Page 12 of To India with Mr. Darcy

T he air in their lodgings was thick with the scents of jasmine flowers and beeswax polish. The evening’s preparations were well underway, and the sitting room adjoining the sisters’ shared chamber had been transformed into a flurry of silk, pearls, and soft laughter.

Elizabeth stood before the mirror, fastening an ornate clasp at her wrist, while Jane sat on the cushioned bench by the window, adjusting a delicate hairpin. Mrs Gardiner, ever the calm presence, sat nearby, watching them with fond amusement. They were to attend a ball that evening, a small piece of England on India’s soil.

“I confess,” Jane said, casting a rueful glance at her reflection, “that I have never been so pleased to stand upon solid ground.”

“You do look rather less green these days,” Elizabeth said with a smirk.

Jane sighed dramatically. “If only you knew how much I longed to throw myself overboard at times.”

Mrs Gardiner chuckled. “Poor thing. I knew you suffered, but I had no idea it was quite that severe.”

“Oh, it was,” Elizabeth confirmed, unable to resist. “I feared at one point that she might turn into a fish and swim home to England.”

Jane shook her head with a smile. “Very amusing. Though if I recall, you were not entirely without discomfort yourself.”

Elizabeth waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, a little nausea here and there, but nothing compared to your trials. You bore it well, I must say.”

“I bore it because I had no choice. I am only grateful that I was not as sick as our dear aunt.”

“That is true,” Elizabeth said, giving Mrs Gardiner a look. “We are so very pleased that you recovered.”

“As am I,” Mrs Gardiner replied. She fastened a delicate bracelet around her own wrist and smiled at Jane. “And at least now we can all enjoy ourselves properly.”

Jane’s expression softened. “Yes. And I intend to.”

Elizabeth raised a brow, catching the shift in her sister’s expression. “I daresay I can guess who will be ensuring your enjoyment this evening.”

Jane immediately busied herself with smoothing a crease in her gown, but the pink flush that rose in her cheeks betrayed her.

Mrs Gardiner, ever observant, gave her a knowing smile. “Mr Bingley, I presume?”

Elizabeth grinned. “Naturally. He does seem particularly attentive to a certain young lady of our acquaintance.”

Jane pressed her lips together, shaking her head. “You both delight in teasing me.”

Elizabeth placed a hand over her heart in mock sincerity. “Only because you make it so easy.”

Jane sighed, though her expression was far from displeased. “He is very kind,” she admitted after a moment. “And good-humoured. And always eager to please.”

“And quite besotted with you,” Elizabeth added.

Jane looked down, her fingers twisting lightly in the fabric of her gown. “I do not know that I should say so.”

“Oh, but I would.” Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Mrs Gardiner, who merely smiled and said, “Time will tell, my dear.”

“And what of Mr Darcy? Shall we see him tonight?” Mrs Gardiner’s lips pursed as she glanced up from fastening an earring.

Jane bit her lip, but her eyes twinkled with mischief. “Oh yes, Elizabeth,” she said lightly. “Shall we?”

Elizabeth scowled. “I do not know why you speak as though I have any concern in the matter.”

“No, of course not,” Jane hummed. “I must have imagined the way you look at him.”

Elizabeth turned back to the mirror, ignoring the warmth creeping up her neck. “You most certainly did.”

Jane’s soft giggle did nothing to reassure her.

Mrs Gardiner merely patted Elizabeth’s hand. “It is only natural that after so many weeks on the same ship, you would feel a certain familiarity with him.”

Elizabeth nodded, grateful for the practical remark. “Exactly. Familiarity. Nothing more.”

Jane murmured something under her breath that Elizabeth could not hear, but the look on her face was positively delighted.

With one last glance in the mirror, Elizabeth adjusted her gown, smoothing the soft folds of the silk before turning back to them with a grin.

“Well then,” she said, lifting her chin, “shall we?”

Mrs Gardiner rose with an indulgent smile. “Let’s not keep Mr Bingley waiting, shall we?”

The ballroom was a dazzling sight, all glittering chandeliers and polished marble, the air humming with laughter and conversation. The British residents of Calcutta had spared no expense in creating an evening of refinement and elegance, and as Elizabeth stepped inside, she took a moment to appreciate the spectacle.

The women glided about in soft muslins and shimmering silks, their exotic jewels catching the candlelight, while the gentlemen stood in polished boots and crisp coats, their voices rising in cheerful conversation. The scent of exotic flowers and spiced wine lingered in the air, mixing with the warmth of too many bodies in too small a space.

Elizabeth had barely begun to survey the room when her eyes landed on a familiar figure across the crowd. Mr Darcy. Her heart lurched.

He stood near one of the tall, arched windows, half turned towards a group of gentlemen engaged in discussion, though he himself did not appear to be speaking much. He looked as composed as ever—perhaps too composed—his dark coat impeccably tailored, his cravat tied with meticulous precision. The golden glow of the chandeliers cast sharp angles across his face, highlighting the firm line of his jaw, the slight crease between his brows as he listened.

Elizabeth exhaled slowly, realising—rather inconveniently—that she had stopped walking.

“You are staring,” Jane murmured in her ear, amusement evident in her tone.

Elizabeth startled, her cheeks warming. “I was not.”

“Oh, of course not,” Jane said lightly, looping her arm through Elizabeth’s as they resumed their pace. “You were merely observing very intently. Like a scholar studying some peculiar specimen. How silly of me.”

Elizabeth shot her a look. “I was merely surprised to see him, that is all. He doesn’t seem the type to enjoy occasions such as this.”

Jane hummed, unconvinced. “How very unexpected, given that he is staying in the same lodgings as us and was explicitly invited to this ball.”

Elizabeth huffed. “If you have something to say, Jane, then say it.”

Jane tilted her head, a knowing smile playing at her lips. “Only that it is perfectly obvious how little fondness you feel for Mr Darcy. It is a wonder you even noticed him across such a crowded room.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth—perhaps to protest, perhaps to deflect—but before she could form a suitable retort, Jane squeezed her arm and disappeared into the throng, leaving her standing there, her own thoughts betraying her.

She would have shaken it off, moved on, but at that precise moment, Mr Darcy shifted, his gaze lifting—straight to hers. Their eyes met. For the briefest second, Elizabeth forgot how to breathe. She had been caught staring! How mortifying.

To make matters worse, Mr Darcy did not look away. He inclined his head in polite acknowledgment, and, belatedly, Elizabeth did the same.

Her heart was pounding. How ridiculous that he would have such an effect upon her . She cleared her throat, turning sharply on her heel, suddenly in desperate need of something—anything—to occupy herself, because Jane’s words still rang uncomfortably in her ears.

Perfectly obvious.

She made a point of ignoring him, turning away and pushing him out of her mind. The night had worn on with ease, the ballroom alive with the steady hum of conversation and the rhythmic rise and fall of violins. Elizabeth had danced several times, had laughed and conversed with old acquaintances and new, and had taken pleasure in the vibrancy of the evening.

But as her conversation with Jane faded into the background, and her humiliation at being caught watching him dissipated, she found herself more and more drawn to the idea of spending time with Mr Darcy.

She spotted him standing near one of the room’s great marble pillars, watching the dancers with an expression of careful neutrality, his posture as composed as ever. He had not danced all evening. Not once, she was certain of it.

Elizabeth did not know what possessed her, only that before she could talk herself out of it, her feet were carrying her towards him. He eyed her as she approached, as though he had sensed her coming before he had even seen her. He stiffened, his shoulders squaring, his expression unreadable.

“Mr Darcy,” she said lightly, pausing before him. “Are you truly going to stand here all night? The musicians have been working terribly hard. I daresay they would appreciate your participation.”

He arched a brow, glancing towards the set forming for a reel. “I have already participated in the evening’s entertainment.”

“Have you?” Elizabeth feigned surprise. “How odd. I must have missed it. Tell me, when exactly did you take to the floor?”

“I did not say I had danced.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Then I suppose I must rectify that.”

Mr Darcy exhaled, already shaking his head. “Miss Bennet, I—”

“Shall we?” she interrupted, tilting her head playfully.

He hesitated.

Elizabeth knew this moment well. The moment where he deliberated, where he calculated, where he weighed his options with slow, meticulous precision. He was on the verge of refusal—she could see it in the way his jaw tensed, in the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides.

But then, something shifted. It was almost imperceptible, but it was there. His expression softened. His shoulders eased. And, to her surprise, he nodded.

“If you insist,” he murmured.

Elizabeth blinked, taken aback despite herself. But there was no time to dwell on her triumph—he had already offered his hand. She placed hers in his without hesitation.

Dancing with Mr Darcy was unlike dancing with any other man.

His movements were precise, confident, each step taken with quiet assurance. Where other partners might have led with eager enthusiasm, he led with measured control, his presence steady and unwavering.

And yet, despite the careful restraint in his posture, there was a warmth in his touch. A quiet understanding in the way he guided her through the turns, the glances they exchanged, the brief moments when his hand barely ghosted against hers before parting again.

Elizabeth had danced this set many times before. And yet, somehow, it had never felt quite like this. She had never felt quite like this.

As the final notes rang out, as the dance came to its natural conclusion, Mr Darcy released her hand with slow reluctance, his eyes lingering on hers for just a moment longer than necessary. Elizabeth’s breath caught.

She was not certain who moved first—perhaps it was him, perhaps it was her—but somehow, they found themselves stepping away from the dance floor, towards the open doors that led out onto the veranda.

The night was warm, as they all seemed to be in India. Mr Darcy exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck as they stepped outside. “The heat is unrelenting.”

Elizabeth laughed, taking in the sight of him, still dressed to the highest degree of propriety despite the stifling air. He had undone his coat, just barely, but his cravat remained tightly knotted, his waistcoat fully buttoned.

“You do realise,” she said, amusement clear in her voice, “that you are suffering by choice?”

Mr Darcy gave her a pointed look. “I beg your pardon?”

She gestured towards his neck. “You could simply loosen your cravat.”

His brows furrowed. “That would be highly improper.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “Would it? There are no matrons watching you out here, Mr Darcy. No society to judge you for unfastening a single button.” She smirked. “Or perhaps you fear that the very idea of such a thing would scandalise you beyond repair.”

Mr Darcy huffed. “Hardly.”

“Well then,” Elizabeth said, folding her arms. “Prove it.”

He stared at her for a long moment, assessing whether or not she was truly challenging him. Then, to her utter astonishment, he moved. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for his cravat.

Elizabeth watched, transfixed, as he loosened it. Just the smallest amount, just enough for a sliver of cool air to reach his skin. It was such a minor thing, such a small gesture, and yet, somehow, it meant something.

Mr Darcy let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders, his fingers brushing against the newly freed fabric.

Elizabeth grinned. “See? Was that so difficult?”

He glanced at her, his eyes darkening. “You are rather impertinent,” he muttered.

She dipped into a mock curtsy. “And you are rather predictable.”

He looked at her, horrified for a moment. But then, to her shock, he laughed.