Patience. Control. A gentleman never allowed his emotions to compromise his integrity.
Darcy strained to hold fast to the lessons learned from his father. He watched Elizabeth Bennett from across the room, her low laughter and flashing dimples an alluring combination of somber poise with hints of girlish mischief. The twinkle in her eyes had initially drawn him, albeit reluctantly, so different from the practised gaiety Caroline wielded like a weapon when it suited her purpose. Elizabeth’s station in life, while respectable, was not ideal for the wife of the master of Pemberley. Those eyes, however, had yet to relinquish his. . .soul.
It was, perhaps, a dramatic turn of phrase. Certainly, the lady had not captured his soul. Only every waking thought. Every previous intention to wed a woman of his station or above. Her beauty and manners, her intelligence, left nothing to be desired. Her fortune. . .well. Though it was his duty to wed to the advantage of Pemberley, if he did not, it would not ruin the estate. Georgiana was well provided for even were he to wed a poor gentleman’s daughter. It was the refrain he kept telling himself.
Darcy watched her and weighed his happiness—a trifling thing, really, happiness—against his duty. And found now, as in the last several times he had considered his options, that his inclination towards Elizabeth was so far grinding duty under his heel into infinite grains of dust.
"Dance, Darcy," Bingley exclaimed, bounding towards Darcy with a hop in his step and clapping him on the shoulder.
Charles was the only man from whom he could abide that sort of behaviour. Anyone else would be on the receiving end of a chilly glare and cutting reprimand, doubly stinging because Darcy hardly bothered to lower his voice when chastising some impertinent fellow—and there was always at least one, at every occasion.
"You should engage your own lady, Charles," he said, "and leave me to my devices."
"Engage," Charles chortled, proving he had had perhaps one too many glasses of wine. "Yes, yes, I believe I shall."
Darcy's brow rose as Charles strode away, dismay warring with amusement. Well, he could hardly judge, since it was in his mind to—
He stopped short at the direction of his thoughts. Bold things, thoughts. If one was not careful, they would begin to control one's actions. In his mind to do what, precisely? Well, what had he expected of himself by refusing to end this flirtation with Elizabeth? Of course his mind was now gearing towards marriage.
Of course it was.
He watched her as she moved throughout the room, passing in front of candlelight that briefly highlighted the curve of her thighs beneath her gown. Anyone who glanced at him would see only the stone of his expression and mistake the fire in his eyes for ice. His hand curled into a fist as he drank her in.
Look at me, he commanded. Look.
Rebellious female. She did not look, of course. Very well. He would make her look. It was time she ceased the pretense of ignoring him. As he watched, a man drifted close to Elizabeth. Older than her by a good number of decades with silvered hair and stiff, dignified bearing. Cold, even in Darcy’s estimation.
He knew of Lord Segrave, but did not know him personally. What he had heard ensured Darcy kept Georgiana far from Segrave’s sight. Rumours only, never confirmed as truth, but the kind of rumours no gentleman of honour would desire to have confirmed because confirmation could only be in unsavoury circumstances.
Elizabeth’s smile faded as Segrave spoke a few words, then returned, sharper than a finely honed blade. A blooded blade, at that. The anger in her eyes was clear, as clear as her subtle withdrawal as she turned away from Segrave. Not curt enough for a cut, but a signal to whoever might be observing.
Darcy strode across the room, approaching. “Miss Elizabeth.” He looked down into the face that turned towards his, eyebrow now arched. She was not the least bit surprised he was suddenly at her side though she affected indifference.
"Mr Darcy," she said, husky voice full of suppressed mirth.
His expression did not change. "Your father has sent me with a message for you, Miss Elizabeth. Lord Segrave, if you will excuse us?”
The man inclined his head, moving away with a brief, inscrutable look at Darcy. Anyone who knew her father, and knew Darcy, would know very well that Mr Bennet had done no such thing. Darcy met the look with one of his own, allowing the man to see the warning in his eyes before he veiled the expression. Segrave was not a fool, he would understand. In time, Elizabeth would belong to Pemberley.
"Very well. Please excuse me for a moment," she said to her friend, standing nearby.
Darcy took a moment to remember the woman's name. Charlotte. Plain, but possessing a reserved, dignified manner. The daughter of Sir William Lucas. He took another moment to assess Elizabeth’s friend. Would she be a suitable companion for his wife? The friend of the mistress of Pemberley? He decided that while she managed to conduct herself with grace, he would do well to demonstrate his egalitarian nature by allowing the association.
"Mr Darcy?"
He glanced at Elizabeth and then indicated a corner of the room. They weaved between guests, Elizabeth stopping here and there to speak. It pleased him she was well liked in the community. He was not even a tenth as social as she, nor so inclined to polite discourse, but it would do very well to have her at his side in social situations. He would leave all the conversing to her and receive full credit for her exemplary behaviour. 
His lips curved slightly. As it should be. For he was the clever man who had recognised her value and conscripted it for himself. “What did Segrave want?”
Her expression darkened briefly. “Nothing except to entertain himself at my expense. It was nothing.”
He did not believe her, but he would not press. If Segrave upset her again, then Darcy would take more definite action. “It would please me if you failed to draw that man’s attention. There are. . .inappropriate rumours concerning some of his proclivities.”
“As if I would,” she snapped, then sighed, changing the subject. "My father absolutely did not send you with a message for me."
His eyes pinned hers, and he allowed her to see the fire behind the mask. The craving. She inhaled, smile fading as she glanced away, a blush of color on her cheeks.
"I will call tomorrow afternoon, if there is no objection," he said.
"It will be the fifth time in a mere fortnight, so I cannot see why tomorrow there would be an objection and on the previous four occasions, there was not."
He looked up at the ceiling, a habit he had taken from Lydia. The girl was a minx, and would likely wind up in trouble one day, but she amused him. At least when she was not making a spectacle of herself. She would not be allowed to behave so boldly if he consented for her to visit Pemberley. Perhaps it was not the girl’s fault—the mother was poorly behaved as well and clearly the father expected no better, being a lenient kind of man.
"A simple yes would suffice, Elizabeth," he said.
Her eyes widened at the use of her Christian name. "Mr Darcy!" Her voice was a hiss.
"Miss Bennett." He returned her outrage with faint mockery.
"Have a care how you behave in public. There might be consequences you would not enjoy should you forget yourself." She stormed off in high dudgeon and he smiled, savouring the word.
Consequences.
Yes, if he chose to misbehave in public, there very well would be consequences. No one would blame him if he did the honourable thing and wed the girl after he—accidentally—compromised her. But no. . .there was no need to besmirch his future wife's honour. He had very little doubt she would give him the answer he desired, now that he knew what his intentions were.
Elizabeth Bennet would be his wife as soon as it could be arranged. As soon as she agreed. . .his eyes closed and for a moment he was alone in the room. As soon as she agreed, she was as good as his, and the ache in his body, the fire in his mind. . .just a taste. A touch. Enough to quench the edge of this unbearable yearning.

* * *

It was so kind of Mr Bingley to host the ball. Especially after Lydia shamelessly cornered him into offering, though he had acquiesced with good nature and all apparent willingness. She was not often given the chance to interact with Darcy in public. He seemed more inclined to intercept her on her morning walks and she could now date the week by the timing of his calls. Midweek, before teatime, for the last five weeks, and a second call when he was simply ‘passing through.’ His presence continued to astound her father and send her mother into flutters. So far he had given no indication he desired anything more than the dubious pleasure of her company. At times he barely spoke, seeming content to walk at her side, and at times he engaged her in lively debate, revealing a subtle wit and dry sense of humour that delighted and challenged.
Sometimes. . .sometimes she thought the occasional brushes against her arm, the caresses of his finger across the back of her hand that he pretended were accidents, were deliberate. As if he were seeking an excuse to touch her. Sometimes she caught him looking at her in a way no man should look at a woman not his wife. On those few occasions, he would hold her gaze rather than look away.
Daring her to admit that there was an affection between them. Respect, certainly. But Elizabeth was not a silly woman and she made no assumptions regarding Mr Darcy. Merely accepted his company at face value because, despite his rather stiff and at times exquisitely snide manner, she liked him. He possessed a fine mind, and his disdain for the fairer sex seemed confined to displays of ill-bred behaviour, rather than a belief that women were inferior to men.
“Mr Darcy seems peculiarly enamoured of your presence, Miss Elizabeth,” a cultured, contralto voice said. “I wonder he has not yet set his cap, he seems to seek you out at every social occasion.”
Elizabeth set a pleasant smile on her face and turned. “That is an exaggeration, surely. Not every occasion.”
The woman drew closer, a vision of elegance. Tall, slender, disdainful. Elizabeth did not know how Mr Bingley and Miss Bingley could have come from the same parents, their natures were so opposite. Caroline thought herself above the modest society of Longbourn, while Mr Bingley. . .Elizabeth glanced around the room, realising she had not seen her sister for some time. She scanned the crowd for two blonde heads, for where one was, the other would not be far away.
Her hopes were high for Jane; she could do much worse than Charles Bingley, a kind man who could provide a secure life for a wife and children.
"But you do admit that he seeks out your company more than most?"
Elizabeth’s smile cooled. "If you have some objection to the company Mr Darcy keeps, Miss Bingley, perhaps you should instruct him in his folly. I am certain he would be highly amused."
She curtsied and moved away, her humour returning as soon as she cleared Caroline Bingley's air. In fact, Darcy would not be highly amused. He would be highly offended, and he was not one to hide his offence. As she neared the target couple, staring deep into each other's eyes without any appearance of actual speech, a general exhalation rippled through the crowd.
Because there were so many guests present—it was a veritable crush—the exhalation was quite noticeable. Elizabeth glanced in the general direction of the din and stilled, eyes widening.
Wickham. 

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