Page 58 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious "Miss B"
“Your mother appears to be taking the news of our courtship very well,” Darcy observed.
Elizabeth laughed. “My mother is a very boisterous woman. It is where Lydia gets her spirit from. She has her heart set on a wedding this year, and I truly hope Mr Bingley can deliver it.”
Darcy’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “I believe he can. I overheard him yesterday talking to Georgiana, asking her about what sort of cake women prefer for wedding cakes.”
“Did he truly?” Elizabeth’s face lit up with delight. “Oh, that is wonderful news indeed.”
“Speaking of Georgiana,” Darcy said as they completed another figure, “she and Lydia have renewed their friendship. Lydia has been a great influence on my sister.”
“And Georgiana has been equally beneficial for Lydia,” Elizabeth replied. “She has brought out a liveliness in your sister that I think had been suppressed. You should not feel badly about having thought poorly of Lydia—grief changes people in ways we cannot always predict.”
When the dance ended, they made their way to the refreshment table, where crystal glasses of champagne and delicate sweetmeats were artfully arranged.
“I see my uncle has purchased a new piece of art” Darcy asked, gesturing towards a large canvas that dominated one wall of the ballroom.
Elizabeth studied the work—a dramatic landscape with stormy skies and a lone figure standing atop a cliff. “It appears to be in the style of David Ludwig, though I cannot be certain of the attribution.”
Darcy turned to her with obvious surprise and pleasure. “You know Ludwig’s work?”
“I have always been passionate about art,” Elizabeth said. “There is something about the way he captures the sublime in nature—the way humanity appears both significant and insignificant against the vastness of the natural world.”
“Exactly!” Darcy’s face animated with enthusiasm. “Most people see only a pretty landscape, but Ludwig understands that art should evoke emotion, should make the viewer contemplate their place in the universe.”
They moved closer to the painting, their conversation flowing as they discussed technique, composition, and the philosophical implications of Romantic art. Elizabeth found herself genuinely enjoying Darcy’s company—his intelligence, his passion for subjects beyond the mundane concerns of society.
“I had not expected to find such an appreciation for art in…” she paused, realising how her words might sound.
“In a proud, disagreeable man?” Darcy suggested with a wry smile.
“I was going to say in someone of your station, but that is equally presumptuous of me.”
“We all have our depths, Miss Bennet. I suspect you have many yet to be discovered.”
As their looked at one another, that peculiar flutter in her chest rose again. There was something in his gaze—an intensity that made her pulse quicken and her breath catch.
Just then, someone jostled Elizabeth from behind, causing her to stumble forward. Her glass of wine tilted, and she watched in horror as the dark red liquid splashed across Darcy’s pristine white waistcoat and cravat.
“Oh! I am so sorry!” she exclaimed, instinctively reaching into her reticule for her handkerchief.
Without thinking, she pressed the linen against the stain, dabbing at the wine. It was only when she felt the solid wall of his chest, that she realised what she was doing. She was touching him in a way that was entirely improper—her hands moving across his torso, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing.
She looked up to find his gaze fixed on her face, his expression intense and unreadable. They stood frozen for a moment, her hands still pressed against his chest, his gaze burning into hers. The noise of the ballroom seemed to fade away, leaving only the sound of their shared breathing and the wild beating of her heart.
“Elizabeth,” he said, her name barely a whisper.
The sound of her given name on his lips sent a shock through her entire being. She became acutely aware of everything—the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric, the scent of his cologne, the way his eyes had darkened as he looked down at her.
“I—” she began, but found she had no words.
Her hands were still on his chest, and she could feel his heart beating beneath her palms, as rapid and erratic as herown. The air between them seemed charged with charge she had never experienced before. She knew she should step away, should apologise and laugh off the incident, but she found herself unable to move.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice rough. “You should—”
“Yes,” she whispered, though she made no move to withdraw her hands. “I should.”
But still, neither of them moved. The moment stretched between them, taut with possibility and fraught with danger. Elizabeth felt as though she stood on the edge of a precipice, knowing that one step forward would change everything, yet unable to step back to safety.
It was only when someone nearby cleared their throat that the spell was broken. Elizabeth snatched her hands away as if burned, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment and something else—something she was not quite ready to name.
