Mrs. Long blinked at him, clearly taken aback. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice wary.
He gestured toward the women from Netherfield. “I wonder if I might introduce you to Miss Maryanne? She has an eye for embroidery that rivals anything I have seen from London.”
Mrs. Long hesitated, glancing toward the younger woman. But Darcy would brook no hesitation, and she seemed reluctant to defy him. In this, his experience brokering business deals and carrying his way served him well.
“Well,” she said finally, “if you think so highly of her…”
“I do,” Darcy said firmly. “I am certain you shall find her delightful.”
Mrs. Long allowed herself to be drawn into conversation, and Darcy moved on, repeating the process with another guest, then another. Soon, the lines between groups began to blur. The music swelled, and laughter rose above the murmur of conversation.
Fitzwilliam shook his head in disbelief as Darcy returned to his side. “You are a marvel. I half expect you to start matchmaking next.”
Darcy gave him a sharp look. “Do not tempt me.”
The colonel laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Whatever has come over you, Cousin, I approve. If only London could see this side of you.”
Darcy allowed himself a faint smile. “Perhaps London underestimates what is possible when people are treated with dignity.”
The colonel tilted his glass in a mock salute. “Well said. Now, do tell me, are you pacing yourself, or do you plan to collapse before midnight?”
Darcy ignored him, his attention drawn to a cluster of women standing near the far end of the room. The women of Netherfield; their gowns might be borrowed, but the joy in their eyes tonight—that was all their own. Slowly, they were being drawn into the crowd, thanks in no small part to Sir Thomas, who had stationed himself near the dance floor.
Darcy crossed the room, pausing to speak with Mr. Drummond, who was laughing with a young shopkeeper. “It seems you are already making friends, Drummond.”
The man chuckled. “It is easy enough when there is good company and better punch. Do you know, I felt rather badly sending my regrets to Gardiner on such short notice, but he was all for it.”
“Yes, I sent him a note of apology when I realized I was stealing some of his guests. He wrote back that he quite understood and wished us merry.”
“Very jolly of him! Good show, Darcy. Excellent wine, bit of good meat. Not sorry I left London, my good man, not one bit.”
Darcy glanced around, taking in the mingling guests, the growing ease between groups that had once seemed insurmountable. “Well, do enjoy yourself. Excuse me, please.”
He had just rejoined Richard in the hall when a sudden burst of laughter—familiar laughter—drew his attention. He turned—and froze when he sawher.
The world shifted beneath him. Elizabeth Bennet stood near the far edge of the crowd, speaking with one of Sir Thomas’s former soldiers. The starry blue of her gown caught the light with every movement as if it had been made to reflect the brilliance of her eyes. Her dark hair, arranged in soft curls, framed her face with an elegance that struck him like a physical blow. She laughed at something her companion said—lightly, warmly—and the sound sent a jolt through him, a sound he had feared he might never hear again.
And then, as if sensing him, she turned.
Their eyes met, and Darcy’s heart stopped. For a fleeting moment, he could not breathe, could not think. There was only her, standing there as if conjured by some unspoken prayer. The tension that had gripped him since London unraveled in an instant, replaced by an astonishment so raw it nearly staggered him.
She had come back. And she was smiling… at him.
A quiet stillness seeped into his soul, as though the world had paused for just a moment, leaving him with nothing but the undeniable clarity of what he felt. Everything—the music, the hum of voices, the careful arrangements he had labored over for weeks—receded into the background. The world narrowed until it held only her.
Beside him, Richard gave a low, amused whistle. “Well,” the colonel murmured, “I think I’ve just gained an answer to a question I hadn’t even asked.”
Darcy barely heard him. His gaze never left Elizabeth as he started forward, his steps slow but deliberate. Each movement felt like a promise, the weight of every unspoken word driving him toward her. The world might crumble around him, but in this moment, none of it mattered.
She was here—the best Christmas gift he could have ever asked for. Elizabeth Bennet, smiling and laughing and looking as though she had been waiting, just to speak to him.
And tonight—tonight—he would ask for next Christmas, too. And all the ones after that.
There he was.
Mr. Darcy stood near the entryway, his dark coat and perfectly tailored attire cutting him out from the haze that went unfocused behind him. The flickering candlelight danced over his face, and his gaze found hers with an intensity that seemed to make the air between them hum. Elizabeth’s steps faltered, her heart thudding unevenly as her breath faltered.
He moved toward her, weaving through the crowd as if they were not even there. “Miss Elizabeth.”
