Page 96 of A November to Remember

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Sixth Second

November 26th, 1811

During the same opening set, Robert Fitzwilliam, Viscount Keathley, was dismantling his own bachelorhood step by step.

He executed a turn in the country dance, elevating a standard, pedestrian progression into a sweeping arc that threatened to outshine the crystal chandeliers hung above them. He caught Miss Bennet’s hand, pulling her through the figure with a flourish that belonged on the stage at the Theatre Royal.

Miss Bennet laughed, and the sound hit Robert in the chest, disrupting his breathing.

He had spent fifteen years perfecting the art of detachment. He had constructed an impenetrable armour composed of bespoke tailoring, devastating wit, and a refusal to take the world seriously. He had evaded every matrimonial trap set by the matrons of Mayfair and his own mother, and he considered himself impervious to the domestic afflictions that plagued lesser men.

And yet, the moment he heard Jane Bennet’s laugh, he understood that he was doomed.

The “friends” agreement they had established on Sunday was straining at every seam like a cheap waistcoat on an alderman. He did not want to be her friend. He wanted to claim every dance with her. He wanted to buy her entire warehouses of blue silk. He wanted to spend the next fifty years attempting to provoke that exact laugh.

The set ended. The dancers bowed and curtsied, the collective hum of gossip and complaint rising to fill the silence.

Robert bowed over her hand with reverence. “Miss Bennet. You have survived my enthusiasm. One must marvel at your endurance.”

Miss Bennet’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “Your enthusiasm is quite catching, Lord Keathley. I do not believe I have ever enjoyed a set quite so much.”

He guided her away from the crowded dance floor, steering them towards the quieter side of the ballroom, far from the watchful eyes of Caroline Bingley and the deafening volume of Mrs Bennet.

They stopped beside a wilted floral arrangement. The air here was fractionally cooler, the noise of the assembly muffled by the curtains hanging over the tall windows.

Robert turned to face her, dropping the theatrical posture. He saw the soft golden curls framing her face, the gentle curve of her lips, and the sincerity in her blue eyes. The urge to drop to one knee and lay his title, his fortune, and his spectacular collection of cravats at her feet became a physical ache.

He took a steadying breath. “Jane.”

He used her Christian name, throwing propriety to the hounds.

Her lips parted, but she did not correct his familiarity. She waited, her expression softening.

Robert opened his mouth, prepared to obliterate the friendship pact and ask the only question that mattered.

Boodles came running, something Robert was certain he had never witnessed before in his life.

The valet halted two feet from Robert’s left elbow. His face, usually a mask of apathy, was the exact shade of aged parchment. A strand of hair had escaped the meticulous pomade of his coiffure, hanging limp on his forehead—a sign of distress so profound it alarmed Robert more than a screaming fire.

“My lord.” Boodles breathed heavily. “A word. Immediately. If not sooner.”

Robert blinked, the romantic confession drying up in his throat. He inspected his valet’s horrified countenance. “Boodles. You are dishevelled. It is highly unsettling.”

“The situation is critical, my lord.” Boodles kept his eyes fixed firmly on a point just past Robert’s shoulder. “The past has arrived. And it is foxed.”

Robert’s heart missed a few beats, understanding dawning. He turned back to Miss Bennet, offering a tight, apologetic smile. “Forgive me, Miss Bennet. My valet needs me. I must attend to him.”

“Of course.” Miss Bennet did not step back, keeping her hand resting on his arm. “I shall come with you.”

“That is unnecessary. It is likely a crisis involving starch.”

“I am coming, my lord.”

She did not raise her voice, but the steel in her tone brooked no argument. Robert stared at her, thoroughly captivated by her defiance, and nodded.

He followed Boodles through the crowded ballroom, cutting a swift path to the vestibule, Miss Bennet trailing behind them. On their way out, Darcy and Miss Elizabeth hurried over and joined them. They passed the refreshment tables where Richard and Miss Mary stood. Richard saw Robert’s grim expression, offered his arm to his companion, and joined the growing procession.

Before they reached the entrance hall, they passed the card room. Mr Bennet was standing at the door, holding a glass of port and looking bored with the local squires. He spotted his three eldest daughters trailing the viscount’s valet. He took a sip of his wine and drifted out to follow the spectacle.