Christmas at Darcy House

Her aunt nodded. Mr. Darcy’s cold manner the day before had not impressed her either. “I know, my dear. But you cannot refuse him unless you are prepared to refuse all the young men at the ball.”

Elizabeth knew this, of course; it would be disgracefully rude to refuse one man and accept another. She glanced at Mr. Wickham; he was closer than before, but not as close as Mr. Darcy. Mr. Wickham glared at the other man and tried to move more quickly, but the crowds would not give way. I beg you to hurry! she importuned him silently and then cast an eye about the room for a means of escape. But the crush of revelers was so thick that she could not easily evade Mr. Darcy’s approach. Why does he even wish to dance with me? He does not enjoy my company!

The bizarre footrace continued for a minute until—unfortunately—Mr. Darcy arrived, scowling and dark-eyed. He climbed the steps to the landing, a little out of breath. “Miss Bennet, would you do me the honor of the next dance?” he puffed.

Mr. Wickham emerged from the crowd, red-faced and sweaty. His mouth twisted in a grimace as he climbed the steps.

Elizabeth gritted her teeth. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Darcy.”

She immediately turned her attention to Mr. Wickham, who smiled and bowed ingratiatingly. “I see I have arrived too late for this set,” he said lightly. “But perhaps you would agree to partner me for the following set?”

Elizabeth smiled at him. “Yes. I thank you, Mr. Wickham.”

Mr. Wickham immediately disappeared into the crowd; Elizabeth did not blame him for eschewing the other man’s vicinity. But Mr. Darcy stayed by her side, a looming and taciturn presence, awaiting the beginning of the next set. Why in the world does he wish to dance with me when he evinces no interest in my company? Elizabeth chatted with her aunt, who shot many curious glances in Mr. Darcy’s direction.

Finally, the previous set’s dancers drifted away. Mr. Darcy took Elizabeth’s hand to lead her down the stairs and into position for the next set. There were a great many couples dancing, and Elizabeth had much leisure time to converse with her partner. Unfortunately, her partner did not appear interested in conversation, even once the dancing commenced.

After a minute or two of silence, Elizabeth had grown quite annoyed. “Mr. Darcy,” she said finally, “since you and I have not been in company for above five minutes, I am at a loss to understand how I have already incurred your displeasure.”

His eyes grew wide. “Miss Bennet, I assure you that you have done nothing to displease me.”

Was a scowl his natural expression, then? “Something must have displeased you,” she replied. “For I do not believe I have ever seen anyone scowl so frequently while dancing.” She softened her words with a pert smile.

His head jerked backward. Was there truly nobody in his life who would speak to the man with any degree of sportiveness? It seemed altogether foreign to him.

The steps of the dance drew them apart, but when they were reunited, he said, “I assure you that any displeasure I might experience does not fall to you.” Ah, it must be that Mr. Wickham’s presence disturbed him. I could ask him about it, but we have already had one contentious conversation on that subject.

Mr. Darcy continued, “I was quite pleased to discover you would be in attendance tonight.”

Quite pleased? Elizabeth rather doubted that, but she made allowances for the way a man usually complimented a woman. How had he known in advance she would be at the ball?

“I will endeavor not to scowl for your sake,” Mr. Darcy said and managed a smile. It was a forced and ghastly thing.

Elizabeth laughed. “I believe, sir, that I prefer the scowl. It fits more naturally on your countenance.”

She had expected him to laugh or shrug off her teasing, but instead his face lost animation and he cast his eyes downward. Or was that her imagination? After a moment he said, “I see I must practice my smiling for your sake.”

“Do not inconvenience yourself on my account,” she retorted.

His eyes caught and held hers. “Your pleasure is never my inconvenience.”

Elizabeth swallowed, unable to look away. There was a moment of electricity between them, as if the air that separated them could burst into flames. A similar jolt of energy had occurred as they danced at the Netherfield Ball. How odd.

They were obliged to separate again and partner with the dancers adjacent to them. When they were returned to each other, Elizabeth made an inquiry after the Bingley family’s health, and the remainder of their conversation was quite civil and dull.

At the conclusion of the set, Mr. Darcy led Elizabeth toward the refreshment table and gently inquired if she would care for a glass of punch. A bit astonished that Mr. Darcy had not fled her vicinity at the first opportunity, Elizabeth replied in the affirmative. While he was fetching the punch, she took advantage of his absence to seek out Mr. Wickham. However, she could not distinguish him at all, which perplexed her greatly. The next set was beginning to form, and she expected he would come to claim her as a partner as promised.

Mr. Darcy returned with the punch, and she thanked him, drinking thirstily. Then he inquired whether she would like to cool herself with a visit to the terrace. Elizabeth blinked rapidly. Why did he wish to spend more time with her when he gained so little pleasure from it? “I promised this set to Mr. Wickham,” she said, casting her eye about the room once more.

Mr. Darcy grimaced. “Apparently he has…forgotten.” He gestured toward the dancers where Mr. Wickham was partnering the young blonde woman he had been speaking with before.

Nonplussed, Elizabeth stared for a long moment. After competing so eagerly for the chance to dance with her, why would Mr. Wickham then abandon her? Mr. Darcy regarded her with something like pity in his eyes. “Wickham’s attentions are ever fickle. Would you accompany me for a turn about the terrace? There is a matter of some urgency I must discuss with you.”

His darkly intent stare was most disconcerting, sending shivers racing along her spine. But she had no reason to refuse the request, and she was feeling more charitably inclined to him; at least he had not abandoned her to dance with someone else. Indeed, it was flattering that Mr. Darcy appeared not to have an interest in any of the other women at the ball.

Mr. Darcy offered his arm, and they climbed the steps to the French doors that opened onto the terrace. At the first blast of cold air, Elizabeth was reminded that it was indeed December. But she had grown overheated from the dancing, and the fresh air was rather appealing after the ballroom’s stuffiness. Then she perused the garden, and the temperature was forgotten. “It is snowing!” she exclaimed.

Mr. Darcy squinted into the darkness. “So it is.”