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D arcy stood before his mirror, critically assessing his appearance with unusual attention to detail. He had changed his waistcoat twice already, an unprecedented occurrence that had his valet raising an eyebrow.

"The dark blue, perhaps, sir?" Lawrence suggested, his tone professionally neutral.

"Yes, I believe that would be suitable." Darcy watched Lawrence retrieve the garment from his extensive wardrobe, silently berating himself for this uncharacteristic vacillation.

It was merely an evening at the opera, an activity he had engaged in countless times without a second thought about his attire.

But tonight was different. Tonight he would be escorting Elizabeth.

Lawrence held the waistcoat with practised precision, his movements efficient as Darcy slipped his arms through.

The valet secured each button with meticulous care, then smoothed the rich fabric across Darcy's shoulders, ensuring it lay perfectly against his white shirt.

There was something almost ceremonial in the way Lawrence adjusted the lapels of Darcy's coat afterward, as though preparing a warrior for battle rather than a gentleman for the opera.

The waistcoat felt heavier than usual against Darcy's chest. It was a garment he had commissioned but rarely worn, a midnight blue silk embroidered with subtle silver thread that caught the light as he moved. It seemed fitting for tonight, something special, yet restrained.

"Will there be anything else, sir?" Lawrence inquired, breaking into his thoughts.

"No, thank you," Darcy replied, making a final adjustment to his cravat. "Just the carriage at half past."

Left alone, Darcy paced his chamber, the soft tread of his shoes sounding against the wooden floors. The familiar space offered little comfort tonight. Fitzwilliam's advice echoed again in his mind. He must show her more of himself.

The notion still made him uncomfortable, like wearing ill-fitted boots. His natural reserve had been cultivated since childhood, a shield against the expectations and judgements of society. To set it aside felt akin to exposing himself to a blizzard.

But he knew he had made a good start of it, and to win Elizabeth he would have to continue. The alternatives, marriage based solely on obligation, devoid of the genuine affection he felt for her, or worse, no marriage at all, were unthinkable.

The mantel clock chimed half-past, its melodious tones signalling it was time to depart.

Gathering his gloves and hat, Darcy steeled himself for the evening ahead.

He would do more than escort Miss Bennet to the opera; he would endeavour to show her the man beneath the reserve, the man he hoped she might one day come to care for.

When the Darcy carriage pulled up before the Abernathys' home, Darcy descended and approached the door with purposeful strides.

Wilson admitted him with formal correctness, the butler's face betraying no emotion as he led Darcy to the drawing room where the Abernathys awaited. The faint sound of feminine laughter reached him as Wilson opened the door, a bright, melodious sound that he instantly recognised as Elizabeth's.

Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy greeted him warmly, the older gentleman offering a friendly bow while his wife smiled with genuine pleasure at his arrival. But Darcy's attention was immediately drawn to one of the figures standing to their side.

Elizabeth smiled at his entrance, and Darcy felt the breath catch in his throat.

The sea-green silk of her gown caught the candlelight and shimmered like the waters of Pemberley's lake on a summer morning, the colour enhancing the remarkable clarity of her eyes.

Her dark curls had been arranged in an elegant style that framed her face to perfection, with a few artful tendrils trailing down her neck.

She wore emerald earrings that complemented the dress.

"Mr. Darcy," she greeted him, a hint of uncertainty in her smile, her gloved hands clasped before her.

For a moment, Darcy found himself unable to speak, transfixed by the sight of her.

The room seemed to recede, the polite chatter of the Abernathys fading to a distant murmur as his entire being focused on Elizabeth.

He was saved from appearing completely addlepated by Miss Abernathy's timely intervention.

"Is it not the most perfect colour for Lizzy?" she asked, her tone suggesting she was well aware of the effect her friend was having on him. "Mother and I insisted she wear it tonight."

"Your judgement is impeccable," Darcy managed to reply, his eyes still on Elizabeth. The gown’s lines accentuated her small waist, the graceful curve of her .

. . He swallowed. The graceful curve of her neck , the modest cut revealing just enough of her collarbones to be tantalisingly proper. "Miss Bennet, you look beautiful."

A becoming blush coloured her cheeks, the soft pink spreading across her face like the first light of dawn. "You are too kind, sir."

"Not kind," he corrected softly, echoing his words from an earlier conversation. "Honest."

Her eyes widened slightly at this, the dark hazel depths reflecting surprise and perhaps a flicker of something else, something that made his heart quicken. For a breathless moment they simply regarded each other, the rest of the room fading into insignificance.

Mr. Abernathy cleared his throat, the sound jarring Darcy into recalling their audience. "Shall we be on our way, then? I understand the opera has been drawing full houses."

"Indeed," Darcy agreed, gathering his composure and moving to offer Elizabeth his arm. "Miss Bennet?"

The slight pressure of her gloved hand sent an unexpected warmth through him, the strength in her fingers a counterpoint to the refined elegance of her appearance.

The sensation only grew stronger as he waited until the others were inside to hand her into the carriage.

The Abernathys, all three of them, had taken the rear-facing bench.

He rather gratefully seated himself beside Elizabeth, acutely aware of the scant inches separating them in the confined space.

Darcy could detect the faint scent of jasmine from Elizabeth. It was mingled with something uniquely her own, a fragrance both fresh and intoxicating that he had noticed during their walk in Hyde Park. He took a steadying breath. He could not allow it to jumble his thoughts again.

"Have you seen this opera before, Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth inquired as the carriage set off, the gentle sway creating a curiously intimate atmosphere.

"No, but I have heard Kelly's compositions on previous occasions and found them quite remarkable," he replied. "And you, Miss Bennet? Are you familiar with the composer's work?"

"Only by reputation," she admitted, her hands smoothing the rich fabric of her gown in a gesture he had come to recognise as a sign of nervousness.

"Though I admit to anticipating the music.

There is nothing like listening to true virtuosos, unlike my little performance earlier today.

" She smiled winsomely at him, making his heart beat a little harder.

But she need not be modest. Her playing was enchanting.

"I agree with your first point," Darcy affirmed as he smiled in response, the expression feeling increasingly natural in her presence. "Though I maintain that your performance possessed both genuine feeling and technical skill. It was most affecting."

The carriage jolted suddenly as it turned a corner, causing Elizabeth to sway against him.

Instinctively, Darcy moved to steady her, and as she straightened, he placed his hand down, inadvertently covering her gloved fingers where they rested on the seat between them.

The fine kid leather could not mask the warmth or the slender strength of her hand under his own.

For a heartbeat, neither moved, the brief contact sending a current of awareness through Darcy that left him momentarily disoriented.

"Forgive me," Elizabeth murmured, withdrawing her hand with a self-conscious smile, though not before Darcy noticed how her pulse fluttered visibly at the base of her throat.

"There is nothing to forgive," Darcy assured her.

The conversation turned to more general topics among the larger party for the remainder of the journey, but Darcy remained acutely conscious of her proximity.

The passing streetlamps cast fleeting patterns of light and shadow across her features, and each time the carriage turned, he found himself tensing slightly, both dreading and anticipating another moment of accidental contact.

When they arrived at the Lyceum, the theatre's facade aglow with lamps, Darcy waited for the Abernathys to descend before he helped Elizabeth down, his hand lingering at her elbow as they navigated the crowded entrance.

The crush of perfumed ladies and gentlemen in evening attire created a mosaic of colour and sound, the excited murmur of anticipation underscoring the elegance of the occasion.

Darcy was keenly aware of the glances directed their way, some merely wondering, others openly speculative.

The scandal from the masquerade ball had been somewhat contained by their prompt engagement, but society's memory was long and its appetite for gossip insatiable.

He saw several matrons leaning together, their painted fans concealing whispered comments as their shrewd eyes assessed Elizabeth.

Elizabeth, to his relief and admiration, held her head high, meeting the stares with a composure that revealed none of the discomfort she must surely feel.

Her spine was straight, her movements graceful and unhurried, as though she had been navigating such waters all her life.

In that moment, Darcy was struck by a fierce pride in her resilience, in the quiet dignity with which she faced these challenges that had been thrust upon her through no fault of her own.

As they moved through the lobby, a familiar voice hailed them.