Page 10 of The Cat Who Loved Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Elizabeth had quietly hoped her partner might at last admit fatigue, but Mr. Collins proved—alarmingly—quite able to continue.

When the hostess called out “The Triumph” as the next dance, Elizabeth smiled politely and tried to slip away, only for Mr. Collins to interpret her movement as tacit consent to remain his partner for a second set.

By now, at least half the dancers—and most of the onlookers—had noticed what an ill-suited pair they made, and how thoroughly her cousin revealed himself as the rawest novice on the floor.

Elizabeth could not flatter herself that being his partner improved anyone’s opinion of her.

On the contrary, she felt awkward and mortified.

Nevertheless, Mr. Collins danced the second set with triumphant enthusiasm—if such clumsy manoeuvres could be called dancing at all.

He lifted his hands at the proper moments with the solemnity of a man raising an altar offering, shuffled and lunged in a brave attempt to match the beat, and trampled Elizabeth’s hem no fewer than three times while apologising in the same breath.

Mercifully, the musicians concluded their labours at last, to general applause for their spirited playing.

Couples drifted apart or reformed at will, thanking one another with curtseys and bows.

Elizabeth made her escape with determination, declaring she needed a glass of water as she retreated toward her parents’ seats.

Mr. Collins, of course, hurried faithfully in her wake, eager to secure her for the next set as well. He was so intent on rehearsing his request that he quite failed to notice Lydia slipping behind Elizabeth and intercepting him.

“Miss Bennet,” he declared pompously, “might I beg the honour of the next set—”

“Yes, you may, Cousin Collins!” Lydia cried brightly before Elizabeth could turn around.

“Delighted!” The youngest Bennet daughter seized his arm with mischievous triumph, ignoring her mother’s startled protest. For Lydia, there was no shame in such a spectacle; indeed, there was a certain delight in being seen, even with the most unpromising partner.

Nothing advertised one’s presence better than a man who danced like a badly steered barge.

Elizabeth spun round to thank her sister for the timely rescue—and nearly collided with Mr. Darcy. He had disentangled himself from Miss Bingley’s vigilant side and was now advancing toward the Bennets with deliberate purpose.

To her surprise, he paused before her and offered a short, formal bow.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, voice low but clear enough to hush the nearby chatter. “May I hope you will do me the honour of the next set?”

Elizabeth blinked in astonishment, caught completely off guard. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks but managed to incline her head in polite acceptance.

“Thank you, sir. I should be pleased.”

Mr. Bennet lifted his chin in quiet curiosity, eyeing the tall gentleman intently over his spectacles. Mrs. Bennet froze with her glass halfway to her lips, mouth ajar, utterly lost for words for once in her life.

Elizabeth, for her part, managed the smallest, wry smile as she offered her hand to Mr. Darcy. And so, with the entire room watching, they made their way to join the next set, under a storm of curiosity, speculation, and newly minted hopes.

***

Elizabeth laid her gloved hand on Mr. Darcy’s arm, acutely aware of the shift in the room’s hush, of curious eyes turning to track them as they crossed the floor.

His arm was steady beneath hers, neither rushed nor possessive, but there was a subtle tension in the set of his shoulders that matched the quickening of her own pulse.

They paused at their appointed place, facing one another.

Darcy bowed deeply. Elizabeth sank into her curtsey with practiced grace, meeting his gaze from beneath lowered lashes.

She noticed, not without a flicker of surprise, that his eyes did not roam the room assessing others’ interest but remained fixed on her with grave focus.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said low enough that only she would hear, “I am... grateful you would stand up with me.”

She lifted her brows just a little, offering a measured smile. “I might say the same, sir. You have made this...quite unexpected.”

His lips quirked in what might have been dry self-mockery. “I am aware my manner of asking was lacking.”

She dipped her head slightly in assent but let her eyes grow warm. “Yet the result is perfectly acceptable.”

The musicians struck the first chords. They turned outwards to join the opening figure.

Elizabeth felt the old, familiar delight in moving to the rhythm, in knowing the steps so well she scarcely had to think.

Darcy’s footwork was precise, restrained yet certain.

When they met at the centre of the line, hands joined, she felt the firmness of his hold—steady, protective, no unnecessary flourish, but unambiguously present.

They circled lightly, and she felt his palm shift to guide her in the turn, the pressure of his fingers adjusting with careful precision. She caught his eye and saw that he was watching her, not the other dancers, as though attuning himself to her pace and balance.

A blush warmed her cheeks before she could prevent it.

“Your footwork is very sure,” she managed quietly, her voice pitched for his ears alone.

“Yours is light,” he answered. She heard the faint surprise in his tone, as if he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

They parted for a weaving figure, passing down the set between other couples. Elizabeth felt the slight pressure in her chest ease. It gave her time to catch her breath, to settle her smile into something less telling.

When they joined again, his gaze was intent but softer.

“I hope,” he said slowly, as they turned, “I do not put you to any inconvenience.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, letting her curls sway. “On the contrary. I find this quite...pleasing.”

Their fingers brushed as they changed hands, and his held hers a fraction of a second longer than the step demanded. He let go exactly on time—but she felt the careful deliberation in that.

Around them, the room blurred: skirts swirling, laughter rising, shoes tapping in precise patterns on the polished floor. But within their own arc of movement there was a hush, as if the music played only for them.

Elizabeth noted the concentration in his face as they passed and turned, the way he anticipated each change in direction to allow her space. He was not smiling—Darcy rarely did—but there was a quiet gentleness in his focus that made her chest tighten.

They met hands again at the top of the set. He bowed slowly, she curtseyed. For a single, breathless moment they simply held each other’s gaze.

Darcy straightened, exhaling as if he had only just remembered to breathe.

Elizabeth turned with the music, fighting the smile that tugged at her lips. She let herself enjoy it.

He was trying—truly trying—to please her.

And she, despite everything she had once thought of him, found she was glad of it.

***

When the music paused at the end of the first dance, Elizabeth curtseyed neatly, her chest rising with the effort of the long country figure. Darcy offered a deeper bow than convention required, and for a moment his eyes held hers with unmistakable warmth.

“Thank you, Miss Elizabeth,” he murmured, his voice pitched low so only she could hear over the clapping.

Elizabeth caught her breath, her lips curving. “We have another yet, sir.”

A flicker of relief and something like satisfaction passed over his face. “Yes. So we do.”

The musicians adjusted their sheets, tuning briefly. Other couples shifted about them, talking, laughing, choosing partners. Darcy did not move from her side, and Elizabeth sensed he would have stood there all night if it meant not letting her slip away.

She looked up at him from under her lashes. “Are you guarding me from the crowd, Mr. Darcy?”

He met her gaze evenly. “Merely ensuring I don’t lose my partner.”

She gave a soft, surprised laugh. “How very... diligent.”

The musicians struck up the opening measures of a livelier tune. The new dance would demand quicker steps and brighter turns, but they both seemed lifted by the energy. Elizabeth felt the pulse of it in her fingertips as she laid her hand lightly on his arm once more.

They turned into position. He bowed; she curtseyed. Their eyes met over that slow, deliberate movement.

This time, Elizabeth’s smile was less guarded.

As they began the first figure, weaving through other couples, Darcy spoke in an undertone. “I hope you are not too tired.”

“Not in the least,” she answered lightly. “I find good company revives me.”

He inclined his head with something like gratitude. “I am glad of it.”

Elizabeth turned crisply at the end of the line, letting her gown swish about her ankles, feeling the music in her blood. Darcy matched her step for step, his posture impeccable, but his eyes never left hers for long.

As they rejoined in the center, she teased softly: “You have improved since the previous dance, sir.”

He lifted a brow, feigning gravity. “Indeed?”

“Considerably,” she affirmed.

He bent a little closer in the turn. “Your generosity does you credit, Miss Elizabeth.”

She felt her heart skip at the faint smile he allowed himself.

They circled one another in perfect time. The music quickened, but neither stumbled. His hand found hers at exactly the right moment—no fumbling, no hesitation—and when their palms pressed together, Elizabeth felt a strange heat travel up her arm.

The set called for them to separate, facing one another down the line. Darcy’s gaze tracked her all the way. She lifted her chin in playful challenge. He answered with a subtle narrowing of his eyes, as if in promise.

They met again, hands joined for the promenade. Elizabeth felt the firm guidance of his touch, steady but respectful. She found herself relaxing into it.