Page 130 of Companions of Their Youth
Her fingers tightened around the paper. Her heart warred within her, caught between fear and hope, uncertainty and desire.
But as she slowly folded the letter, her eyes lingered once more on his closing words:
I love you. I trust you. I pray you will grant me the chance to prove that your trust in me is not misplaced.
Elizabeth exhaled shakily, her tears falling freely now. She did not know what the future would bring, nor how he would respond when he finally learned the truth about her father. But she knew she could no longer imagine a future without him.
With trembling fingers, she pulled out her dance card. Taking up her pen, she carefully and deliberately filled in his name beside the supper dance, feeling as though she were signing her own heart over to him with every letter she wrote.
Her heart still held fears and doubts—but stronger than all was hope, blossoming fragile and beautiful within her breast.
∞∞∞
Darcy tugged anxiously at the cuffs of his evening jacket, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The receiving line at Netherfield stretched interminably before him, and he silently cursed Miss Bingley’s insistence that he and Colonel Fitzwilliam participate. Bad enough he was forced into superficial greetings and polite inanities; worse still was having to wait, endlessly, for Elizabeth’s arrival.
What if Mr. Bennet had never given her the letter? What if he had read it himself and withheld it—deeming Darcy’s admissions inappropriate, his explanations insufficient? The knot of anxiety in Darcy’s stomach tightened. He had placed himself entirely at her mercy, his heart laid bare on the page. She held his future in her hands—and he had no idea whether she had even seen his words.
Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned toward him, his voice low and teasing. “If you shift about any more, Darcy, they will think you have fleas.”
“Be quiet,” Darcy muttered through clenched teeth.
“Worried about your dances, are you?”
“Mind your own affairs, Richard.” Darcy scowled.
Fitzwilliam’s grin widened. “I would rather mind yours. They are infinitely more entertaining.”
Darcy shot him a fierce glare. “Richard, for once in your life, please hold your tongue.”
Fitzwilliam chuckled softly but mercifully fell silent.
The doors opened again, and Darcy’s breath caught painfully in his chest.
Mr. and Mrs. Bennet entered first, followed closely by their daughters. Darcy scarcely noticed Jane’s graceful beauty or Kitty’s wide-eyed delight. His entire world narrowed in on Elizabeth alone.
She moved gracefully into the room, delicate cream silk whispering softly against her figure. Candlelight illuminated the faint gold embroidery along her gown’s neckline and hem, anda slender satin ribbon accentuated her curves. Short, puffed sleeves ended in scalloped lace, revealing slender, graceful arms that still hid the mark from where she had been stabbed. The ivory fabric clung to her curves, seeming to glow softly in the warm candlelit room. Her dark curls were arranged elegantly atop her head, threaded with tiny pearls that gleamed softly in the candlelight, a few tendrils artfully framing her face.
She wore no jewels but those in her hair, and yet she outshone every other lady in the room.
He could scarcely breathe.
Did she read the letter? Does she understand?
The Bennets moved slowly down the line, exchanging pleasantries with Miss Bingley and Bingley himself. With each step closer, Darcy’s heartbeat quickened. His pulse hammered painfully in his ears, drowning out all other sound.
At last, she stood before him. He bowed deeply. “Miss Elizabeth.”
“Mr. Darcy,” she murmured, dipping into a graceful curtsy. Her voice was soft, but he detected a faint quiver.
When he rose, his eyes immediately sought her wrist. Her dance card swung gently from a delicate satin ribbon, frustratingly hiding the names. Did she choose to leave both dances blank? Had she reconsidered and scratched his name from the card altogether?
The uncertainty threatened to break him. How could he stand here, not knowing?
Elizabeth hesitated, as though sensing his turmoil. In one smooth, deliberate gesture, she caught the little card betweenher slender fingers, turning her wrist so that the elegant handwriting became plainly visible to him.
There was his name—once, and then again clearly marked for the supper dance.
A surge of relief and joy so profound it nearly staggered him flooded through his chest. His eyes rose to meet hers, hope blazing in their depths. She offered a soft, tentative smile, her gaze holding his for a long, precious moment. The warmth in her expression eased every fear that had plagued him since their quarrel.
