13. Thirteen

Thirteen

S ir Thomas paced the length of the drawing room, his hands clasped behind his back. Darcy and Bingley sat nearby, Bingley’s leg bouncing with what could only be described as restrained eagerness. Darcy, for his part, looked immaculately calm, though his fingers tapped lightly against the arm of his chair.

“It is unusual,” Sir Thomas said at last, breaking the silence. “Most unusual, in fact.”

“Sir?” Darcy asked, arching a brow.

Sir Thomas paused, his face troubled but faintly amused. “Mr. Bennet replied to my invitation almost at once. That in itself is unexpected—he is known, I gather, for being a rather… unhurried correspondent.”

“Perhaps he is a man who values good company,” Bingley offered.

“Perhaps,” Sir Thomas allowed, though his expression suggested otherwise. “But more curious still is the request he made. He asked if his two eldest daughters might accompany him to dinner this evening.”

Darcy blinked, straightening slightly in his chair. “His daughters?”

Sir Thomas nodded, his brow furrowing. “I can only surmise that the Misses Bennet wish to call upon some of the ladies of the house. They have shown kindnesses to our… residents before, albeit discreetly. I expect they see this as an opportunity to extend their sympathies more openly.”

Bingley sat forward, his grin widening. “Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth? Truly? How splendid! What remarkable foresight of Mr. Bennet to bring such delightful company.”

Sir Thomas glanced between the two men, his brow lifting slightly as if recalibrating his assumptions. “Remarkable, indeed,” he murmured, though the faintest of smiles tugged at his lips. He turned to Darcy, who met his gaze with a long-suffering expression before rolling his eyes and leaning back in his chair.

“Of course,” Sir Thomas continued, his tone light but his eyes shrewd, “it could be that their father simply wished to ease the evening’s discourse. Young ladies often enliven such gatherings, do they not?”

Bingley nodded vigorously. “Quite so, Sir Thomas! And as we are but a small group tonight, their presence will undoubtedly make the evening all the more pleasant.”

Darcy said nothing, though his silence was eloquent enough.

Bingley caught it and his manner darkened somewhat. “You fear some ill consequence, Darcy?”

Darcy glanced at Sir Thomas, who dropped his gaze the instant Darcy’s eyes touched his. “What do you think, Bingley?”

“Well, I… I hardly know, I suppose. Their father is escorting them, so there must be nothing improper—”

“If… only it were that simple, Bingley,” Sir Thomas sighed. “But Darcy is right. The Bennet ladies risk their reputations by being allied with this house.”

“But that is the very point of this party,” Bingley protested. “They shall be no different from any other who comes to delight themselves in the joys of the season.”

“You are ignoring the salient point that nothing has changed yet ,” Darcy replied. “And a gentlemen’s dinner with no present hostess is hardly the time and place to begin.”

“Oh, well, I am sure—”

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of harness bells jingling to a halt outside the house. Sir Thomas moved to the window, glancing out. “That must be them.”

Bingley was already on his feet, smoothing his coat and adjusting his cravat. Darcy rose more deliberately, brushing an invisible speck from his sleeve as they all filed out into the hall.

The front door opened with a brisk creak, allowing a gust of cold air to swirl into the hall, accompanied by a murmur of voices. Footsteps rang sharply on the stone floor before Mr. Bennet emerged in the doorway, his smile curling beneath his neatly trimmed grey whiskers. His eyes, keen and sharp as a hawk’s, surveyed the room with an air of detached amusement, as though he found the company—Darcy and Bingley included—a source of quiet mirth. Darcy noted the worn but dignified cut of his coat and the way his frame, still sturdy despite his years, carried a hint of impatience, as though the man had stepped into the company of others largely for his own amusement.

But Darcy’s attention wandered almost at once, drawn irresistibly to Elizabeth as she stepped lightly into the room behind her father. The faint flush on her cheeks from the cold heightened the brightness of her crystal-blue eyes, and the dark tendrils of hair peeking from beneath her bonnet seemed to beckon the firelight. The cloak draped over her shoulders, dusted with melting snowflakes, framed her figure with an elegance so effortless that Darcy momentarily forgot the others in the room. It was not merely her beauty that held him; it was the energy she carried, a vibrant contrast to the gray day outside.

Elizabeth’s gaze flicked to his—brief, fleeting, but enough to send a warmth coursing through him that the fire in the hearth could never rival. He straightened slightly, as though to meet her challenge, but the moment passed when Mr. Bennet cleared his throat, his wry expression suggesting he had missed nothing.

“Good evening, Sir Thomas,” Mr. Bennet said, bowing. “And may I present my daughters, Miss Jane Bennet and Miss Elizabeth?”

Sir Thomas stepped forward with an amiable smile. “Mr. Bennet, a pleasure. Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, welcome to Netherfield.”

Jane curtsied gracefully, her serene expression warming the room. “Thank you, Sir Thomas. Your home is lovely.”

Elizabeth followed suit, though her gaze flickered briefly to Darcy before she quickly looked away. “You are most kind to host us.”

“Not at all,” Sir Thomas replied. “Your father spoke so highly of you both that I could hardly refuse such company.” He gestured to Bingley and Darcy. “You already know my guests, I believe—Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy.”

Bingley bowed and stepped forward, his face lit with unmistakable delight. “Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, this is an unexpected pleasure! We did not expect that we would have such charming company tonight.”

Miss Elizabeth’s lips twitched, though her expression remained polite. “The pleasure is ours, Mr. Bingley.”

Darcy inclined his head in a reserved bow. “Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth.”

Miss Bennet returned his bow with a slight curtsy, but Elizabeth simply nodded, her eyes fixed on him with the curious light of one who is in on a secret.

Sir Thomas gestured toward the drawing room. “Shall we all sit? Dinner will be ready shortly, and I trust the warmth of the fire will be welcome after your journey.”

As they moved into the room, Sir Thomas glanced briefly at Darcy, his brow raising as if to say, You are sure there is nothing of interest here for you? Darcy returned his look with the barest lift of his chin before settling into his seat, deliberately positioning himself farthest from Elizabeth.

The evening was off to a curious start.

T he table was laid with quiet elegance, the silver catching the glow of the candles as Elizabeth tried to focus on the soup before her. She dared not look directly at Mr. Darcy, who was seated across from her, but she was keenly aware of his presence. Every movement—his deliberate gestures, the quiet assurance in his voice—seemed to draw her attention like a compass needle to the north.

She risked a glance. He was speaking to her father, his low, even tone carrying across the table. There was nothing rushed about the way he spoke, nothing uncertain. The words fell from his lips with the weight of someone accustomed to command, and yet, there was no arrogance in his manner. For reasons she could not quite name, her fingers tightened on her spoon.

“It is an opportunity, Mr. Bennet,” Darcy said, “to bring the community together. Sir Thomas has expressed a willingness to host the gathering at Netherfield, which, given the season, seems a most fitting location.”

Her father’s brow rose ever so slightly, but he made no immediate reply. Elizabeth had spent enough time watching her father deflect serious conversation to recognize the signs of amusement simmering beneath his expression. She turned her attention back to her soup.

Mr. Bingley leaned forward, his enthusiasm poorly contained. “And we thought, what better time than Christmas? A celebration to uplift everyone’s spirits, rekindle old friendships, and perhaps even mend some unfortunate misconceptions. There could be music, a grand supper, maybe even—”

“—an opportunity to foster goodwill and unity,” Mr. Darcy interrupted, his tone deliberate, clearly an effort to rein in Bingley’s unchecked zeal. “Sir Thomas has graciously offered the use of Netherfield’s ballroom.”

Elizabeth caught the faintest twitch at the corner of Darcy’s mouth as he glanced at Bingley, smoothing his expression before turning back to her father. She bit back a smile. The dynamic between the two men was fascinating—one brimming with unchecked energy, the other moving through the conversation like a careful chess master. For all of Darcy’s composed exterior, she could sense his subtle effort to keep things dignified.

“And what sort of celebration, exactly, are you envisioning?” her father finally asked, setting down his spoon and leaning back in his chair.

“A Christmas party,” Mr. Bingley said, leaning forward slightly. “Open to everyone in the neighborhood, of course—families, the gentry, even tradespeople—innkeepers, haberdashers, blacksmiths. It could be splendid! There could be music, dancing, a grand supper—perhaps even some entertainment or—”

“—a chance for the neighborhood to come together,” Darcy said, cutting in smoothly, steering the conversation back to his controlled narrative.

Elizabeth glanced between them. Mr. Bingley seemed poised to overflow with ideas, while Mr. Darcy reined him in with the steady hand of someone well-practiced at tempering excess. Their dynamic, she thought, had a rhythm almost too perfect to be entirely accidental.

Jane, seated beside her, attempted to join the conversation. “It sounds like a lovely idea, does it not, Papa? A chance to bring some much-needed warmth to the season.”

Elizabeth nearly rolled her eyes. Jane’s tone was too sweet, her suggestion too transparent.

“And you, Miss Elizabeth?” Mr. Darcy asked suddenly, drawing her attention. “What is your opinion? If you were not sitting here listening to plans—if you were a disinterested party, would an event of this nature meet with your approval?”

Elizabeth blinked, the directness of his question leaving her momentarily unmoored. There was no disdain in his expression, no mockery. Only the sharp, unwavering focus of someone who genuinely wished to know her thoughts.

Her pulse quickened, though she forced herself to keep her tone light. “Approval?” she echoed. “I hardly think my opinion should matter in such an undertaking, Mr. Darcy.”

“It matters to me,” he replied without hesitation.

Elizabeth felt her breath hitch. There was no artifice in his words, no attempt to flatter. She could feel the heat rise to her cheeks, and though she managed to keep her composure, her spoon trembled slightly as she set it back in her bowl.

Her father snorted quietly, though he said nothing. Elizabeth, catching his glance, narrowed her eyes slightly before turning back to Darcy. “I think it is an admirable idea, though it is rather ambitious. Perhaps too ambitious?”

Sir Thomas, who had thus far remained silent, cleared his throat. “The success of such a party would depend greatly on its execution. I must confess, I have not hosted anything of this scale before. It is fortunate that Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy seem to have given the matter so much thought.”

“They have, have they?” Mr. Bennet interjected, his tone as dry as tinder. “It is almost as though this plan had been contrived well before this dinner conversation. Though I wonder if I might suspect there has been sleight of hand occurring long before tonight?”

Elizabeth froze, her glass halting halfway to her lips. She glanced quickly at her father, only to find him looking directly at her, one brow arched in faint amusement. Her stomach dropped.

Bingley, oblivious, forged ahead. “Oh, Mr. Bennet, I assure you, it is all in the spirit of the season. Nothing underhanded, I promise.”

Her father’s gaze shifted to Bingley, his smile deepening. “I do not doubt that, Mr. Bingley. But I am becoming increasingly aware that some individuals”—he chanced a glance at Mr. Darcy, then looked pointedly at Elizabeth— “are more adept at orchestrating events than they let on.”

Elizabeth felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She cast a sharp glance at Jane, who was studiously avoiding her gaze by inspecting her plate with great interest. Of course, her father had seen the glances she traded with Mr. Darcy, and he was just obstinate enough to misread her role in this. He probably blamed her, as though she were the one pulling all the strings!

Darcy’s eyes flicked toward her, and there was something faintly amused about the way his gaze lingered. Elizabeth forced herself to pick up her spoon, pretending to focus on her meal, though her mind churned with indignation—and perhaps a trace of mortification.

Across the table, her father lifted his glass, a glint of humor in his eyes as he addressed the gentlemen. “Well, then. A Christmas party, you say? If nothing else, I am sure it shall be an event to remember.”

D arcy had scarcely taken his seat in the drawing room when the door opened, and the footman with the missing hand stepped inside. He inclined his head respectfully, though his expression was tight.

“Sir Thomas,” he began, “Mr. Bennet’s coachman has asked me to deliver a concern. The snow is falling harder now, and he fears the roads will soon be impassable.”

Everyone paused. The light conversation they had carried over from the dining room dissolved into silence as all eyes turned toward Sir Thomas.

Darcy rose from his chair almost instinctively, glancing toward the tall windows. The snow that had begun so softly earlier was now swirling heavily against the panes. “It may already be too dangerous,” he said.

Miss Elizabeth stood as well, her face set in that familiar blend of determination and practicality. “Surely it is not so dire yet? If we left at once—”

“Let us have a look,” Sir Thomas said, motioning for everyone to follow.

Darcy was at Miss Elizabeth’s side as they moved toward the front door. Close enough to feel the gentle sway of her skirts brushing against his leg, close enough to catch the faint scent of vanilla and cloves that seemed to linger around her. It was entirely distracting—and entirely unfair.

The footman held the door open for them, and a gust of icy air swept inside. Miss Elizabeth wrapped her shawl tighter around herself as Darcy stepped forward, standing just a little ahead of her to shield her from the worst of the wind. He looked out into the darkness, where the snow fell in thick, relentless sheets, blanketing the ground faster than he would have thought possible.

“Well, that settles it,” Mr. Bennet said behind him. “I shall have to take up permanent lodgings here until the thaw.”

Sir Thomas smiled faintly, though he looked far from amused. “I am, of course, prepared to offer you shelter for the night. However…” His gaze flicked toward Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth, his face growing serious. “There is something you must consider, Mr. Bennet.”

Miss Elizabeth frowned. “What do you mean?”

Sir Thomas hesitated. “Staying here overnight… may not be without consequence.”

Miss Elizabeth stiffened. “You mean… because of the rumors?”

“I am afraid so. I would not have you or Miss Bennet unaware of the potential harm to your reputations. I have been called many things in this neighborhood, as you well know. If word spreads that you spent the night here, even with your father as a chaperone, I cannot guarantee the damage will not be lasting.”

Miss Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Miss Bennet, whose pale face betrayed a flicker of unease. But their father seemed unbothered, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips.

“Well, if it means surviving the night, I think we shall just have to take our chances. Snowstorms, I believe, care very little for reputations.”

Miss Elizabeth’s lips pushed into a pout so delicious, Darcy was suddenly overtaken with visions of kissing those plump lips. “Indeed, Papa. If we do not stay, it seems we may not survive to hear the town’s gossip anyway.”

Darcy glanced toward her. Her gallows humor in the face of such an unflattering prospect was admirable—and so distinctly her. Yet beneath her words, he thought he caught the faintest thread of uncertainty. The idea of her being subjected to the harsh judgment of others stirred something protective deep within him.

Sir Thomas nodded, his expression heavy. “Very well. It is settled, then. Rooms shall be prepared for you and your daughters, Mr. Bennet.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Bennet said. “Now, if it is all the same to everyone, I should like to return to that drawing room and finish the glass of brandy I was so unceremoniously pulled away from.”

The others laughed softly, the tension easing slightly as they turned back toward the warmth of the hearth. Darcy lingered for a moment, holding the door as Miss Elizabeth passed.

“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” she said quietly.

He gave a short nod, watching her retreat with her sister down the hall. He was meant to feel concerned for the awkward situation the storm had created—but instead, he found himself secretly, selfishly pleased. Miss Elizabeth Bennet would not be rushing away tonight.