She would begoodat being the wife of a man like Darcy.
Elizabeth would just read and argue with him.
No.
No, no, no, no, no.
She wouldnotimagine Mr. Darcy married to Elizabeth.
The sounds of merriment: Too much punch being drunk. Shouts and laughter, beautiful music.
The feel of her nails biting into her fingers.
A slight burn on her neck from where a mistakehadbeen made with the papillote iron. Fortunately that temporary imperfection on her skin had been easily hidden by her hair.
She smoothed her hands down her silk ballgown, trying to feel the luxurious satisfaction she’d felt when she donned it just a few hours ago.
Caroline bit her cheek to keep from crying.
The set ended.
Caroline only noticed because she now had a new matter of curiosity.
There they were.
Elizabeth and Darcy.
Two names that could notlessbelong next to each other. Darcy and Elizabeth. The sound was justwrong. Discordant, dissonant, despicable.
Standing across from each other.
Elizabeth glanced towards her, and Caroline looked away, embarrassed to be caught watching them.
But she looked back immediately as the minuet started.
Their conversation seemed to be awkward. Elizabeth flushed when she was spoken to, and she did not smile or converse as easily as she often did.
Mr. Darcy was often quiet. Steady, stately, stable.
Caroline let out a breath.
Maybe he didn’t love Elizabeth.
She stared down at her hands, and at the wrinkled fabric of her glove. She felt sweaty and shaky.
The steady rise and fall of the music pulsed through her, and Caroline imagined herself playing on the piano, swaying side to side as she performed a solemn concerto.
One breath.
Two breaths.
Three breaths.
Caroline looked up again.
Darcy looked at Elizabeth.
He just looked at her. His heart was in his eyes, and… love and desire echoed from it.
