She grinned. “What do you think?”
He closed his other hand over hers where it rested in the crook of his elbow. “I have never liked failing tests, so I do not mean to fail this one.”
Elizabeth squeezed his arm. “Good answer.”
They entered the ballroom, where the chandeliers glowed warmly, their light reflecting off polished floors and gleaming decorations. Elizabeth let her gaze sweep the room. Groups of guests mingled near the refreshment tables, some laughing and gesturing, while others stood stiffly, their faces betraying their unease. The ladies of Sir Thomas’s household lingered at the edges, their borrowed gowns beautifully fitted but their smiles hesitant.
“Do you see Mrs. Long?” Jane’s voice came from just behind them, her tone both hopeful and wary. “She promised to bring her niece, but I cannot find her anywhere.”
Elizabeth turned, her brows lifting as she spotted the older woman by the punch bowl, clutching her cup as if it might ward off any overly friendly advances. “There she is. Though I suspect her niece has fled to a safer distance.”
Darcy followed her gaze, a faint curve appearing at the corner of his mouth. “Your neighbors are… reserved.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, suppressing a smirk. “Reserved is a generous term.”
Across the room, Mr. Bingley leaped onto a small platform, narrowly avoiding knocking over a harpist’s music stand. He clapped his hands together, his voice booming. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to raise our voices in some Christmas cheer!”
A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd, though some guests exchanged uncertain glances. The matrons of Meryton had broken off from their daring socializing of earlier, and now clustered like wary hens, their eyes darting toward the residents of Netherfield with a mix of curiosity and disdain.
Elizabeth squeezed Darcy’s arm lightly. “Do you think your friend can charm them into song?”
“If anyone can, it is Bingley. Though I doubt even he can break through Mrs. Long’s fortress of propriety.”
As if in answer, Bingley gestured grandly to the musicians, who began the opening notes of God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen. His enthusiasm was contagious, and soon, a few brave voices joined in.
A particularly spirited rendition from Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was standing at the front of the room, caught Elizabeth’s attention. His deep baritone was unexpectedly robust—and a little off-key.
Elizabeth laughed softly. “Your cousin appears determined to lead the charge.”
Darcy glanced at Fitzwilliam, whose arms were now gesturing dramatically to encourage others. “Determined, yes. Tuneful, no.”
Their shared laughter felt like a balm, and Elizabeth found herself leaning just slightly closer to Darcy. “Do you sing, Mr. Darcy?”
“Not in public,” he said firmly, though his expression softened as he glanced down at her. “But I will gladly accompany you if you wish.”
The warmth in his voice stirred something in her, and for a moment, she forgot the hum of the crowd or the music filling the room. It was just him—steady, certain, and looking at her as though no one else in the world mattered.
By the time they reached the final verse, the entire room was singing, even the most skeptical of Meryton’s matrons. Elizabeth glanced across the room and saw Sir Thomas standing near the doorway, his expression awash in gratitude and relief as he watched the transformation unfolding before him.
“Excellent!” Bingley exclaimed as the song ended, his face alight with pleasure. “Now, let us try something a bit livelier! How about ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’?”
The musicians obliged, launching into a sprightly rendition, complete with several comical “mistakes and interruptions”—probably staged ahead of time by Mr. Bingley—that had several younger guests laughing and clapping along.
“You sing beautifully, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
Elizabeth felt her cheeks warm under his steady gaze. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. You sing rather well yourself.”
“I cannot promise to join the choir, but I shall do my best to support the effort.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply, but Bingley’s voice called from across the room, drawing Darcy’s attention. He turned, his expression shifting into something sharper, more focused.
“Forgive me, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, inclining his head. “Bingley appears to need me for something. I will return shortly.”
Elizabeth nodded, her pulse fluttering as his gaze lingered on hers for just a moment longer before he turned and strode toward Bingley. She watched him weave through the gathering, his tall figure effortlessly commanding the space. When she finally looked away, Jane was beside her, her gaze sweeping the room.
“A promising start, do you not think?” Jane murmured, her tone as light as her teasing glance.
Elizabeth smiled, but kept her eyes trained on Darcy’s retreating figure. “It seems so,” she said, though her thoughts were already following him.
