Page 16 of A November to Remember

“Capital, Mr Darcy! A capital evening, is it not?”

Sir William Lucas had appeared before the window, immune to the icy fortress Darcy had erected around himself. Trailing behind the knight, looking distinctly as though she would rather be standing in the downpour outside, was Miss Elizabeth.

Darcy stiffened. He fully intended to dispatch Sir William with a monosyllabic grunt and resume his vigil, but as his gaze flicked to her, the grunt died in his throat.

She was looking at him, her eyes bright and crackling with a suppressed, righteous fury that he found utterly captivating. She seemed to be calculating the exact amount of force required to push him through the glass pane behind him.

Sir William continued, without noticing the cold atmosphere between the two young people. “I have been observing your solitude, sir, and I cannot allow a guest of our county to stand idle while the music plays! Allow me to present Miss Elizabeth, a dancer of most exceptional grace. You could not ask for a finer partner.”

Darcy surprised himself as well as Sir William. He certainly surprised Miss Elizabeth. Instead of delivering his customary refusal, he took a deliberate step forward and executed a flawless, courtly bow.

“It would be an honour,” Darcy heard his own voice say. “Miss Elizabeth, may I request the pleasure of your hand for the next dance?”

Miss Elizabeth’s smile, when it arrived, was a masterpiece of polite warfare. It was radiant, sweet, and substantially colder than the rain lashing against the glass.

“I thank you, Mr Darcy, for your very generous offer,” she said. “However, I must respectfully decline. I fear my abilities are merely tolerable at best, and I should be devastated to inflict a partner on you who is not handsome enough to tempt you from your corner.”

Sir William’s jaw dropped. He let out a confused, wounded squeak, his eyes darting between them as if they had suddenly begun conversing in Chaldean.

Miss Elizabeth maintained Darcy’s stunned gaze for one victorious, glittering second, curtsied with immaculate grace, and turned her back on him, walking away to join her friend.

Darcy remained rooted to the spot, his outstretched hand dropping to his side.

Sir William bowed, murmured an excuse and fled as if the devil was on his heels.

“Well,” a voice murmured behind his left shoulder.

Darcy blinked, turning his head stiffly. Robert and Richard stood by his side, both wearing the smiles of vultures that had spotted a field mouse.

“Your pride is a fatal flaw, Darcy.” Richard pointed at Darcy’s chest. “You believe you can insult these people because they lack London polish. That girl just proved you wrong. She holds the high ground. You are now the miserable snob from Derbyshire, and she is the witty local heroine who bested you with a few words and a smile.”

“I am not a snob,” Darcy ground out.

Miss Elizabeth walked past them on the plain girl’s arm.

“It is a pity he is so disagreeable.” Her voice carried clearly over the noise of the guests. “I suppose money can acquire excellent waistcoats and carriages. Manners, however, are more expensive, Charlotte, do you not think?”

Miss Lucas snorted and the two women continued to the refreshment table.

Darcy squeezed his eyes shut while his cousins erupted into muffled laughter.

“You require medical attention.” Robert clapped him on the shoulder. “The lacerations are severe.”

“We need brandy,” Richard stated. “It is the only remedy for a shattered pride.”

Darcy remained trapped before the rain-streaked window, marooned in a sea of locals, ridiculed by his own family, and bested by a girl with fine eyes. He prayed for the floorboards to snap, cave in, and bury him in the cellar below.

Chapter Four: The Morning After the Carnage

October 27th, 1811

The Bennet family had decided to forgo Sunday service upon returning late from Lucas Lodge the previous night. After breakfast, Elizabeth slipped out. Atop Oakham Mount, the morning air was sharp enough to slice glass, and she breathed it in, its keen edge matching her sense of victory.

The three-mile walk from Longbourn had been brisk, the frost crunching satisfyingly beneath her half-boots, and the physical exertion had done what she had hoped: it had burned away the residual aggravations of the previous evening. She felt relaxed, a state of being she had not experienced since Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy had dragged his brooding presence into Hertfordshire.

She paused at the summit, letting the biting October wind whip a stray dark curl across her cheek. She had shed the tension of the Lucas Lodge card party somewhere around the second mile. What remained was a thrumming exhilaration.

Manners, however, are more expensive.