, perfume, and the faint tang of evergreen garlands draped along the walls.

Elizabeth could not help but notice Miss Bingley watching them from near the card tables, her expression tight, fan fluttering in agitation. Beyond her, Mrs. Bennet was nodding to Lady Lucas with a look of supreme satisfaction.

Darcy leaned in slightly when the pattern brought them together again. “You seem pensive. Are you thinking of Longbourn?”

“Perhaps,” she admitted. “I cannot help but think of Mr. Shipton and wonder if he has aught to do with this. The strange footprints around his cottage, his threats to my family… But tonight I am trying very hard not to. I would rather think of…this.” She gestured subtly to the dancers, the music, the glow of the room.

His lips softened into a smile that reached his eyes. “Then let us make that our only concern for the next set.”

The music swelled as they approached the grand chain.

Elizabeth felt the light pressure of his hand guiding hers—steady, warm, certain.

They moved with the others in a sweeping figure across the set, their hands touching and parting in rhythm with the music, the brush of his gloved fingers sending a current of awareness through her.

When the dance concluded, Darcy bowed, and Elizabeth curtsied, her heart beating rather faster than the exertion warranted. Around them, applause and chatter filled the air as couples broke apart to find refreshment or new partners.

Darcy offered his arm, inclining his head towards the edge of the floor.

“What an immense pleasure this first dance has been; I find my anticipation for our next sets heightened even further,” he said softly, his voice dipping into something warmer, more private.

“I find I look forward to it more than I had imagined.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply—but before she could, Mr. Collins descended upon them like a storm cloud.

“Mr. Darcy, sir!” he exclaimed, stepping directly between them and bowing far too low.

“I hesitated to interrupt so illustrious a personage as yourself, but it is time for me to claim my fair cousin's hand for the second set.

I have greatly anticipated the honor and would not want to cede it to another man due to one's forgetfulness or negligence. ”

Elizabeth took a prudent step back, folding her arms and watching the exchange with equal parts annoyance and amusement. Darcy’s expression had shifted into one of polite endurance.

“Indeed,” he said when Collins paused for breath. “And to whose forgetfulness or negligence to you refer?”

Collins flushed a deep red, then paled. “Ah…well…naturally…” His voice trailed off, and he shifted uncomfortably.

Darcy inclined his head. “Mind yourself, sir. The second set has yet to be called. Miss Elizabeth will be here when it is time.”

With a stiff bow, Collins mumbled something about seeking refreshment and made his way towards Miss Lucas, casting sullen glances back at Darcy.

Darcy returned to Elizabeth’s side, his brow faintly furrowed. “I beg your pardon. He seems determined to test my patience this evening.”

Elizabeth’s lips quirked. “You bore it admirably. And now perhaps we might enjoy the rest of the evening without interruption.”

He offered his arm again, and she took it, feeling that curious sense of security in his presence settle over her once more.

Darcy guided Elizabeth towards the refreshment tables, weaving between groups of laughing couples and elderly matrons chattering on the fringes.

The supper room was a glittering spread—platters of cold meats and fowl, cheeses, delicate tarts, jellies that trembled in the candlelight, and pyramids of fruit polished to a shine.

A crystal fountain in the center bubbled with a pale golden punch.

Mrs. Bennet had already stationed herself strategically close to the pastries, nodding in approval as footmen replenished the trays. Mr. Bingley was standing beside Jane, leaning close to say something that made her blush and look down at her plate.

Darcy fetched two glasses of punch and offered one to Elizabeth.

Their fingers brushed briefly as she accepted it, the moment lingering far longer than propriety dictated.

She sipped, the cool sweetness sliding down her throat, and noticed him watching her—not idly, but with that quiet, intent gaze that always seemed to unsettle her just enough to make her pulse quicken.

“You are very quiet,” she said, tilting her head. “Am I to believe you have nothing to say?”

“Oh, I have much to say,” he replied, his tone low, “but most of it is not fit for such a public setting.”

Her brow arched. “Now you have me curious, sir.”

“That is my intent,” he said, a hint of a smile ghosting across his lips. “But I will content myself with telling you that this evening has exceeded my expectations in every respect—though the cause is chiefly my partner.”

Elizabeth took another sip to mask the heat rising in her cheeks. “You are uncommonly gallant tonight, Mr. Darcy. I might almost believe you mean it.”

“I always mean it,” he said simply.

Before she could reply, Sir William Lucas hailed Darcy with effusive congratulations on his dancing, which he claimed was “most superior and worthy of the first circles.” Darcy inclined his head politely, but his eyes never strayed far from Elizabeth.

After supper, the musicians struck up another set—a cotillion this time, bright and lively.

Darcy requested the dance, and Elizabeth accepted without hesitation.

As they took their places, she felt the energy shift—this dance was quicker, more spirited, with frequent changes of partner.

But whenever the figure brought her back to Darcy, there was a subtle exchange: a smile that lingered, a hand that clasped hers firmly, the faintest pressure guiding her through the turns.

At one point, the movement required them to pass close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath near her ear. “I will not soon forget this night,” he murmured, and though the words were simple, they sent a shiver down her spine.

The final notes faded, and the couples applauded the musicians.

Darcy bowed over her hand, but before either could speak, Elizabeth caught sight of Charlotte standing very near Mr. Collins, the two of them in deep conversation.

Collins’s expression was one of self-importance; Charlotte’s, measured consideration.

Darcy followed her gaze. “Miss Lucas seems engaged in a serious discussion.”

Elizabeth smiled faintly. “She is an old friend, and I wish her well. Even if she decides to tie herself to our cousin.”

He gave her a searching look. “And you? How do you fare with all of this?” His tone shifted—quieter, more private.

Her eyes softened. “Better for having you here.”

Something unreadable flickered in his gaze, but before he could speak, the next dance began to form, and couples surged around them, pulling them apart.

From across the room, Elizabeth caught Mr. Collins casting another dark glance at Darcy before Charlotte spoke to him again, reclaiming his attention. It made her want to laugh and sigh in equal measure.

As the evening pressed on, the music flowed seamlessly from one set to the next.

The air in the ballroom had grown warm from so many bodies moving together, the mingled scents of beeswax, hot punch, and hothouse blooms drifting on each breath.

Candlelight shimmered in every mirror, multiplying the sparkle of jewels, the sheen of satin skirts, the glint of polished buttons and braid on the officers’ uniforms.

Elizabeth found herself laughing more than she expected—sometimes at Darcy’s wry, under-the-breath comments about the absurdities of the evening, sometimes at the faintly scandalized expressions their dancing together still provoked in certain quarters.

She noticed the way his attention never truly wandered.

Even when their conversation broke for the figures of the dance, he sought her gaze again at the next turn, as though resuming a thread left momentarily hanging.

Between sets, Darcy escorted her to a quieter corner near one of the tall windows, where the curtains had been drawn back to reveal the moonlit lawns beyond. The chill seeping through the glass was a welcome relief from the crowded warmth.

“You have been much in my thoughts of late,” he said quietly.

Elizabeth tilted her head. “You say that as though it is a confession.”

“Perhaps it is.” His mouth curved faintly. “I am unused to such…constancy of thought.”

She could not quite suppress her smile. “And do you find it irksome?”

“I find it—” He stopped, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before meeting hers again, more intently. “I find it necessary.”

There was something in his tone—low, steady, with that undercurrent of intensity she had come to recognize—that caught at her breath. But before she could form a reply, Miss Bingley appeared, sweeping towards them in saffron silk, her smile sharp as the point of a quill.

“Mr. Darcy,” she began, “you must not keep Miss Bennet hidden away in a corner. Why, the other gentlemen will think you mean to monopolize her entirely.”

“Perhaps I do,” Darcy said without turning his gaze from Elizabeth.

Miss Bingley’s smile tightened. “Indeed. Well—Miss Bennet, I trust you are enjoying the ball? Such a pity the weather kept the roads poor earlier this week; I was afraid some of the local guests might not manage the journey.”

Elizabeth inclined her head politely. “Happily, the rain stopped in time for tonight.”

Miss Bingley lingered a moment longer, clearly hoping for an opening to steer Darcy away, but when none came, she glided off towards a cluster of officers near the supper tables .

“I thought she had finally decided against me,” Darcy breathed in her ear.

They shared a quiet laugh before the musicians struck the first notes of a waltz—an indulgence in fashionably progressive assemblies, though still not common in Hertfordshire. Darcy bowed. “Will you do me the honor?”

She accepted, and he led her onto the floor.

The steps required them to stay close, hands joined, her free hand lightly on his shoulder, his palm warm against her back.

The sensation of moving together in perfect measure, turning in the candlelit expanse, left her faintly breathless.

It was not a dance to encourage idle conversation, but the silences between them were not empty—they thrummed with an awareness she could neither name nor wholly dismiss.

Before she could speak, Mr. Collins appeared, all bustling self-importance, and seized Darcy’s arm.

“My dear sir, a word! You cannot imagine my joy in seeing you here this evening. And how gratifying to witness you in company with my cousin—but I must, in Christian duty, remind you that your aunt, Lady Catherine, has long intended you for her daughter. Miss de Bourgh is the very picture of refinement, born to be mistress of two great estates—Rosings and Pemberley! A more suitable match there could not be.”

Elizabeth, a few steps away, caught the exchange. She saw Darcy’s shoulders stiffen, the angle of his head sharp as he replied.

“I thought we had discussed this, Collins.” Mr. Darcy’s tone was foreboding.

An intelligent man would have heard the warning that was there.

“I am not engaged, nor honor-bound in any way to my cousin, and I insist you cease importuning me on the matter. I find the repetitive nature of the topic grows increasingly dull.”

Collins’s face flushed red, then blanched. He bustled off without another word, going to Miss Lucas’s side.

Darcy returned to Elizabeth’s side, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Your cousin is persistent.”

“And you are patient,” she said. “Though I cannot think why you indulge him.”

“Family,” he replied with a shrug, “is not always chosen.”