26. Twenty-Six

Twenty-Six

E lizabeth linked her arm with Darcy’s as they strolled toward the ballroom, the murmur of voices and strains of music growing louder with each step. Just as they reached the arched entryway, a flurry of motion nearly collided with them—Lydia, darting past with a shoe rose in one hand and a glass of punch in the other.

“Lydia!” Elizabeth exclaimed, instinctively pulling Darcy to the side. “Must you charge about like a startled goose?”

Lydia whirled, grinning unapologetically. “They’re starting carols, Lizzy! You’ll miss it if you don’t hurry!”

Darcy arched a brow, adjusting his coat as if it had been personally affronted by Lydia’s exuberance. “Is this a common occurrence?”

Elizabeth stifled a laugh. “Only when Lydia has been left unchecked for more than five minutes.”

“I see.”

She stood on her toes, bringing her mouth near his cheek. “I fear you will get used to her, sooner or later. Whether she will ever be corrected remains to be seen.”

Darcy’s cheek had darkened hues, and the smile he gave her then was almost bashful. “Is that a test, Elizabeth?”

She grinned. “What do you think?”

He closed his other hand over hers where it rested in the crook of his elbow. “I have never liked failing tests, so I do not mean to fail this one.”

Elizabeth squeezed his arm. “Good answer.”

They entered the ballroom, where the chandeliers glowed warmly, their light reflecting off polished floors and gleaming decorations. Elizabeth let her gaze sweep the room. Groups of guests mingled near the refreshment tables, some laughing and gesturing, while others stood stiffly, their faces betraying their unease. The ladies of Sir Thomas’s household lingered at the edges, their borrowed gowns beautifully fitted but their smiles hesitant.

“Do you see Mrs. Long?” Jane’s voice came from just behind them, her tone both hopeful and wary. “She promised to bring her niece, but I cannot find her anywhere.”

Elizabeth turned, her brows lifting as she spotted the older woman by the punch bowl, clutching her cup as if it might ward off any overly friendly advances. “There she is. Though I suspect her niece has fled to a safer distance.”

Darcy followed her gaze, a faint curve appearing at the corner of his mouth. “Your neighbors are… reserved.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, suppressing a smirk. “Reserved is a generous term.”

Across the room, Mr. Bingley leaped onto a small platform, narrowly avoiding knocking over a harpist’s music stand. He clapped his hands together, his voice booming. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to raise our voices in some Christmas cheer!”

A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd, though some guests exchanged uncertain glances. The matrons of Meryton had broken off from their daring socializing of earlier, and now clustered like wary hens, their eyes darting toward the residents of Netherfield with a mix of curiosity and disdain.

Elizabeth squeezed Darcy’s arm lightly. “Do you think your friend can charm them into song?”

“If anyone can, it is Bingley. Though I doubt even he can break through Mrs. Long’s fortress of propriety.”

As if in answer, Bingley gestured grandly to the musicians, who began the opening notes of God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen. His enthusiasm was contagious, and soon, a few brave voices joined in.

A particularly spirited rendition from Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was standing at the front of the room, caught Elizabeth’s attention. His deep baritone was unexpectedly robust—and a little off-key.

Elizabeth laughed softly. “Your cousin appears determined to lead the charge.”

Darcy glanced at Fitzwilliam, whose arms were now gesturing dramatically to encourage others. “Determined, yes. Tuneful, no.”

Their shared laughter felt like a balm, and Elizabeth found herself leaning just slightly closer to Darcy. “Do you sing, Mr. Darcy?”

“Not in public,” he said firmly, though his expression softened as he glanced down at her. “But I will gladly accompany you if you wish.”

The warmth in his voice stirred something in her, and for a moment, she forgot the hum of the crowd or the music filling the room. It was just him—steady, certain, and looking at her as though no one else in the world mattered.

By the time they reached the final verse, the entire room was singing, even the most skeptical of Meryton’s matrons. Elizabeth glanced across the room and saw Sir Thomas standing near the doorway, his expression awash in gratitude and relief as he watched the transformation unfolding before him.

“Excellent!” Bingley exclaimed as the song ended, his face alight with pleasure. “Now, let us try something a bit livelier! How about ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’?”

The musicians obliged, launching into a sprightly rendition, complete with several comical “mistakes and interruptions”—probably staged ahead of time by Mr. Bingley—that had several younger guests laughing and clapping along.

“You sing beautifully, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

Elizabeth felt her cheeks warm under his steady gaze. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. You sing rather well yourself.”

“I cannot promise to join the choir, but I shall do my best to support the effort.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply, but Bingley’s voice called from across the room, drawing Darcy’s attention. He turned, his expression shifting into something sharper, more focused.

“Forgive me, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, inclining his head. “Bingley appears to need me for something. I will return shortly.”

Elizabeth nodded, her pulse fluttering as his gaze lingered on hers for just a moment longer before he turned and strode toward Bingley. She watched him weave through the gathering, his tall figure effortlessly commanding the space. When she finally looked away, Jane was beside her, her gaze sweeping the room.

“A promising start, do you not think?” Jane murmured, her tone as light as her teasing glance.

Elizabeth smiled, but kept her eyes trained on Darcy’s retreating figure. “It seems so,” she said, though her thoughts were already following him.

There was something about the way he moved through the room, his interactions measured but sincere, that seemed to draw others to him despite his usual reserve. It was a side of him she had not fully seen before—she doubted anyone had.

The caroling continued, each song weaving a thread of unity among the guests. By the time the musicians played the final notes of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” the earlier tension in the room had all but melted away, leaving only warmth and good cheer… and several jests from slightly inebriated gentlemen asking where the figgy pudding was.

Elizabeth glanced toward Darcy once more, only to find his gaze already on her. For a fleeting moment, the room seemed to quiet, the hum of voices fading into the distance. She inclined her head slightly, a silent acknowledgment of something unspoken between them, before turning back to Jane.

As the singing broke up, guests clustered into groups for parlor games. A table near the center was surrounded by animated players engaged in Spillikins, while another corner hosted a spirited round of charades. Elizabeth lingered near the refreshments, watching Jane and Bingley as they enthusiastically explained the rules of Snapdragon to a curious onlooker.

“Miss Elizabeth, you’re looking entirely too peaceful. This must be remedied.”

Elizabeth turned to find Colonel Fitzwilliam approaching, his grin rakish as he held up a deck of cards. “Do you know Commerce, Miss Elizabeth? It seems we are short one player, and I believe you would elevate our little group significantly.”

“You flatter me, Colonel. Are you sure you are not simply desperate for another victim?”

“Desperate? Never,” he replied smoothly. “But I will admit my cousin suggested you might enjoy a game.”

Her gaze flickered across the room to where Darcy stood near the musicians, deep in conversation with Sir Thomas. Despite the serious set of his brow, she could feel his attention on her—whether real or imagined, it was difficult to say.

“And what role do you play in this scheme of his, Colonel?” she asked, folding her arms.

“I, Miss Elizabeth, am but a humble facilitator.” Fitzwilliam extended a hand with exaggerated gallantry. “Allow me to ‘facilitate’ your victory.”

Elizabeth hesitated for only a moment before placing her hand lightly in his. “Very well, but I warn you, Colonel—I am fiercely competitive.”

“I would expect nothing less,” he replied, leading her toward a table where a small group awaited.

As Elizabeth took her seat, she could not resist a glance toward Darcy. He was watching them now, his dark gaze steady and unflinching. Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned closer, his voice low enough for only her to hear.

“Ah, yes,” he murmured, “there it is. That look could burn through stone. If I am not careful, I shall be asked to duel by morning.”

Elizabeth bit back a laugh. “You are imagining things, Colonel.”

“Am I?” Fitzwilliam straightened with a wink, turning his attention to the cards. “Let us see if I survive the evening.”

The game began, and Elizabeth quickly became absorbed in the play, her competitive streak ignited by Fitzwilliam’s relentless teasing. Yet even as laughter rang out around her, she could not ignore the steady pull of Darcy’s gaze from across the room.

“ S ir Thomas!” A hearty voice rang out as Watts, one of Sir Thomas’s former comrades, strode through the crowd, his steps purposeful and his hand outstretched. “It’s been far too long.”

Darcy stepped aside as Watts reached Sir Thomas, clasping his hand firmly. The man’s voice carried across the room, drawing attention from nearby guests. “I owe you more than my life, sir. It’s an honor to stand here tonight and say it face-to-face.”

Darcy noted the way Sir Thomas’s shoulders stiffened, as though the praise was too much to bear. He didn’t miss the way Sir Thomas’s other hand trembled slightly as it gripped the edge of his coat.

“You owe me nothing, Watts,” Sir Thomas replied, his voice rough. “It was a duty. Nothing more.”

“A duty that cost you years,” Pence chimed in, stepping forward with Drummond at his side. “You gave us the chance to come home. Without you, we might have been rotting in that prison for years—or worse.”

Sir Thomas shook his head, his gaze dropping for a moment as if to collect himself. “What any man would have done.”

“Not any man,” Watts pressed. “You went back for us when no one else would. You showed us what it means to fight for more than survival.”

Darcy could see the conflict etched in Sir Thomas’s face—gratitude mingled with a humility so deeply rooted it bordered on disbelief. Sir Thomas finally spoke, his voice tight with emotion. “And you’ve all come so far. Watts, Pence, Drummond… it’s good to see you thriving.”

Darcy’s own throat threatened to close up—not with self-reflection this time, but with pride. These were the men he had invited, the ones he’d written to, because Sir Thomas deserved this moment. A public acknowledgment of the sacrifices he’d made, of the lives he’d changed, even if it left him uncomfortable.

Watts glanced around the bustling ballroom, a faint smile on his lips. “And this?” He gestured to the vibrant crowd. “You’ve done more than save lives, Sir Thomas. You’ve built something lasting. And tonight… you’ve brought people together who’d never have stood in the same room otherwise.”

Sir Thomas’s voice faltered. “I… I never imagined…”

Darcy, standing beside him, placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “You may not have imagined it, Sir Thomas, but you inspired it. Bingley and I merely gave shape to what you have already built.”

Sir Thomas’s gaze darted to Darcy, then to the crowded ballroom. His weathered face softened, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I scarcely dared to hope for a moment like this,” he murmured. “To see them—everyone—together, as equals.”

Darcy gave Sir Thomas’s shoulder a squeeze. “Every handshake, every kind word tonight—those are the echoes of your own actions, the lives you’ve saved, and the chances you’ve given. Merry Christmas, Sir Thomas.”

Sir Thomas’s breath hitched as he turned fully to face Darcy, his voice trembling. “This… this is the greatest gift I’ve ever received. You and Bingley—this evening—what you’ve done here, it’s beyond what I could have hoped.”

Darcy inclined his head, his grip tightening once more on Sir Thomas’s shoulder before stepping back. He glanced across the room, where Bingley was engaged in a lively conversation with a group of local tradesmen, his natural charm bridging gaps that might otherwise have remained insurmountable. For all his friend’s easy laughter, Darcy knew how deeply Bingley believed in the importance of this night—and how much of its success was due to his unwavering enthusiasm.

As Sir Thomas turned to greet another well-wisher, Darcy allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. Tonight was a triumph, not for appearances or social niceties, but for something real—something that mattered.

But the triumph faded quickly for him—meaningless, almost, until his gaze chanced across the one who had inspired him. Across the room, seated at a card table, was Elizabeth. Her dark curls gleamed in the candlelight, perfectly framing the sharp curve of her cheek and the vibrant blue of her gown. She laughed—bright, unrestrained—and for a moment, he was utterly frozen, his entire world narrowing to that sound, that vision.

Fitzwilliam, seated across from her, was gesturing with a theatrical flourish at his cards, clearly losing but playing the fool to draw another laugh from her. Darcy’s stomach twisted—not with jealousy, but with an undeniable need to be the one seated across from her, to hear her laughter directed at him.

He barely registered Sir Thomas’s murmured thanks to another well-wisher as he excused himself. Darcy was already moving, his steps purposeful, his focus unshakable. Elizabeth Bennet had captured his heart, and tonight, he would not let her slip away again.

He hardly recalled walking across the room, but a moment later, he was standing behind her chair, watching her claim another victory over his cousin. “Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice carrying just enough weight to turn her gaze. “Would you join me in a different sort of game?”

She looked up at him. “Oh? What sort of game are you leading, Mr. Darcy?”

“Oh, do tell us, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam asked. “Are you about to demonstrate your skill at card tricks? Or perhaps an old hunting game you believe we country folk would find fascinating?”

Darcy did not even glance at him. “No cards, no hunting. But I do believe Snapdragon is the game of the hour.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, interest sparking in her eyes. “Snapdragon? I have heard of it but never had the opportunity to play.”

Fitzwilliam gave a theatrical groan. “Darcy, you are as full of surprises as a Christmas pudding. Very well, steal her away if you must. But be warned, I shall win her back at the next opportunity.”

Darcy turned to his cousin, his response dry. “Your chances are as promising as they ever were.”

Elizabeth’s soft laugh was… well, it was everything. He extended his arm to her, and she placed her hand lightly on his sleeve, her warmth seeping through the fabric. “I hope you have quick fingers, Mr. Darcy,” she said. “Lead on.”

As they entered the parlor, the faint scent of brandy greeted them, mingling with the warmth of the crackling fire. A shallow dish of raisins floated in the center of the table, and Darcy went to the fire, bringing back a glowing stick to ignite the brandy. Blue flames danced across the surface, casting flickering shadows that played against the walls.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened as she watched the fire’s hypnotic glow. “It is beautiful,” she murmured.

Darcy turned slightly toward her, the faintest smile touching his lips. “It is also unforgiving. Are you prepared for the challenge?”

Her gaze snapped to his, a flicker of determination sparking in her expression. “I am not one to back away from a test, Mr. Darcy.”

“Nor would I expect you to.”

He motioned to the flames and reached in, his movements swift and precise. A raisin appeared between his fingers, and without hesitation, he popped it into his mouth. He stepped back with a nod. “Your turn, Miss Elizabeth.”

She hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward. The fire’s heat kissed her skin, and Darcy noted the slight curl of her fingers as she reached into the flames. She emerged victorious, holding the raisin aloft with a triumphant glint in her eyes.

“Well done,” Darcy said.

She returned to his side, her cheeks faintly flushed. “I believe you underestimated me.”

“On the contrary, I expected nothing less.”

“Truly?” Her brows arched wickedly, and she held the raisin aloft between them as though she were offering it to him. In public? Darcy shot a quick glance over his shoulder, wondering if anyone was looking at them just now. Did he dare?

Elizabeth’s smile widened as she tempted him with that raisin, and just as he was dipping his head down to let her drop it in his mouth, she changed course and slipped it into her own mouth.

And Darcy nearly crashed forward, just barely stopping himself from following that raisin’s path to her lips. And any hope he might have ever entertained of keeping his composure around her was shattered.

They were not left alone for long once others saw the flames had been lit. Kitty Bennet was the next challenger, with Maria Lucas and Mrs. Jackson following. Laughter spilled into the room as guests tested their courage. Fitzwilliam, predictably, yelped when he “misjudged” the flames, earning a round of good-natured jeers. Even Sir William Lucas joined in, his booming laugh filling the space as he reached into the fire with the gusto of a man who had nothing left to fear.

As the flames dwindled, Darcy turned to Elizabeth. “You are rather daring, you know.”

“Did you expect otherwise?”

“Not at all,” he said. “I merely think most would hesitate before reaching into the fire.”

“No point in hesitating when I can clearly see what I want,” she said, tilting her head with a mischievous smile. “But then, I do not fear a little heat.”

His gaze flared, and he was suddenly having some trouble swallowing. “Clearly not.”

Before either could speak again, Sir Thomas called from the doorway. “Enough Snapdragon! Who dares to test their skill at Blindman’s Bluff next?”

Darcy glanced toward the doorway and then back to Elizabeth. “Shall we avoid the blindfolds and find somewhere quieter to talk?”

Elizabeth hesitated for the briefest moment before nodding. “Lead the way, Mr. Darcy.”