Ewan’s expression faltered, just for a second, but it was enough to catch my attention. He quickly masked it with a laugh. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m havin’ a laugh watchin’ ye fret over that book, like it’s gonna wave a wand an’ fix all yer troubles.”
I sighed and closed the book again, leaning back in my chair. “You’re insufferable.”
“Aye, but I’m also yer problem,” Ewan shot back, leaning on the desk with a grin. “Instead o’ buryin’ yer nose in books about ghosts, why don’t ye get on wi’ livin’, lad? Go chase after the lasses. That one wi’ the sharp tongue an’ those bonny eyes would be—”
I shot him a glare. “The real world would be much easier to navigate without a dead Highlander criticizing my every move.”
“Och, ye’ll get there, lad. Or I’ll stick around long enough tae make ye wish ye’d sorted it sooner.”
I resisted the urge to throw the book at him, knowing it would pass right through. Instead, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and tried to remember what life was like before a ghost had taken up permanent residence in my life.
Elizabeth
The evening had unfoldedpredictably enough. Miss Bingley, with a smug little smile, had settled herself at the piano and begun to play—a performance designed, no doubt, to impress a certain Mr. Darcy. Well, she was welcome to him, the madman.
I sat by the fire, half-listening to the music and bouncing my foot along with the rhythm, more amused than anything. Miss Bingley was decent at the piano, but there was an air of over-rehearsed perfection about it that left no room for real enjoyment.
I glanced around the room. Mr. Bingley, of course, was beaming, happy to encourage any activity that didn’t involve people talking over one another. Mr. Hurst was dozing, as usual, and Mr. Darcy… well, Mr. Darcy was being his usual stiff, inscrutable self. Or so I thought, until I noticed something strange.
His posture, always so rigid, was even more so tonight, if that were possible. He sat straight as a rod, his jaw clenched, his eyes darting around like a man looking for an escape route. And then he… twitched.
Not a graceful shift, mind you, but a sudden jerk, as if someone had whacked him in the back of the head with a shepherd’s cane.
I blinked, watching in fascination as his whole body seemed to be locked in a silent struggle. One moment he stiffened further, as if trying to resist some unseen force, and the next, he jerked again, this time almost rising out of his seat and then pushing himself backward again.
What on earth was happening?
Just as I was about to gesture to Mr. Bingley to witness this strange display, Mr. Darcy lurched to his feet, his face set in what could only be described as a mask of shaking resignation. He took a toe-dragging step forward, then another, his shoulders tipped backward and his entire body moving as if it were being pushed along by invisible hands. I barely had time to process the absurdity of it before he was standing directly in front of me.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice strained, “would you do me the honor of dancing the reel?”
A dance? With Mr. Darcy?
I stared up at him, half-expecting him to retract the offer immediately. His expression was a study in discomfort, as though he were bracing himself for an unpleasant task. His eyes flicked toward the piano, then back to me, and I could have sworn he looked… apologetic.
What in heaven’s name was going on?
There was a long pause in which I seriously debated the risks of saying yes or no. If I accepted, I’d be touching him—and he was clearly unhinged. But if I refused… well, what if he really was mad? I didn’t want to provoke a man in the middle of some bizarre fit.
“Yes,” I said, a little too quickly. “Of course.”
Miss Bingley’s hands hit the piano keys with a bit more force than necessary, and her smile dropped faster than a stone in a well. That, at least, gave me a flicker of satisfaction. But that flicker vanished as soon as Mr. Darcy held out his hand, and I realized that I had no choice but to take it.
His grip was firm, but not unkind, though his whole body seemed as tense as a bowstring. He led me to the center of the room, where we took our places, and I tried not to think about how this man—this impossibly confusing man—was about to hold me for the next several minutes.
The music began, and we started to dance.
At first, it was exactly as awkward as I feared it would be. His movements were stiff, mechanical, and I could feel the tension radiating off him like steam from a boiling kettle. His eyes were focused somewhere above my head, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to look at me, and I found myself holding my breath, convinced that at any moment, he might flee the room entirely.
But then, something changed.
After a few measures, his posture eased—ever so slightly—and his movements became smoother. His hand, which had been gripping mine as if he were trying to avoid being dragged into the sea, relaxed. By the time we reached the middle of the dance, Mr. Darcy had transformed into something unexpected.
He was… graceful.
I blinked in surprise as he spun me gently, his steps confident, his hands steady and—dare I say it—almost tender in the way they guided me through the movements. The tension was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but he was no longer fighting the dance. In fact, he was keeping up with me with remarkable ease.
“You’re quite the dancer, Mr. Darcy,” I said.
