CHAPTER ONE

Elizabeth never would have accepted Darcy’s invitation to the ball if it had not been for Mrs Younge.

The carriage pulled up in front of Darcy House and stopped. There had been none of the usual chatter that accompanied a trip to a ball or assembly. Her younger sisters were at Longbourn, Mary and Kitty preparing for positions in service and Lydia wheedling a place as a companion for Charlotte. There was yet more talk of a potential suitor in Charlotte’s last letter, but Elizabeth had read the words not written.

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The younger Bennet girls still had no prospects for marriage.

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She followed Jane and Aunt Gardiner down from the carriage, her best public smile plastered on her face and a small silk reticule dangling from her wrist.

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Outwardly composed, she wore her most elegant gown in a shade of deep blue contrasting with the bare touch of rouge on her lips and cheeks—a colour Darcy had remarked he preferred on her in what seemed like their distant past. Before. . .everything. White flowers and creamy pearls nestled in her curls, saving the gown from severity. Normally she draped herself in cheerful fabrics, but darker hues suited her current mood.

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“I hope I do not see him,” Jane murmured.

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“Not to worry, darling,” said their aunt, patting Jane’s arm. “If at any point during the evening you wish to return home, only say the word.”

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It was something of a small miracle they had convinced Jane to leave the house at all. She had only begun to smile again last month. Unsurprising. . .there was little to smile about these days, with both their parents succumbed to influenza over the winter.

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Elizabeth’s resolve hardened. The course of action she was about to take was for the good of not only her own family, but Miss Darcy as well, who did not deserve to have her private heartbreak become fodder for scandal. She deserved it no more than Jane deserved her ill luck in love.

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“Steel yourselves, darlings,” Aunt Gardiner whispered, “we approach the receiving line.”

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That the invitation had shocked Elizabeth was an understatement. With her own broken engagement to Darcy—no one but Jane, Charlotte, and Aunt Gardiner were aware of, it had been so short lived—and Bingley throwing Jane over for some random lady no one had ever heard of, neither of them had expected to mingle socially with the Darcys or those of their station again.

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Why had he sent it? What could be his purpose, other than to shame she and Jane? But after Mrs Younge approached, there had been no choice.

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Either Elizabeth attended the ball and complied with that woman’s demands, or a girl even more innocent than Jane would suffer. A girl as dear to Elizabeth’s heart as if she was her own sister.

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“Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth,” Georgiana Darcy said, holding out slender hands, a blinding smile on her gentle face. “I am so happy to see you both. I am desolate you have not called. My brother told me you have been in London for some time now, though I have been lately in the country.”

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Elizabeth accepted and returned the dear girl’s kiss, ignoring the tall, brooding person at Georgiana’s side. “Jane has been unwell. We have not ventured back out into society as of yet.”

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Next to her, Jane murmured an affirmative, also avoiding the man standing next to Georgiana. But he would not consent to being ignored for long.

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“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, voice deep, cool. An assault on her memory.

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Stiffening her spine, Elizabeth angled her body just enough. “Mr Darcy.” She could not manage any better greeting, even the smile on her face was strained.

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He shifted, then stilled as if he, too, had to restrain a vastly different greeting. “We are honoured you could attend.”

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She and Jane curtsied, waited for their aunt to make her greetings, and then followed the line into the ballroom.

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“Well, that is done and over with,” Aunt said, deliberately cheerful. “Now we dance the night away.”

They would, and Elizabeth had other business. She glanced over her shoulder once, met the blue eyes of the evening’s host as he stepped into the ballroom. Had he followed her? Of course not.

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But his gaze honed unerringly in on hers, nonetheless.

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* * *

 

She danced every set, a bright smile on her face and her conversation as witty and cheerful as ever. Make certain everyone sees you dancing, so if anyone is asked about Miss Elizabeth, the only remark they can make is that she danced all night. And seemed to not have a care in the world.

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The advice seemed sound, though admittedly she would not know, being unused to such skullduggery. Mrs Younge, however, wore a nefarious air like a fine perfume.

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After her third set she began to relax, allowing herself to believe her own persona. It was a task, keeping a subtle eye on Darcy while engaging her partners.

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She skipped lightly through the steps of the dance, anticipating one final partner change for the last bars of music when suddenly he was there, hands clasped in hers. Staring down into her eyes as if not a day had passed since they had last spoken.

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Eight months and three days, to be precise. But who could be bothered to keep count of mere days?

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“May I escort you for a refreshment?” he asked when the music had ended. “Walk with me.”

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Just like Darcy, to command her presence as if she would fall into whatever wishes he expressed. She had once thought that subtle arrogance as amusing as it was infuriating, and other times when turned to more carnal pursuits. . .intriguing. But now she stiffened her jaw in a polite smile, and cursed him silently.

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But only in her mind. She had a purpose to fulfil tonight, after all, and making herself agreeable was almost required.

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They left the ballroom and walked down a hall, eliciting curious glances while passing many individuals engaged in conversation. Some gazes lingering as perhaps they tried to recall the identity of the woman with Fitzwilliam Darcy. Before Bingley threw Jane over, he had escorted them about town to several functions and Darcy had accompanied them to many. Since that time last winter, however, she and Jane had retired from socialising. Darcy, evidently, had not forgotten where they now lived, though.

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Elizabeth kept the socially warm smile on her face, knowing her carriage was as elegant as any woman of higher station here.

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They entered a room where more guests gathered around a table laden with refreshments. Darcy approached, drawing a glass of punch and offering it to Elizabeth.

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She took it with a murmured thanks and sipped.

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“Is your family well?” he asked.

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Her fingers tightened around the glass and she set it down before she made the unwise choice to fling the contents in his face. Her fingers tingled. But, glancing up to meet his gaze, she saw no knowledge in his eyes. Nothing but calm inquiry. He could not know.

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“My mother and father passed over the winter. Influenza.”

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Jane had nearly succumbed as well, though not necessarily due to the severity of the illness. It had only been weeks after Bingley left her and she had had no will to fight. It had taken all of Elizabeth’s energy to coax her sister back to life.

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Darcy’s eyes widened. “My God, Elizabeth.” The words were soft, but fervent. “I had no idea. If I had known—” he paused.

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“There is nothing you could have done. Jane was also very ill.” Would Bingley have come? Would he have cared? The question hung unspoken between them.

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“Forgive me,” he said quietly.

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“What for, Mr Darcy?”

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He opened his mouth, then closed it, pressing his lips into a thin line. She smiled, the faintest touch of her customary mirth reaching her eyes. No, there was very little he could say to her here in public besides a banal social pleasantry, and banal was not a characteristic he could claim.

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“Please excuse me,” she said. “I should find my sister.”

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“Miss Elizabeth, I would like to speak with you.” The words seemed torn from his throat, escaping between gritted teeth. He had had a plan for their interlude, and she was not cooperating.

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It delighted her to not cooperate. “We will speak soon, I promise you.” She had no choice. And once they did speak, he would no longer be so eager to renew their acquaintance. She had the heart to feel a moment’s pity for him.

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. . . it was a fleeting moment only.

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* * *

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Darcy left the ball, a headache already growing. This entertainment was for Georgiana’s benefit, and he endured it for her sake. There was no one in London he cared to socialize with other than family, and if he had his way, he would shut himself up away from them as well.

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It was not at all like him.

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He poured another finger of brandy, lifting it to his lips. Imbibing was not like him either, but the last several months had been. . .trying. His spirit ached with restlessness, and not only because he had determined from now on to remain close to Georgiana, until she was married, which might be for some years.

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No, he could lay the fault for his dissatisfaction squarely at Elizabeth Bennet’s dainty feet.

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She had had the temerity to attempt to ignore him in his own receiving line. Her smile she had bestowed upon Georgiana, and even now he worked to squash his resentment. He could not blame her, not entirely. She did not understand him fully, and he was not at liberty to explain certain matters that might have resolved their worst arguments. Their final argument.

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Darcy cursed. He understood why his role in separating Bingley from Jane was in her view indefensible, and had been grimly prepared to accept her wrath. But breaking their engagement had taken him by surprise. He had not been prepared for the depth of her loyalty to her sister, and he should have known better. More fool he, and it had once been his duty to judge a person’s character and ascertain what they might do or say.

It had been too long. Trying to forget her had not worked, not when his body clamoured for another touch of her lips. Tonight he would make her listen to him.