But Darcy’s attention wandered almost at once, drawn irresistibly to Elizabeth as she stepped lightly into the room behind her father. The faint flush on her cheeks from the cold heightened the brightness of her crystal-blue eyes, and the dark tendrils of hair peeking from beneath her bonnet seemed to beckon the firelight. The cloak draped over her shoulders, dusted with melting snowflakes, framed her figure with an elegance so effortless that Darcy momentarily forgot the others in the room. It was not merely her beauty that held him; it was the energy she carried, a vibrant contrast to the gray day outside.
Elizabeth’s gaze flicked to his—brief, fleeting, but enough to send a warmth coursing through him that the fire in the hearth could never rival. He straightened slightly, as though to meet her challenge, but the moment passed when Mr. Bennet cleared his throat, his wry expression suggesting he had missed nothing.
“Good evening, Sir Thomas,” Mr. Bennet said, bowing. “And may I present my daughters, Miss Jane Bennet and Miss Elizabeth?”
Sir Thomas stepped forward with an amiable smile. “Mr. Bennet, a pleasure. Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, welcome to Netherfield.”
Jane curtsied gracefully, her serene expression warming the room. “Thank you, Sir Thomas. Your home is lovely.”
Elizabeth followed suit, though her gaze flickered briefly to Darcy before she quickly looked away. “You are most kind to host us.”
“Not at all,” Sir Thomas replied. “Your father spoke so highly of you both that I could hardly refuse such company.” He gestured to Bingley and Darcy. “You already know my guests, I believe—Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy.”
Bingley bowed and stepped forward, his face lit with unmistakable delight. “Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, this is an unexpected pleasure! We did not expect that we would have such charming company tonight.”
Miss Elizabeth’s lips twitched, though her expression remained polite. “The pleasure is ours, Mr. Bingley.”
Darcy inclined his head in a reserved bow. “Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth.”
Miss Bennet returned his bow with a slight curtsy, but Elizabeth simply nodded, her eyes fixed on him with the curious light of one who is in on a secret.
Sir Thomas gestured toward the drawing room. “Shall we all sit? Dinner will be ready shortly, and I trust the warmth of the fire will be welcome after your journey.”
As they moved into the room, Sir Thomas glanced briefly at Darcy, his brow raising as if to say,You are sure there is nothing of interest here for you?Darcy returned his look with the barest lift of his chin before settling into his seat, deliberately positioning himself farthest from Elizabeth.
The evening was off to a curious start.
The table was laidwith quiet elegance, the silver catching the glow of the candles as Elizabeth tried to focus on the soup before her. She dared not look directly at Mr. Darcy, who was seated across from her, but she was keenly aware of his presence. Every movement—his deliberate gestures, the quiet assurance in his voice—seemed to draw her attention like a compass needle to the north.
She risked a glance. He was speaking to her father, his low, even tone carrying across the table. There was nothing rushed about the way he spoke, nothing uncertain. The words fell from his lips with the weight of someone accustomed to command, and yet, there was no arrogance in his manner. For reasons she could not quite name, her fingers tightened on her spoon.
“It is an opportunity, Mr. Bennet,” Darcy said, “to bring the community together. Sir Thomas has expressed a willingness to host the gathering at Netherfield, which, given the season, seems a most fitting location.”
Her father’s brow rose ever so slightly, but he made no immediate reply. Elizabeth had spent enough time watching her father deflect serious conversation to recognize the signs of amusement simmering beneath his expression. She turned her attention back to her soup.
Mr. Bingley leaned forward, his enthusiasm poorly contained. “And we thought, what better time than Christmas? A celebration to uplift everyone’s spirits, rekindle old friendships, and perhaps even mend some unfortunate misconceptions. There could be music, a grand supper, maybe even—”
“—an opportunity to foster goodwill and unity,” Mr. Darcy interrupted, his tone deliberate, clearly an effort to rein in Bingley’s unchecked zeal. “Sir Thomas has graciously offered the use of Netherfield’s ballroom.”
Elizabeth caught the faintest twitch at the corner of Darcy’s mouth as he glanced at Bingley, smoothing his expression before turning back to her father. She bit back a smile. The dynamic between the two men was fascinating—one brimming with unchecked energy, the other moving through the conversation like a careful chess master. For all of Darcy’s composed exterior, she could sense his subtle effort to keep things dignified.
“And what sort of celebration, exactly, are you envisioning?” her father finally asked, setting down his spoon and leaning back in his chair.
“A Christmas party,” Mr. Bingley said, leaning forward slightly. “Open to everyone in the neighborhood, of course—families, the gentry, even tradespeople—innkeepers, haberdashers, blacksmiths. It could be splendid! There could be music, dancing, a grand supper—perhaps even some entertainment or—”
“—a chance for the neighborhood to come together,” Darcy said, cutting in smoothly, steering the conversation back to his controlled narrative.
Elizabeth glanced between them. Mr. Bingley seemed poised to overflow with ideas, while Mr. Darcy reined him in with the steady hand of someone well-practiced at tempering excess. Their dynamic, she thought, had a rhythm almost too perfect to be entirely accidental.
Jane, seated beside her, attempted to join the conversation. “It sounds like a lovely idea, does it not, Papa? A chance to bring some much-needed warmth to the season.”
Elizabeth nearly rolled her eyes. Jane’s tone was too sweet, her suggestion too transparent.
“And you, Miss Elizabeth?” Mr. Darcy asked suddenly, drawing her attention. “What is your opinion? If you were not sitting here listening to plans—if you were a disinterested party, would an event of this nature meet with your approval?”
Elizabeth blinked, the directness of his question leaving her momentarily unmoored. There was no disdain in his expression, no mockery. Only the sharp, unwavering focus of someone who genuinely wished to know her thoughts.
Her pulse quickened, though she forced herself to keep her tone light. “Approval?” she echoed. “I hardly think my opinion should matter in such an undertaking, Mr. Darcy.”
