I bit back a laugh. “I’m sure it does.”
Just as I spoke, a loud crash echoed from the refreshment table. Every head in the room turned toward Wickham, who stood frozen next to what had once been a perfectly intact bowl of punch. He looked down at his soaked waistcoat, blinking in shock.
Wickham’s gaze darted around the room, searching for someone to blame, but as far as everyone could tell, the punch bowl had simply toppled of its own accord.
I smirked. “Well, Mr. Darcy, it seems the festivities are already off to a... lively start.”
Darcy cleared his throat. “I fear there may be more of that to come.”
“Oh, don’t be so dour,” I teased. “It’s a ball. What could possibly go wrong?”
Just then, a shriek rang out from the far side of the room as one of the younger militia officers’ cravats tightened dramatically, choking him so suddenly that he flailed about like a startled duck. Darcy’s hand clenched slightly at his side, and I could almost see him resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
I blinked at him. “On second thought, you might be right.”
Darcy
The ballroom was ablur of movement—twirling skirts, laughter, and the bright hum of conversation—but all I could focus on was Elizabeth. She stood across the room, speaking with her sister and Bingley, her eyes alive in the candlelight, her lips curved in a faint, secret smile that seemed meant only for herself. I had barely looked away from her all evening.
It wasn’t just her appearance, though. Egad, I had not expected to be so thoroughly undone by the scent of lavender surrounding her, or the way her curls framed her face. Her smile, her laugh, her ease among the crowd—the way she commanded attention without demanding it, that effortless grace tempered by something fierce and untamed. And every so often, she glanced in my direction as if checking to see if I was watching. And by Heaven, I always was.
Ewan had claimed she was meant for me—destined even.
I hadn’t taken him seriously at first. But now—every look, every laugh—it was clear that fate or no fate, I wanted her as I’d wanted nothing else. She would be mine—that had become my only hope. Every glance she cast my way only set my resolve firmer. The rest of the evening didn’t matter. It was all leading to one thing: Elizabeth Bennet in my arms, and willing to stay there forever.
“Mr. Darcy,” a familiar voice interrupted my thoughts, one that grated on my nerves as easily as nails on slate. I turned to see Wickham, his smile more predatory than pleasant, approaching me with a lazy confidence that made my blood boil.
“Wickham,” I replied, stiffening. Elizabeth was still visible just over his shoulder, her laughter a light melody on the air. Butnow, my mood had shifted. Wherever Wickham went, the air turned sour.
“I trust you’re enjoying the evening?” Wickham asked. He stepped closer—close enough for me to see the evidence of still-drying punch framing an unsightly circlet across the front of his waistcoat. “I couldn’t help but notice you and Miss Elizabeth Bennet have become quite the subject of interest tonight.”
I raised a brow, refusing to rise to his bait. “I wasn’t aware my dance partners were of such concern to you, Wickham.”
He chuckled, a sound that sent a jolt of irritation through me. “Oh, I think they concern more than just me, Darcy. After all, I overheard a rather intriguing conversation earlier. Seems Miss Bingley wasn’t best pleased by your choice of partner to open the evening. She seemed quite... put out, if I may say.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Caroline Bingley’s wounded pride was the least of my concerns. But Wickham had a knack for turning any situation to his advantage, and I could sense there was more to his visit than idle gossip.
“You see,” Wickham continued, his smile widening, “there’s been talk. After all, it’s quite rare for a man like you to take an interest in a lady like Miss Bennet. Some might say... unusual. Others might even think there was more going on than meets the eye.”
“There usually is.”
“Could be lust, of course. I certainly could not blame you—sheisa fetching specimen. But I know you better than that, Darcy, and I have another theory.”
“Oh, do tell.”
He raised his brows. “Madness?”
I kept my expression deadpan, staring at him until his questioning look relented into a grin.
“Come, Darcy, I have known you too long. Either this is your cleverest ploy yet to evade matchmaking mamas, or there issomething…” he tapped my lapel… “verywrong with the master of Pemberley.”
“I suppose that would be a matter of opinion.”
“The Lord Chancellor’s opinion, I daresay. If Fitzwilliam Darcy is mad, then what, I do wonder, must become of his dear sister?”
I tensed, my fists clenching at my sides. “Get to the point, Wickham.”
“Why, Darcy, you wound me! Are we not old friends?”
