25. Twenty-Five

Twenty-Five

D arcy squared his shoulders and looked to the door as the sound of sleigh bells echoed through the crisp evening air, the latest guests arriving in a flurry of muffled laughter and swirling cloaks. He extended a hand to Sir William Lucas, whose rosy cheeks betrayed the chill outside.

“Welcome, sir, and Merry Christmas! Do, come warm yourself by the fire,” Darcy said with a slight nod, gesturing toward the warmth of the house.

Sir William nodded in return. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. Quite the gathering you have here.”

“Indeed,” added Lady. Lucas, unbuttoning her cloak as she scanned the crowd with wide eyes. “The entire neighborhood seems to be here. Even those who swore they would never set foot in Netherfield.”

Darcy allowed himself a faint smile. “That was the hope.”

He turned as Roberts escorted another group inside, their voices overlapping with the strains of a lively violin tune spilling from the ballroom. Darcy moved to greet them, shaking hands and exchanging polite words. Each new arrival brought a fresh wave of skepticism that gradually melted as the festive atmosphere worked its charm. The scent of spiced punch and roasting meats wafted through the air, and the warm glow of candlelight reflected in the polished floors and gleaming mirrors.

“Darcy,” Richard greeted, appearing at his side with a glass in hand. “I have never seen you in such a state. You are practically the spirit of the evening.”

Darcy glanced at him, arching a brow. “I would not go that far.”

Fitzwilliam chuckled. “Oh, come now. Look at you—shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries, even smiling occasionally.”

Darcy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “If you have something to say, Fitzwilliam, say it.”

“I already have.” Fitzwilliam sipped his drink, his smirk widening. “You’re enjoying yourself.”

“Perhaps.” Darcy turned his gaze back to the crowd, his expression neutral, though a flicker of truth danced in his cousin’s words. This evening was not the usual tedious affair of London society. It was different. Purposeful.

His eyes tracked Watts, one of the men Sir Thomas had saved from a French gaol, who was holding court near the refreshment table. Watts’s deep voice carried over the hum of conversation as he shared stories of the trials Sir Thomas had endured for his men. The gentlemen around him were joining in with similar tales.

“You chose well in inviting them,” Fitzwilliam remarked, following Darcy’s gaze. “Watts, Pence, and Drummond, and I think I also spotted Michaels, Anderson, Williams… egad, is that Pierce and Tollman? Our entire rooming house from Paris seems to be here tonight! Solid men, the lot of them.”

“They were Sir Thomas’s men first,” Darcy replied. “It is only right they should be here to speak on his behalf.”

Fitzwilliam tilted his head. “And here you are, orchestrating the grand event as if it were your life’s calling. Are you sure you’re not seeking public office?”

Darcy gave him a sharp look. “I assure you, I am not.”

Fitzwilliam held up a hand in mock surrender. “Easy, Cousin. Only teasing.” He gestured toward the ballroom, where music swelled, and voices grew louder. “Though I must say, you’ve created something remarkable here. Even the matrons of Meryton seem to be reconsidering their initial reservations.”

Darcy followed his cousin’s gaze to the far side of the room. The older women of Meryton clustered together, their heads bent in conversation, their glances darting toward the women from Netherfield. They were split along clear lines, but Darcy noted a few tentative smiles and nods exchanged between the groups.

“It will take time,” Darcy said. “But the first steps are being taken.”

Fitzwilliam grinned. “First steps, indeed. Though you might find the second steps more challenging—especially with so many eyes watching.”

Darcy did not reply, his focus shifting to the door as Roberts admitted yet another group of guests. He straightened slightly, his pulse quickening as he scanned the arrivals. But the familiar figure he hoped to see was not among them. Of course, she was not.

“Still waiting for someone?” Fitzwilliam asked.

Waiting … No, he was not waiting. She knew all about this party. She could have come back if she had wanted… if she could find it in her to change her mind, to give him a chance…

But the rest of the Bennets were all here—Miss Catherine sitting by the fireplace, Miss Lydia already laughing by the punch bowl, and Miss Bennet was probably on Bingley’s arm somewhere. Elizabeth… was not here.

Darcy sighed and turned back to the crowd. “This is going well. But it is not enough yet,” he said quietly. He handed his glass to a passing footman and crossed the room.

The colonel followed. “What are you planning now?”

Darcy ignored him. Instead, he stopped near Mrs. Long and her niece. “Mrs. Long, how wonderful to see you this evening,” he said warmly.

Mrs. Long blinked at him, clearly taken aback. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice wary.

He gestured toward the women from Netherfield. “I wonder if I might introduce you to Miss Maryanne? She has an eye for embroidery that rivals anything I have seen from London.”

Mrs. Long hesitated, glancing toward the younger woman. But Darcy would brook no hesitation, and she seemed reluctant to defy him. In this, his experience brokering business deals and carrying his way served him well.

“Well,” she said finally, “if you think so highly of her…”

“I do,” Darcy said firmly. “I am certain you shall find her delightful.”

Mrs. Long allowed herself to be drawn into conversation, and Darcy moved on, repeating the process with another guest, then another. Soon, the lines between groups began to blur. The music swelled, and laughter rose above the murmur of conversation.

Fitzwilliam shook his head in disbelief as Darcy returned to his side. “You are a marvel. I half expect you to start matchmaking next.”

Darcy gave him a sharp look. “Do not tempt me.”

The colonel laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Whatever has come over you, Cousin, I approve. If only London could see this side of you.”

Darcy allowed himself a faint smile. “Perhaps London underestimates what is possible when people are treated with dignity.”

The colonel tilted his glass in a mock salute. “Well said. Now, do tell me, are you pacing yourself, or do you plan to collapse before midnight?”

Darcy ignored him, his attention drawn to a cluster of women standing near the far end of the room. The women of Netherfield; their gowns might be borrowed, but the joy in their eyes tonight—that was all their own. Slowly, they were being drawn into the crowd, thanks in no small part to Sir Thomas, who had stationed himself near the dance floor.

Darcy crossed the room, pausing to speak with Mr. Drummond, who was laughing with a young shopkeeper. “It seems you are already making friends, Drummond.”

The man chuckled. “It is easy enough when there is good company and better punch. Do you know, I felt rather badly sending my regrets to Gardiner on such short notice, but he was all for it.”

“Yes, I sent him a note of apology when I realized I was stealing some of his guests. He wrote back that he quite understood and wished us merry.”

“Very jolly of him! Good show, Darcy. Excellent wine, bit of good meat. Not sorry I left London, my good man, not one bit.”

Darcy glanced around, taking in the mingling guests, the growing ease between groups that had once seemed insurmountable. “Well, do enjoy yourself. Excuse me, please.”

He had just rejoined Richard in the hall when a sudden burst of laughter—familiar laughter—drew his attention. He turned—and froze when he saw her .

The world shifted beneath him. Elizabeth Bennet stood near the far edge of the crowd, speaking with one of Sir Thomas’s former soldiers. The starry blue of her gown caught the light with every movement as if it had been made to reflect the brilliance of her eyes. Her dark hair, arranged in soft curls, framed her face with an elegance that struck him like a physical blow. She laughed at something her companion said—lightly, warmly—and the sound sent a jolt through him, a sound he had feared he might never hear again.

And then, as if sensing him, she turned.

Their eyes met, and Darcy’s heart stopped. For a fleeting moment, he could not breathe, could not think. There was only her, standing there as if conjured by some unspoken prayer. The tension that had gripped him since London unraveled in an instant, replaced by an astonishment so raw it nearly staggered him.

She had come back. And she was smiling… at him.

A quiet stillness seeped into his soul, as though the world had paused for just a moment, leaving him with nothing but the undeniable clarity of what he felt. Everything—the music, the hum of voices, the careful arrangements he had labored over for weeks—receded into the background. The world narrowed until it held only her.

Beside him, Richard gave a low, amused whistle. “Well,” the colonel murmured, “I think I’ve just gained an answer to a question I hadn’t even asked.”

Darcy barely heard him. His gaze never left Elizabeth as he started forward, his steps slow but deliberate. Each movement felt like a promise, the weight of every unspoken word driving him toward her. The world might crumble around him, but in this moment, none of it mattered.

She was here—the best Christmas gift he could have ever asked for. Elizabeth Bennet, smiling and laughing and looking as though she had been waiting, just to speak to him.

And tonight—tonight—he would ask for next Christmas, too. And all the ones after that.

T here he was.

Mr. Darcy stood near the entryway, his dark coat and perfectly tailored attire cutting him out from the haze that went unfocused behind him. The flickering candlelight danced over his face, and his gaze found hers with an intensity that seemed to make the air between them hum. Elizabeth’s steps faltered, her heart thudding unevenly as her breath faltered.

He moved toward her, weaving through the crowd as if they were not even there. “Miss Elizabeth.”

“Mr. Darcy.”

His gaze swept over her, lingering on the sweep of her blue gown and then rising to her eyes. “You look…” He hesitated, the corners of his mouth softening. “You look stunning.”

Warmth bloomed in her cheeks, but she refused to drop her gaze. “Very kind of you, sir.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice to something meant only for her. “I am not nearly kind enough to do you justice.”

Elizabeth’s breath hitched again, but this time, she did not hide it. Her hands fidgeted briefly at her sides before she clasped them to still their movement. “Mr. Darcy,” she began, her voice softening, “there is something I must say.”

He stiffened slightly, his posture becoming more formal. “Of course.”

Her gaze flicked toward the glittering ballroom, where laughter and music spilled out, before she brought it back to his. “I owe you an apology.”

His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. “An apology?”

“Yes.” She swallowed hard, her voice trembling just slightly. “I was wrong about you. About… so much. We had so many plans, talked of so many things, but then I just left it all—left you for London, because I believed—I feared…” She stopped, her courage faltering momentarily under the weight of her own words. “I—I was unfair to you.”

Darcy’s expression darkened slightly, though not with anger. “Fitzwilliam,” he muttered under his breath. “He told me that he spoke to you at dinner. What did he say?”

Elizabeth’s lips twitched in a fleeting smile. “Nothing that he did not believe to be in your favor, I think. The fault is mine, entirely.”

He shook his head, his hands flexing at his sides. “No. My cousin is too often clumsy with his good intentions. And I… I should have made myself clearer. I should have spoken sooner.”

“Perhaps.” Her voice softened as she met his eyes. “But it does not excuse me. I doubted your character when I should not have. And, for that, I am truly sorry.”

For a moment, Darcy said nothing. Then, quietly, he asked, “Do you still?”

Her heart twisted, her breath leaving her in a rush. “No,” she said simply. “No, Mr. Darcy. I do not, and I never shall again.”

His shoulders loosened just slightly as his eyes searched hers for something deeper. “You cannot know what it means to hear you say that.”

Elizabeth allowed herself to smile now, a small but genuine curve of her lips. “Perhaps I do.”

The strains of a Christmas hymn floated through the air, mingling with the chatter of guests and the clink of glasses. Elizabeth glanced toward the sound, and Darcy followed her gaze, his expression softening further.

“Would you walk with me?” he asked, his tone hesitant but hopeful. “There is something I would very much like to say now.”

Elizabeth nodded, the warmth in her chest blooming fully. “I would like that.”

As they moved toward the edge of the room, Darcy offered his arm, and she took it without hesitation. And finally, the heavy clouds of doubt begin to lift, and in their place came something lighter, brighter—something that felt remarkably like hope.