“I hear Mr. Bingley is quite agreeable,” Charlotte remarked after a moment. “It will be interesting to see if he truly is as charming as they say.”
Elizabeth hummed in agreement. “I suppose we shall find out soon enough.”
And as if on cue, the murmur of the crowd shifted, a wave of whispers rippling toward the entrance.
The Netherfield party had arrived.
Craning her neck to see above the crowd, Elizabeth attempted to get a glimpse of the newcomers. The first gentleman to enter was fair-haired and affable, his smile easy and warm as he exchanged greetings with Sir William.
“Sir William,” came a bright, cheerful voice from the front of the hall. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Charles Bingley, and may I introduce my sisters, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst? And my brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst.”
On Mr. Bingley’s arm was his unmarried sister, as evidenced by her lack of cap. She was tall and elegantly dressed, with sharp features and an assessing gaze. Her gown was of the finest silk, cut to perfection, and adorned with enough embellishment to suggest ostentatious. As she looked over the crowd, a flicker of barely concealed disdain passed over her face before she schooled her features into polite indifference.
Behind them came a well-dressed woman on the arm of a sluggish-looking man—these must be the Hursts—who seemed far more interested in surveying the refreshments than in the people gathered before him. The lady, in contrast, carried herself with grace and a quiet sort of superiority, her gaze not nearly as cutting as Miss Bingley’s but equally distant.
Then, at last, another figure entered.
He was tall—easily the tallest of the group—but Elizabeth could not quite see his face. The movement of the guests had placed her behind a cluster of women whose elaborately feathered hats blocked her view.
“Ah, and this is my good friend, Mr. Darcy,” Bingley continued.
Elizabeth barely registered the name as she shifted, standing on her toes in an attempt to see past the towering plumes.
Finally, the crowd adjusted.
And she saw him.
Her breath caught.
It washim.
The man from London. The one who had helped her in Hyde Park.
Elizabeth’s heart slammed against her ribs as recognition washed over her.
What is he doing here?
The moment Darcy entered the rooms for the assembly, he knew he had made a mistake.
The atmosphere was thick with the mingling scents of sweat, candles, and far too many bodies crammed into a small space. As he breathed in the heavy air, his lungs—still weak from the London fire—tightened in protest. He swallowed hard, pinching his lips together to stifle the deep, wracking cough that threatened to escape.
This is intolerable.
The chilly evening air on the drive over had aggravated his condition, along with the stifling carriage ride with Bingley’s sisters. Both women had doused themselves in enough perfume to smother a horse, and he had spent the journey struggling to find enough fresh air to give rest to his tired lungs. His chest still ached from his efforts, and now, in this overcrowded hall with barely any space to breathe, panic clawed at the edges of his mind.
I cannot breathe!
His hands curled into fists at his side as he forced himself to focus on anything but the way his lungs refused to cooperate. He could not afford to make a scene. Letting his gaze drift over the room, he barely registered anything in the sea of unfamiliar faces.
And then—
He sawher.
Instantly, he truly could not breathe—not from his rebellious lungs this time, but from sheer, unrelenting shock.
For two months, he had tried to forget her. Oh, how he had tried. But the more he attempted to push her from his mind, the more insipid every debutante he had encountered since seemed dull in comparison.
He had spent countless nights convincing himself that his fascination was fleeting— that the fire and the desperation of the moment had heightened his emotions. He told himself he had imagined the way she seemed to command the chaos around her, the way she had defied the soldier without hesitation, the way she looked at him—not with awe, not with flirtation, but with steady, unwavering certainty.
