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As she began to sing, Elizabeth found herself transported by the music, her voice carrying the story of the miller's lovely daughter who gave her heart to a soldier with "a winning tongue." The simple accompaniment flowed beneath her fingers as the bittersweet narrative unfolded.

When she reached the second verse of the soldier who abandoned the miller's loyal daughter, Elizabeth's throat tightened.

Her fingers pressed into the pianoforte's keys as a tremor appeared in her usually composed delivery, a tiny one, yet unmistakable.

The notes hung suspended in the air between them, each one carrying fragments of her unspoken fears, of affection unwisely given, of trust that might wither like autumn leaves, of standing alone while watching happiness retreat beyond her reach.

The final note dissolved into silence. Elizabeth looked up and met Mr. Darcy's gaze before she could fortify herself against it.

The usual shield of reserve had fallen from his features.

His lips were slightly parted, eyes wide with something that stole her breath.

He seemed to drink in every detail of her face as though committing it to memory.

Elizabeth's pulse quickened. The moment stretched taut as a pianoforte string, vibrating with all she dared not say. Neither moved to break the spell, as though the slightest sound might shatter this newfound connection that hovered, delicate and dangerous, in the space between them.

The silence that followed seemed to stretch between them, a fragile bridge of shared feeling that neither dared disturb.

Mrs. Abernathy sighed softly in appreciation, breaking the spell. "Beautiful, my dear."

The expression of triumph upon Arabella’s face was unmistakable. "Good heavens, Lizzy. Another verse and we would all have been in tears."

Elizabeth knew her friend was thinking of her own budding romance, but she could not think of it because Mr. Darcy was still watching her.

He cleared his throat quietly, regaining his composure, though his eyes never left Elizabeth's face. "Your playing is lovely, Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth felt her cheeks flush at this unexpected compliment. She smiled faintly, grateful for the interruption yet unable to dismiss the powerful emotions her performance had stirred within her.

"Perhaps something livelier next," Mrs. Abernathy suggested. "To restore our spirits."

"Indeed," Elizabeth agreed, turning back to the keys with forced cheerfulness. "Though I must warn you that my execution of the quicker pieces leaves much to be desired."

"I doubt that very much," Mr. Darcy said softly.

Elizabeth glanced at him, surprised to hear no hint of flattery, merely an honest appreciation for the music.

She selected Clementi’s Sonatina in G Major and began to play, its bright melody dispelling some of the tension that had filled the room. As her fingers danced across the keys, Elizabeth found herself stealing glances at Mr. Darcy, who watched her with undisguised admiration.

How strange that he should look at her so, when she knew her playing to be perhaps only a little better than adequate. Yet Mr. Darcy appeared to truly enjoy her performance.

When she finished the second piece, Mr. Darcy joined in the applause.

"You are all too kind," Elizabeth replied, rising from the bench. "I know my mastery of technique requires improvement."

"I would rather hear one piece played with genuine emotion than a dozen executed with cold precision," Mr. Darcy countered. “And yet I think you do not give your performance enough credit.”

Mrs. Abernathy cleared her throat delicately. "Arabella, my dear, would you help me select some music? Perhaps that new collection of Scottish airs that arrived last week."

As mother and daughter moved to the cabinet across the room, Elizabeth found herself momentarily alone with Mr. Darcy. He stepped closer, lowering his voice so that only she could hear.

"My sister works tirelessly on her technique," he said, “and yet I believe your performance is the more compelling.” He grimaced. “Please do not tell her I said so.”

Elizabeth laughed a little. “I would do neither of you such a disservice.”

"Thank you,” he said with some relief.

“Sisters are complicated creatures. I ought to know, having four of them."

"And are you all so different in temperament?" he inquired. “I am reserved, I own, but Georgiana is shy. And I find that difficult to understand.”

"We are as different as five people could possibly be, despite sharing the same parents and upbringing," Elizabeth confirmed.

"Jane is the eldest and everything good, Mary is serious and studious though sometimes pedantic, Kitty follows wherever Lydia leads, which is usually into mischief.

And I . . . " She paused, suddenly self-conscious.

"And you?" Mr. Darcy prompted gently.

"I am usually too fond of laughing at the world to take it seriously," she admitted with a small smile.

"I find you to be . . . " He hesitated, seeming to search for the right word. "Joyful."

"My mother frequently despairs of my ever securing a husband with such unladylike tendencies."

"Then your mother underestimates the appeal of a lively mind," Mr. Darcy said quietly. His gaze held hers, intense and sincere. "Not all gentlemen desire insipid compliance in a wife."

Elizabeth was saved from having to form a response by Arabella's return with the promised sheet music. As the conversation turned to more general topics, Elizabeth found her thoughts lingering on Mr. Darcy's words and the expression in his eyes when he had spoken them.

Perhaps Arabella had been right. Perhaps there was more to Mr. Darcy than she had allowed herself to see. The thought both frightened and exhilarated her.

When he eventually took his leave, promising to call with his carriage that evening for the opera, Elizabeth found herself looking forward to it with an eagerness that would have been unthinkable only days before.