He glanced at me then, and for a moment, I saw something in his eyes that made my breath catch. It wasn’t the rigid, distant look I’d come to expect from him. No, this was different—focused, yes, but softer. As though he were actually seeing me, not just enduring me.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, and there was a sincerity in his voice that startled me.
As the reel picked up rhythm, I couldn’t help myself. I began to add a few flourishes to the steps—playful claps and lively footwork. To my astonishment, Mr. Darcy didn’t miss a beat. He matched my steps effortlessly, even adding a few flourishes of his own. Mr. Bingley even started clapping along from the sidelines.
It was… fun. There was no other word for it. Somehow, in the midst of all the confusion and stiffness and awkwardness, Mr. Darcy had become not only a competent partner, but an enjoyable one. And the way he was looking at me now…
No. No, I couldn’t trust that look. The warmth in his eyes, the gentleness of his touch—it was all a trick of the light. Or perhaps I was misreading him entirely. After all, this was Mr. Darcy. The man who had done everything but run from my presence just a few days ago. I couldn’t believe he was now dancing with me as though he… liked me.
As the final notes of the song played, we came to a stop. Mr. Darcy released my hand slowly, and for a moment, he looked at me as if he wanted to say something. But whatever it was, he swallowed it back, the discomfort creeping back into his posture.
He bowed stiffly. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Bennet.”
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” I replied, still trying to make sense of the man standing in front of me.
He nodded once and then retreated—no, bolted—back to the sofa, where he sat as stiff as a statue, fixing his gaze firmly onsomething across the room. He didn’t move for the rest of the evening.
And I was left standing there, feeling as though I had just danced with a man I would never truly understand.
Ten
Elizabeth
The morning air wascrisp, the sun shining bright enough to make everything feel a bit less stifling. After spending most of my time indoors, either keeping Jane company or attempting to survive Miss Bingley’s conversation, a walk through the gardens felt like freedom. The scattering of golden leaves across my path was a refreshing change from the cloying conversations that seemed to follow me at every turn inside Netherfield.
I rounded a corner of the path, hoping to prolong my escape from the house, when—of course—I spotted Mr. Darcy heading straight toward me. He was staring down at the ground as though it had personally offended him, completely unaware of my presence.
I considered turning around—quickly—but the gravel beneath my foot had other ideas. A twig snapped loudly.
His head jerked up as if he’d been yanked by an invisible string.
“Miss Bennet,” he blurted, sounding less like a greeting and more like a man staring into the maw of a sudden thunderstorm.
“Mr. Darcy,” I replied, trying not to laugh at how startled he looked. He blinked at me, then glanced around as though unsure what to do next. He wasn’t running or cursing at shadows, so I supposed that was a good sign.
We stood there—me staring at him, him staring at… everything else. Neither of us spoke, and if there’s one thing I loathe more than awkward silences, it’s awkward silences with Mr. Darcy.
“It’s a lovely day for a walk,” I ventured, hoping to break the stalemate. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he replied, his voice flatter than a week-old biscuit. “Lovely.”
I was beginning to wonder if he’d lost the ability to have a normal conversation. His eyes darted around, almost as if he was looking for something—or, more likely, trying to avoid looking at me. Was he hoping I’d vanish into the bushes if he stared hard enough at them?
“Are you… enjoying your stay at Netherfield?” he asked, as though someone had prompted him from offstage. The words came out stiffly, as if speaking them pained him.
“Quite,” I said, though if I were being truthful, “surviving” would have been a better word than “enjoying.” I had hoped for a bit more peace and less Mr. Darcy glaring at furniture.
His gaze flicked back to me, then off to the side again, and we resumed our silent standoff. The man looked about as comfortable as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
“Forgive me,” I said, curiosity finally getting the better of me, “but you seem… unsettled, Mr. Darcy. Is something troubling you?”
He blinked as if I’d suddenly appeared out of nowhere, and his expression shifted so quickly I thought I might have imagined it. “No,” he said, though the edge in his voice made it clear he wasn’t fooling anyone. “Everything is perfectly under control.”
Ah, yes. Perfectly under control. That explained why he looked like he’d been cornered by a pack of wild dogs or—knowing my luck—was bracing for someone to jump out of the hedges with a broadsword.
“You’re sure?” I pressed, my eyebrows lifting. He was practically vibrating with whatever thoughts were rattling around in his head. For someone who claimed everything was under control, he certainly didn’t seem calm.
“I am,” he said, with the enthusiasm of someone trying to convince themselves they hadn’t just spilled tea all over their best coat.
