Page 62 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"He did," Elizabeth murmured, touching the spot on her hand where he had held it. "He really did."

And as the carriage turned the corner, Elizabeth Bennet realised with a jolt of panic that she was actually, genuinely, looking forward to the Opera.

Chapter Six: The Importance of Being Earnest (and the Unimportance of Being Bingley)

White's Club on a Sunday evening was a sanctuary of masculine silence, smelling of beeswax, old leather, and the distinct aroma of fortunes being quietly wagered in the back rooms. It was a place where a man could brood in peace, provided he paid his subscription fees.

Fitzwilliam Darcy sat in a high-backed leather chair, nursing a glass of port and waiting for his friend. He felt like a man walking to the gallows, or a man about to confess a murder. He had spent the afternoon in a state of nervous agitation following the tea party, his mind replaying every interaction with Elizabeth—her coolness, her thawing, the way she had looked at him when he mentioned the lemon biscuits.

But now, he had a duty to perform. He had promised her he would meet Bingley. He had offered to convey her regards. It was a penance, a way to atone for the Great Interference of November.

"Darcy! There you are!"

Charles Bingley bounded into the room with the energy of a Newfoundland who had just been promised a walk. He appeared healthy and rested. He appeared to be, to Darcy's immense confusion, entirely cheerful.

"Bingley." Darcy stood to shake his hand. He searched his friend's face for signs of the devastation he had assumed was there. Hollow cheeks? Dark circles? A tendency to sigh at the moon?

There were none. Bingley's cravat was tied with intricate perfection, his coat was new, and his eyes bright.

"Good to see you, old chap!" Bingley beamed, signalling a waiter for his drink. "I feel like I have not seen you in an age,though I suppose it has only been a few days. London is frantic this time of year, simply frantic."

"Indeed." Darcy resumed his seat. "I trust you have been well? Since we left Netherfield?"

Bingley's face fell for precisely three seconds. It was a practiced melancholy. "Oh, Darcy, it was dreadful at first. Truly dreadful. I was quite low. Caroline was worried about my constitution. I spent the first week doing nothing but staring out the window and thinking of Hertfordshire."

"I am sorry to hear that," Darcy said, guilt twisting in his gut.

"But then," Bingley brightened immediately, "Hurst insisted I join him at the theatre, and then Lady Jersey sent a card for her ball, and well... one cannot be rude to Lady Jersey. And the air in London is so bracing in December, do you not think?"

Darcy stared at him. "Bracing. Yes."

"And the company! I tell you, Darcy, I had forgotten how lively town can be. Why, just last Tuesday, at the impromptu dance at the Daventry's, I realised how much I had missed the sophistication of the capital."

Darcy took a slow sip of his port. This was not the conversation he had rehearsed. He had rehearsed comforting a broken man. He had rehearsed carefully navigating the subject of Jane Bennet to a friend who was pining for her.

He had not rehearsed listening to Charles Bingley discuss the merits of the Daventry's punch.

"So," Darcy said carefully, "you are recovered? From your disappointment?"

"Recovered? Well, I suppose the heart is a resilient organ," Bingley said philosophically, swirling his wine. "One must carry on. And really, it was for the best, was it not? You said yourself she was indifferent. And Caroline agreed. It would have been foolish to pursue a connection where the affection was one-sided."

"Yes," Darcy murmured. "That is what I said."

"And you are always right, Darcy. That is the annoying thing about you." Bingley laughed. "Imagine if I had stayed! I might have made a fool of myself over a country girl who did not care a fig for me, and missed out on..." He paused, a dreamy look entering his eyes. "Well, everything else."

Darcy felt a chill that had nothing to do with the snow outside. "Everything else?"

"Oh, just life! Society! The season!" Bingley waved a hand. "I tell you, Darcy, I am ready for the new year. No more looking back. That is my resolution."

The conversation meandered for a while—politics, the price of horses, the scandal involving Lord Byron—before Bingley circled back to his social calendar.

"You really must come out more, Darcy," Bingley chided gently. "You are turning into a hermit. Why, at the masquerade last week, everyone was asking for you."

"I find masquerades tedious. It is a room full of people pretending to be someone else, usually badly."

"You are such a cynic. It was magnificent. The costumes! The music! And the ladies..." Bingley sighed, a sound of pure contentment. "I must tell you, Darcy, I saw the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld in my life."

Darcy froze. His glass hovered halfway to his mouth.