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But if his family insisted on tactics, then he would claim the stage they had cleared for him.

They had wanted him to play, and if words could not reach Elizabeth through the wall of polite society and their stupid, orchestrated diversions, then music would.

He had played only for himself for years.

Tonight, he would play for her. And she would know.

No one else had volunteered, which was just as well. He would not like to steal attention from a lady.

"I should be honoured to offer a modest contribution on the violin," he said, rising to his feet, "though I confess I have not brought my instrument."

Whispers rippled through the gathering. Lady Spencer was delighted, but Darcy knew she could not be surprised.

"How fortunate that Lord Spencer has several fine violins in his collection," she replied, gesturing to a footman who hurried from the room. "We shall be most gratified to hear you play, Mr. Darcy."

After a brief wait, Darcy accepted the violin presented by the footman and plucked the strings until the instrument was in perfect tune. He was acutely aware of the gazes fixed upon him, each pair of eyes staring, each whisper pricking his ear.

The silence in the room deepened. He could not write a sonnet or draw a picture, but he could play. And in playing, perhaps he might finally make her hear what his heart longed to say.

The piece he had chosen, a sonata written for both the pianoforte and violin, was one that had always resonated deeply with him.

Composed during a period of profound personal grief for Mozart, it captured a melancholy yearning that Darcy recognized in his own soul.

The longing, the uncertainty, the flickering hope beneath the sorrow—all were expressed with a clarity that his own words could never achieve.

His fingers trembled slightly against the polished wood, not from fear, but from the rawness of what he was about to expose.

He focused his thoughts. The crowd before him blurred until only Elizabeth remained in focus.

When she offered him an encouraging smile, he raised the bow, hesitating for one moment before drawing it across the strings.

The first haunting notes filled the room.

Darcy closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the music to work its way through his heart.

In that moment, all his irritation with his family's machinations fell away. He opened his eyes again, and Elizabeth’s gaze was still upon him.

In that moment, as he guided the bow through a gentle staccato and the music rose stark and poignant around them, Darcy felt a connection more profound than any he had shared before, as though the violin were truly giving voice to all he could not say, to feelings too complex and overwhelming for language.

He moved into the clean, separate strokes of the detaché and then began the smooth connected bowing of the legato in the slower second movement.

He had been charmed by and attracted to Elizabeth from nearly the moment they had met, but it had not been so for her. The tempo di menuetto began softly, almost hesitantly, a question posed in tender intervals that mirrored Darcy’s own uncertainties. Did she love him now? Could she?

Each note searched and yearned, building gradually in intensity.

His bow caressed the strings with increasing confidence as the melody unfurled like a confession, revealing vulnerabilities he would never express in words.

The lower register resonated with a depth of feeling that made several ladies reach for their handkerchiefs.

Not that he noticed, not really. His eyes, his notes, were for Elizabeth alone.

Darcy's fingers moved with precision born of countless hours of solitary practice, but tonight he played not with technical perfection as his goal, but emotional truth.

The music rose in passionate swells, his bow moving in longer, more forceful strokes as he infused the notes with all the unspoken feelings that had grown in his heart as he came to know her better: admiration, longing, respect, affection. Love.

She seemed to receive each note as a message, just as he had meant it, her expression transforming with every harmonic shift. When a tear trailed down her cheek, Darcy felt a corresponding ache in his chest, and his fingers pressed against the strings with renewed fervour.

The final section returned to the opening theme, now transformed by all that had come before, simpler but deeper, the questioning intervals now resolving with quiet certainty. The violin was giving voice to all he could not say. To feelings too large for words.

The final notes lingered in the air, achingly bittersweet, before fading into silence. For a heartbeat, no one moved or spoke, the spell of the music holding the entire company in thrall.

He lowered the bow. If Elizabeth did not know his heart now, she never would.

Then the applause began, enthusiastic and genuine.

Darcy acknowledged it, but his attention remained fixed upon Elizabeth. Her eyes still held his across the crowded room, and in that moment, he knew that the music had reached her in a way his thwarted attempts at conversation never could.

He smiled at her.

The applause lasted for a time and then everyone stood and made preparations to depart. Suddenly, Milton was at Darcy's elbow.

"Lord Spencer wishes to speak with you about that violin," he said smoothly. "He is most impressed with your technique."

Would the man never give up?

“Lord Spencer shall have to excuse me,” Darcy said flatly, and handed Milton the violin. “Return this for me if you would. Do thank him for the loan.”

Elizabeth returned his smile, offering him one of such warmth and understanding that it caused his heart to swell with joy.

Whatever his family's well-intentioned interference had prevented in terms of private conversation, the music had transcended those barriers, carrying his feelings to her with perfect clarity.

As the guests began to disperse, Darcy managed to break free from his family's gravitational pull just long enough to reach Elizabeth's side as she prepared to depart.

"Miss Bennet," he said quietly, taking her hand in his. "I must apologise for the lack of meaningful conversation this evening."

"There is no need for apology, Mr. Darcy," she replied.

"Darcy!" his uncle’s voice boomed across the entrance hall. "Lady Jersey is asking about that Mozart piece. Wants to know where you studied."

Darcy closed his eyes briefly. "My uncle beckons," he said with a rueful smile. "Might I call on you tomorrow? There is much I wish to say."

Elizabeth laughed, the sound warming him more thoroughly than a blazing fire. "I should like that very much," she said. "Perhaps we might even manage an entire conversation without interruption."

"I believe Mrs. Abernathy is signalling that your carriage awaits," Darcy said with real regret.

"So she is," Elizabeth agreed, and accepted his arm for the brief walk to the door.

"Until tomorrow," he said, longing for the evening he would no longer be required to bid her farewell.

He watched until the carriage disappeared into the London night, then returned to the house to face his relations, who had gathered in the entrance hall with expressions ranging from Milton's unrepentant grin to Lady Matlock's serene satisfaction.

"I trust you are all pleased with yourselves," he said drily, though without real anger. "Never in the course of human history has a man been so thoroughly prevented from conversing with the woman he wishes to wed."

"You must admit, you made more progress in those last few moments than in weeks of conversation," Fitzwilliam observed.

"Sometimes a man needs to be saved from his own excessive caution.

You could not speak to her in words, so you were forced to find another way.

As much as I dislike admitting it, Mother was correct.

She was sure you would turn to your music. "

“Might have overdone it,” Milton said, laconically checking his perfectly buffed nails. “Half the women in the room are now madly in love with you. And not all of them are unmarried.”

His uncle and Fitzwilliam laughed at that. His aunt just cast her eyes upward as if asking for strength.

"Simply allow her the night to think on what she has heard," Aunt Matlock said, patting his hand. "I believe you will find her quite willing to speak with you tomorrow."

Darcy was beyond irritated with his family. But Elizabeth's response to his music, the welcome in her eyes, the subtle but unmistakable shift in her manner towards him . . . perhaps it had turned out well after all.

"I have already told Miss Bennet I will call on her tomorrow," he said instead. "Alone. Without family assistance."

"An excellent plan," his aunt agreed.

“Though should you require our help . . .” Milton allowed the sentence to trail away.

"I most emphatically do not," Darcy interrupted firmly. "Any further 'help' may well drive me to consider rather drastic measures."

His family's laughter followed him into the night as he took his leave, his frustration fading as he contemplated the promise of tomorrow's visit.

With a lightness of spirit he had rarely experienced, Darcy entered his carriage, already composing what he would say to Elizabeth when they finally had the chance.

He would assure her that his love was true, and that whether it was his family or hers behaving badly, that would never change.

Tomorrow could not come soon enough.