There was something about the way he moved through the room, his interactions measured but sincere, that seemed to draw others to him despite his usual reserve. It was a side of him she had not fully seen before—she doubted anyone had.
The caroling continued, each song weaving a thread of unity among the guests. By the time the musicians played the final notes of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” the earlier tension in the room had all but melted away, leaving only warmth and good cheer… and several jests from slightly inebriated gentlemen asking where the figgy pudding was.
Elizabeth glanced toward Darcy once more, only to find his gaze already on her. For a fleeting moment, the room seemed to quiet, the hum of voices fading into the distance. She inclined her head slightly, a silent acknowledgment of something unspoken between them, before turning back to Jane.
As the singing broke up, guests clustered into groups for parlor games. A table near the center was surrounded by animated players engaged in Spillikins, while another corner hosted a spirited round of charades. Elizabeth lingered near the refreshments, watching Jane and Bingley as they enthusiastically explained the rules of Snapdragon to a curious onlooker.
“Miss Elizabeth, you’re looking entirely too peaceful. This must be remedied.”
Elizabeth turned to find Colonel Fitzwilliam approaching, his grin rakish as he held up a deck of cards. “Do you know Commerce, Miss Elizabeth? It seems we are short one player, and I believe you would elevate our little group significantly.”
“You flatter me, Colonel. Are you sure you are not simply desperate for another victim?”
“Desperate? Never,” he replied smoothly. “But I will admit my cousin suggested you might enjoy a game.”
Her gaze flickered across the room to where Darcy stood near the musicians, deep in conversation with Sir Thomas. Despite the serious set of his brow, she could feel his attention on her—whether real or imagined, it was difficult to say.
“And what role do you play in this scheme of his, Colonel?” she asked, folding her arms.
“I, Miss Elizabeth, am but a humble facilitator.” Fitzwilliam extended a hand with exaggerated gallantry. “Allow me to ‘facilitate’ your victory.”
Elizabeth hesitated for only a moment before placing her hand lightly in his. “Very well, but I warn you, Colonel—I am fiercely competitive.”
“I would expect nothing less,” he replied, leading her toward a table where a small group awaited.
As Elizabeth took her seat, she could not resist a glance toward Darcy. He was watching them now, his dark gaze steady and unflinching. Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned closer, his voice low enough for only her to hear.
“Ah, yes,” he murmured, “there it is. That look could burn through stone. If I am not careful, I shall be asked to duel by morning.”
Elizabeth bit back a laugh. “You are imagining things, Colonel.”
“Am I?” Fitzwilliam straightened with a wink, turning his attention to the cards. “Let us see if I survive the evening.”
The game began, and Elizabeth quickly became absorbed in the play, her competitive streak ignited by Fitzwilliam’s relentless teasing. Yet even as laughter rang out around her, she could not ignore the steady pull of Darcy’s gaze from across the room.
“Sir Thomas!” A heartyvoice rang out as Watts, one of Sir Thomas’s former comrades, strode through the crowd, his steps purposeful and his hand outstretched. “It’s been far too long.”
Darcy stepped aside as Watts reached Sir Thomas, clasping his hand firmly. The man’s voice carried across the room, drawing attention from nearby guests. “I owe you more than my life, sir. It’s an honor to stand here tonight and say it face-to-face.”
Darcy noted the way Sir Thomas’s shoulders stiffened, as though the praise was too much to bear. He didn’t miss the way Sir Thomas’s other hand trembled slightly as it gripped the edge of his coat.
“You owe me nothing, Watts,” Sir Thomas replied, his voice rough. “It was a duty. Nothing more.”
“A duty that cost you years,” Pence chimed in, stepping forward with Drummond at his side. “You gave us the chance to come home. Without you, we might have been rotting in that prison for years—or worse.”
Sir Thomas shook his head, his gaze dropping for a moment as if to collect himself. “What any man would have done.”
“Not any man,” Watts pressed. “You went back for us when no one else would. You showed us what it means to fight for more than survival.”
Darcy could see the conflict etched in Sir Thomas’s face—gratitude mingled with a humility so deeply rooted it bordered on disbelief. Sir Thomas finally spoke, his voice tight with emotion. “And you’ve all come so far. Watts, Pence, Drummond… it’s good to see you thriving.”
Darcy’s own throat threatened to close up—not with self-reflection this time, but with pride. These were the men he had invited, the ones he’d written to, because Sir Thomas deserved this moment. A public acknowledgment of the sacrifices he’d made, of the lives he’d changed, even if it left him uncomfortable.
Watts glanced around the bustling ballroom, a faint smile on his lips. “And this?” He gestured to the vibrant crowd. “You’ve done more than save lives, Sir Thomas. You’ve built something lasting. And tonight… you’ve brought people together who’d never have stood in the same room otherwise.”
Sir Thomas’s voice faltered. “I… I never imagined…”
Darcy, standing beside him, placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “You may not have imagined it, Sir Thomas, but you inspired it. Bingley and I merely gave shape to what you have already built.”
