Page 43 of Such Persuasions as These (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

F rom the corner of the room, Darcy espied Charlotte Lucas, whom he knew to be Elizabeth’s particular friend, and determined to keep an eye on her position, as it must be expected that the two would seek one another directly.

Continuing to scan the crowd, he smiled when he saw Wentworth in congress with a small group of redcoats, their tails wagging as they attended his friend’s recital, no doubt tales of prowess and prize money.

She might seek the captain, so he also made a mental note of his place.

Darcy would not miss the chance to dance with Elizabeth, to gain again her good graces, and to repair the breach his barbarous pride had created between them.

Permanently .

“Mr Denny,” he heard a familiar feminine voice shout from the middle of the room.

When he looked, he saw the youngest Bennet girls, hands in the air, waving their closed fans towards another group of young officers.

Behind them, the pretty middle daughter was standing with his aunt’s parson.

In a blink, the three Bennet sisters drew off in different directions, and there, standing alone in the middle of what would eventually be the dance floor, aglow in apricot and ivory silk, was his Elizabeth.

At some point, it seemed, she had lost the loop attaching her train to her wrist, for it lay splayed behind her as if she were in a portrait.

That was what she was to him—a portrait of perfection, a marble statue to which no da Vinci or Michelangelo could aspire.

Her hair was pulled up off her neck and styled with the ribbons he had chosen, while a vine of goat willows framed one side of her lovely face.

The creamy fabric of her lace matched the milky glow of her skin, and the pink in her cheeks from the warmth of the room—or from her youngest sister’s uncouth behaviour—brought out the sparkle in her brown eyes.

Her blushes soon turned into that cunning smile—the one he knew bespoke amusement with the follies and whims of those about her—and he was a lost man.

Into the crowd he dove, heading for his Helen of Troy. Alas, his was not the only ship her face had launched, for Wentworth was approaching at the same moment and made his bow just seconds before Darcy. Not to be deterred, Darcy turned to the captain with an outstretched hand.

“Wentworth, old man, how do you do?” Darcy regarded him with intensity.

“Darcy. I confess the hour since we last spoke has been trying,” he replied.

Noting the amplifying pressure Darcy was exerting on his hand, he added, “I was just hoping to tell Miss Elizabeth how lovely she looks before toddling off to run an errand for Colonel Forster.” He squeezed back, inflicting no little pain, before letting go of Darcy’s hand and turning to bow his leave to Elizabeth with a wink .

“Miss Elizabeth, might I add my compliments. You are indeed in looks this evening,” Darcy began as her eyes moved from a retreating Wentworth to meet his own. “Ravishing,” he added not quite under his breath as he bowed over her hand.

She gave him a halting smile and then a look of some confusion. “I— I thank you, Mr Darcy,” said she with some hesitation, adding after herself, “How do you do? We have not spoken this age.”

“Six days is not so long, Miss Elizabeth,” he responded before realising how he was giving himself away.

“Six days—I suppose you are correct.” Yes, he had given himself away, and she had caught it.

“Though I would give the world,” he said gravely, leaning in close as he made his earnest plea, “if we could go back in time and forget the unpleasantness that has passed between us.”

“That is quite the request, Mr Darcy. I confess, it may not be so easy to forget,” she offered slowly, putting him in acute torture before continuing gently, “but might we both choose to forgive?”

“I know now I have nothing to forgive,” he confessed, his hand on his heart. “On the contrary, it is you who bear the burden of bestowing clemency.”

She was silent for a moment, her gaze intent on the position of his hand upon his breast. Then she coloured, blinking before answering his entreaty with a bow of her head.

They were interrupted by Charlotte Lucas, who insisted she must speak to his Elizabeth privately.

He made his bow to Miss Lucas, acknowledging the necessity of turning her over to her friend, but he could not leave before gaining his object.

As impudent as he might be reckoned, he pulled himself close to her ear and asked in almost a whisper, “May I have your first, Miss Elizabeth?”

Still unwilling or unable to speak, she curtseyed her consent before being spirited away, her elegant train following her before Miss Lucas, ever faithful, bent to pick it up and return the end to its place on her wrist. To what would become his everlasting bliss, Elizabeth then turned back to look at him, an expectant smile playing upon her glorious features.

“Elizabeth Bennet, tell me this instant, are you engaged to him?” Charlotte cried in a heated whisper as soon as they were out of his hearing.

“Why should you ask such a thing?” Elizabeth answered, feigning surprise that her perceptive friend would come to such a conclusion.

“I am no fool,” she retorted in all seriousness. “Did you not see his lapel pin? Do not try to convince me that the goat willows are a coincidence.”

Elizabeth coloured. She could not deny this, as his boutonniere—a cluster of golden willow twigs in the exact style of her hair ornaments—was plain for all to see. She had espied them as he lifted his hand to cover his heart, and her own heart had leapt into her throat, rendering her speechless.

“I know what it must look like, but I am as surprised as you are.” This was not a lie.

While she had suspected Mr Darcy to have gifted her the golden sprigs, she had never expected he would have made a posy of them for himself.

“I received these pins as an anonymous gift. Perhaps he did as well,” Elizabeth asserted, sounding less and less convinced with each word.

“Some sharp wit playing a joke, I dare say. ”

“Yes, I dare say you are correct,” her friend replied drily, her lips pursed. Then, touching the gleaming hairpins, she added, “A very expensive joke…”

Charlotte’s next words, Elizabeth did not attend. Her thoughts were too occupied with the import of her interview with Mr Darcy—all that was said and all that was seen.

He was her gracious Benefactor.

What had he expected people to think? she wondered.

He had admitted he was wrong; he knew she was no mercenary. He wished to revive their friendship, to be granted forgiveness for his beastly behaviour. And he wished to dance. He had asked for her first set.

He loves you, Lizzy, she thought to herself. Why else would he go to all this planning and expense?

Elizabeth was now sure of Darcy’s affection, and nothing in the world could ruin this night.

Outside the lavishly decorated ballroom stood a cold and very bitter George Wickham, intent on having one last bit of diversion before quitting the county.

He watched as his unwitting accomplice made her way up the stairs that led into Netherfield House before disappearing inside. Behind the double doors, the band paused to prepare for the first dance. Yes, it would now be just a matter of minutes.

Darcy could not sweep him out of sight like so much rubbish. Wickham would have the last laugh, and it would be at Darcy’s expense.