by Jann Rowland
It was amid this whirlwind of activity that Elizabeth found herself addressed by one she had not seen yet that evening, one Miss Bingley had searched for so desperately early on. Standing, as she was, with Kitty beside the dance floor, the sight of a tall man looming behind her sister caught Elizabeth’s attention. It was a moment before his identity became known to her.
“Miss Bennet,” said Mr. Darcy. “Will you do me the honor of standing up for the next with me?”
Chapter VIII
“You know, Darcy, what you need is a wife.”
The annoyed glance Darcy directed at his cousin did not cause him to pause in the slightest. Quite the contrary.
“I am not my mother, Darcy; I have no intention of attempting to throw young ladies at you, hoping you will choose one of them. However, most of your troubles in society originate from your still single state. If you had a wife on your arm, the debutantes of society would ignore you. Is that not what you wish?”
Darcy grunted. “You are correct, Fitzwilliam. The problem is finding a woman I can not only tolerate but one who stimulates me as an intellectual, one who would be a partner, rather than an adornment on my arm.”
“Therein lies the rub,” agreed Fitzwilliam. “Most men look for a woman with the largest dowry, the highest connections, or a combination of the two. You, a man who detests society, must have more exacting standards, which makes it much more difficult when you put the two together.”
Leaning back in his chair, Darcy passed a hand over his brow, stopping to rub his temples, annoyed at the conversation. “Every year it is the same. I come to London during the season, wondering if this year there will be one woman with whom I can make a connection. And every year, by the time we go to Rosings, I am disgusted with the latest crop of debutantes.”
“And when we return from Kent,” added Fitzwilliam with a grin, “you mope about for days, bemoaning your fate and wishing to return to Derbyshire.”
“It is because I cannot tolerate it any longer,” said Darcy.
“Well, if you will excuse me for saying it, if none of the ladies of London society meet your criteria, then it seems you must search for this exceptional woman elsewhere.”
“Where?” was Darcy’s blunt question.
“How am I supposed to know?” asked Fitzwilliam, his grin showing his amusement. “It is you who remains unsatisfied by the ladies before you. Perhaps there is an innkeeper’s daughter somewhere who can stimulate you.”
Darcy gave his cousin a sour look, which did nothing more than provoke Fitzwilliam’s laughter. The problem was, had there been such a woman, Darcy might have been desperate enough to propose to her.
In essence, Fitzwilliam was correct. In the five years since Darcy had become master of Pemberley, he had been in London for four of those years, searching for a wife. Most men of his age and station in life did not look for a wife so early, but most were not the last of a long line of prominent gentlemen. Though his sister, Georgiana, would inherit if something were to happen to Darcy, she would need to find a man willing to take on the Darcy name, otherwise, it would die out. Finding a man who would care for his beloved property with the respect and diligence it deserved would be difficult on top of the other problems.
Every year, however, it was the same. Ladies of the highest station—those from among whom Darcy was expected to marry—were afflicted by some fatal flaw or another, rendering them unpalatable. If they were not proud, they were dull, able to speak of nothing but the latest fashions and gossip. While Darcy had thought to marry a woman to further improve Pemberley’s position—his father had married the daughter of an earl, and Darcy thought to do the same—but for whatever reason, he could not force himself to take that step. There must be some woman in all of England who would suit!
“What of Bingley?” asked Fitzwilliam, interrupting Darcy’s thoughts.
“What of him?” said Darcy.
“He leased an estate in Hertfordshire last year, did he not?”
“And married one of the local ladies.”
“There it is! Perhaps there is another lady who would suit you. Or does she have a sister?”
“Four, as I recall,” replied Darcy, though his thoughts had gone in a different direction. As he recalled, the younger sister of Bingley’s bride had been a bright, precocious sort of woman.
“Then you must ask for an introduction,” said Fitzwilliam. “Or is Bingley’s bride objectionable in some way?”
“Not at all,” replied Darcy, “other than a lack of connections and dowry. She seemed perfectly angelic, beautiful, the kind of woman Bingley has chased after all these years.”
“Then your path is clear,” said Fitzwilliam.
Before he could speak any further, the door opened and Gates, the butler, escorted the man himself into the room. Bingley walked as he often had of late, with a distinct spring in his step, seeming almost disgustingly happy. He greeted them with his usual ebullience and turned his attention to Fitzwilliam.
“What path is clear? Or is it some heavy secret you cannot divulge?”
“Not a secret at all,” replied Fitzwilliam, while Darcy tried to catch his eye to plead circumspection. For once Fitzwilliam did not embarrass him. “I have just been telling Darcy here that he should look for a wife if he does not wish to endure every lady of society in search of a husband hunting his trail like a bloodhound.”
Bingley turned a grin on Darcy. “That is an excellent idea, my friend. I highly recommend it.”
Darcy waved his friend off, while Fitzwilliam grinned. “I have no doubt of your happiness, Bingley. The problem is finding the right woman.”
“I told him he should visit you in Hertfordshire,” said Fitzwilliam. “If he cannot find a woman of society he can abide, he must look elsewhere. Are their hidden gems in Hertfordshire waiting for the right man to come and scoop them up?”
“Sorry, old man,” replied Bingley, his grin reaching from ear to ear, “but I have already claimed the gem of the neighborhood.” Bingley paused in thought and added: “Jane is a jewel of the first order, indeed, but I have always thought her sister Elizabeth was her equal, though they are not at all alike.”
When Bingley mentioned her name, Darcy thought he caught a ringing hint of her laughter in the air, remembered the archness with which she spoke of those of her home. Uncomfortable as he had been in her cousin’s home, Darcy had paid little attention to the woman herself—his focus had been on her words, the information she had imparted to him. It was clear, however, that she was intelligent, possessing the ability to speak with ease.
“Regardless,” said Bingley, “I came today to learn if you plan to attend the Davidson ball.” Bingley paused and grimaced. “Caroline is nigh driving me to distraction, for she is beside herself that she has not seen you since your return.”
“Speaking of young, eligible females . . .” Fitzwilliam fixed Darcy with a grin.
“No offense, Bingley,” replied Darcy, “but your sister’s wishes do not concern me.”
“Nor did I expect they would,” was Bingley’s response. “Caroline’s desires notwithstanding, I have not seen much of you either, and knowing you as I do, I was afraid you might run for Derbyshire if someone did not act to keep you here.”
Fitzwilliam guffawed, much to Darcy’s disgust. Bingley, on the other hand, was watching Darcy with open appraisal. While Darcy might have wished for anything but another night at a ball, he grunted and nodded.
“Davidson is a good friend. I should attend.”
“That’s the spirit!” exclaimed Fitzwilliam. Rising, he nodded at Darcy and slapped Bingley on the back. “I shall leave his disposition to you, Bingley. If anyone can get him to mingle with us mere mortals, I declare it is you.”
Then Fitzwilliam sauntered from the room, leaving Darcy alone with his friend. Bingley watched Fitzwilliam leave, before turning back to Darcy.
“I think it would do you good to attend, Darcy. I should also like to have you to dinner, for
you do not yet know my wife.”
Though Darcy wished it, he could not scowl to show his distaste with the thought of dining at Bingley’s house with his sister in attendance. Then again, Bingley’s wife would now be mistress of his house, meaning Miss Bingley would not have the same ability to dominate his attention, to preen while she held him a captive audience during dinner. Perhaps it would not be so distasteful with Mrs. Bingley as the hostess.
“Let us table that suggestion at present,” said Darcy. “Perhaps I shall invite you to dinner instead.”
Bingley grinned. “If that is what you prefer, I have no objection.”
In the end, Darcy could find no good reason not to attend the Davidson ball, though he arrived there, wishing he had. Davidson was a good sort who had been a friend since Darcy’s days at Cambridge, and regardless of his wish to avoid society, his wish to avoid offending Davidson was of more importance. It was also true that those attending Davidson’s ball would be of a lower scale of society; perhaps there would be some young lady in attendance who would spark his interest. Darcy did not know as he left his house that evening how correct he was, nor how surprised he would be when he learned who that someone was.
It had not been Darcy’s intention to circumvent the dancing—it was always his intention to dance, though he often failed to summon the will to follow through with his determination. That evening, however, Darcy found he had an excuse for his behavior. Or rather, two excuses.
The first was Miss Bingley. When Darcy walked into the ballroom, one of the first sights he saw was the woman standing next to her brother, imploring him over some matter or another. Knowing Miss Bingley as he did, and given Bingley’s words during his visit, Darcy was certain he knew what she was asking him. The thought of her cloying attentions, the way she would grasp her talons about his arm as if she never intended to let go filled him with revulsion. Darcy had no wish to subject himself to her that evening.
The second, however, was one much more agreeable: Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Taking himself to the side of the dance floor in a small nook that would conceal him from Miss Bingley, one of the first dancers Darcy noticed was Miss Bennet. And when his eyes fell on her, he found he could not take them away.
Those few brief hours in her company in Hertfordshire, Darcy had not looked at the woman much, concentrating instead on those of whom she was speaking. Now, however, he wondered how he had missed her glowing countenance, for she was as pretty a country miss as he had ever seen. Miss Bennet was not tall, though not diminutive either, her face oval, her dark, mahogany hair framing rosy cheeks, flushed with exertion. And while he was too far away to see into the depths of her eyes, Darcy knew they would be deep wells of intelligence, far wiser than her tender years might suggest.
Then, as she drew near to his place of concealment, Darcy heard her laughter, clear and pure as a ringing bell, rise over the dancers. In a moment of wonder he watched all about her, why they had not become drooling fools caught in her spell.
As the evening progressed, all thought of joining the dancers receded as Darcy was caught in the siren’s call. The intelligence which impressed him in Hertfordshire was transformed into a veritable magnetism, one no man could escape. Darcy remembered Bingley informing him that his wife brought little to the marriage, and he knew Miss Bennet would be the same. Even so, surely this woman could not remain unclaimed for long. The disadvantages of her situation could not compare with the benefits of having her presence in a man’s life forever.
It was not long before Darcy determined to discover for himself if her call was real or something imagined. Waiting until the correct moment, when Miss Bingley was otherwise occupied and Miss Bennet appeared to be without a partner, Darcy stepped toward her, certain if he did not reach her at once the opportunity would pass and someone else would snap her up. Then he stood before her, asking her to dance with him, though he had no recollection of what he said.
“Of course, I will dance with you, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth, fixing the gentleman with a bright smile.
While it seemed to Elizabeth that Mr. Darcy was tightly wound, as if some great worry held sway over him, her words caused him to deflate. The smile he gave her was tentative and thankful all at once, though Elizabeth had no notion of how she could have set him at ease, or why he had been so nervous in the first place. Thinking to speak further to increase his comfort, Elizabeth gestured to Kitty.
“You remember my sister, do you not?”
Mr. Darcy nodded, bowing to Kitty. “Miss Catherine, as I recall?”
With a laugh, Kitty nodded, saying: “You have an excellent memory, Mr. Darcy. But all my friends call me Kitty. If you should call me Catherine, it is possible I would not answer, for most times I do not remember that it is my name!”
“But you are Miss Bennet to me, are you not?” said Mr. Darcy. “It would be improper to refer to you by your first name.”
Kitty turned a wry look at Elizabeth. “It has been some time since I was not the eldest unmarried daughter. Perhaps I should begin looking for a husband so I may pass the title to you, Lizzy.”
Though she laughed, Elizabeth glimpsed Mr. Darcy retreating once again. Unsure why that might be and wishing to again make him comfortable, she directed an arch look at her sister.
“Do you have anyone in mind, Kitty?”
“Not at present,” replied her sister. “But I cannot allow you to marry before I, now can I?”
Even Mr. Darcy chuckled in response, once again seeming a little less edgy. They stood for a few moments speaking together, and soon Kitty excused herself to find her next partner, leaving Elizabeth alone with Mr. Darcy. It was fortunate their dance was to start soon, for it seemed the gentleman did not know what to say.
As the strains for the next sets wafted over the room, Elizabeth accepted Mr. Darcy’s hand as he led her to the dance floor. At the same time, she heard another voice, hailing them from further down the floor.
“Mr. Darcy!”
It was Miss Bingley. The woman, however, fell silent as she watched with amazement as Mr. Darcy led Elizabeth to the dance floor. Though it was not kind, Elizabeth allowed herself to indulge in a moment of smugness that the man Miss Bingley was desperate to attract had asked her to dance.
For the first part of the sets, Elizabeth moved in silence, for Mr. Darcy did not speak. Whether this was by choice, not having much to say, or because he could not think of the words to speak, she could not determine. Her insight into this man’s character in Hertfordshire had informed her Mr. Darcy was not a voluble man, and was, in fact, uncomfortable in company. But Mr. Darcy moved in time with the steps, fixed his attention on her, and in time Elizabeth began to wonder what he was about. When she had endured his scrutiny for some time, becoming convinced he was not even aware of his intensity, she addressed him.
“Well, Mr. Darcy,” said she, favoring the gentleman with a diverted grin, “it seems we have spent half the dance in each other’s company with nary a word passing between us. Is it your custom to concentrate so much on your steps that you cannot spare the time for conversation?”
The gentleman started. “I am sorry, Miss Elizabeth, I had not meant to ignore you.”
“Ignore me?” asked Elizabeth with a laugh. “I had wondered if I have a smudge on my chin or if my dress is askew, so intent upon my person have you been.”
As the gentleman began stammering an apology, Elizabeth interjected again to put him at ease. “All jesting aside, sir, I hope that we have something to say to each other, for one of my goals while I am here is to become acquainted with as many people as I can.”
“You enjoy making new acquaintances?”
“Indeed, I do!” said Elizabeth. “As you may recall, my late papa was a studier of characters, a trait he passed on to me. Those living close to Meryton have been known to me all my life, meaning I have learned all of them I can.”
“But London teems with those with whom you are unacquainted,” said the man, a slow grin passing over
his countenance. “Thus, there must be more unknown subjects for you to study than you could ever hope to understand.”
“Exactly.”
“And your father—did he also come to London to study those here?”
“My father detested London,” replied Miss Elizabeth. “He was content to know those in our neighborhood and sequester himself in his bookroom with his beloved books away from the concerns of six women.”
“A man after my own heart, Miss Elizabeth. If I could have my preference, I might do the same.”
“Then you are a man of books,” said Elizabeth. “Perhaps we could compare what we like. Or do you feel speaking of books in a ballroom inappropriate?”
“I cannot see how it could be so.”
The rest of the dance passed in conversation, for Elizabeth found that when Mr. Darcy spoke of matters of interest to him, the words came easier. Perhaps that was his difficulty: matters of substance he could discuss, but small talk was his bane. It was something Elizabeth would need to watch, for she suspected she would see much more of this man while she was in London.
When the music drew to a close, Mr. Darcy led her to the side of the dance floor and excused himself, leaving Elizabeth to watch him as he retreated, trying to understand him. An equally incomprehensible fact was the scowls she was receiving from almost every corner of the room. Now what could that be about?
The reality of dancing with Miss Elizabeth was far beyond what Darcy had thought to find while he watched her throughout the evening. Knowing her as he had for those brief hours in Hertfordshire, Darcy had already understood her prowess and ability to set him at ease. The way she drew him in with matters of substance, however, was beyond what he had ever expected. The thirty minutes of the dance, which had always seemed like such drudgery to Darcy, flew by this time, ending before he realized. Or wanted it to end, for that matter.
As the music stilled, Darcy turned to her and extended his hand, grasping her dainty fingers in his as he led her to the side of the dance floor where her two sisters were waiting. Though part of Darcy wished to stand by her—wished to never leave her side—his more rational part urged him to step back and take stock, to think on what had happened. Therefore, he bowed, thanked her for the dance, and excused himself. Just in time too, for Miss Bingley arrived soon after he was away, then she was led to the floor by her next partner before she could chase after him.