Darcy’s senses were assaulted the minute he stepped through the doors of the Meryton assembly rooms. The oppressive heat of the crowded bodies, the smell of stale sweat permeating from the unfit men who clamoured around the dance floor with little grace, the high-pitched laughter of the local ladies accompanied by the discordant tones of the subpar musicians. He shuddered, why had he agreed to attend this blasted countrified event.
The megrim he had been suffering from all day took on a heightened tone as they were accosted by a local knight who seemed driven on introducing them to every single blasted person who resided in the town. The dull throb behind his eye seeming to pulse in time with the claps of the dancers as they performed some jaunty country dance or another. Casting a sideways glance at his friend who was enthusiastically eyeing a gaggle of ladies the knight was currently introducing them to, Darcy slipped on his mask of indifference.
Darcy watched the moment Bingley’s eyes alighted on the tall willowy blonde with pale blue eyes. Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Darcy looked away. No doubt she would be his friend's latest angel. Darcy sighed, it was long overdue he supposed. It had been at least six weeks since Bingley had last declared himself enthralled by a local beauty; it had to be some kind of record.
A shrill voice broke through his reverie. Glancing around, he noticed that Bingley was no longer at his side. Instead, a matron draped in more lace than a haberdashery stocked, was looking at his expectantly. Darcy wracked his brain, what had she asked? No doubt something about dancing with one of her many daughters. “Not if I can help it.” He bit out, and cursing his friend for abandoning him, made his way to the refreshment table.
Darcy eyed the concoctions on the table wearily. Normally, he was not one to imbibe but after a long and arduous carriage ride to Netherfield, being fawned and salivated over by Miss Bingley and all but having his hand forced to attend this assembly, he rather thought he deserved a drink. Ladling out a generous helping from the punch bowl, he took a tentative sip and raised a brow at the unexpected deliciousness that washed over his tongue. The punch was sweet and fruity but not overbearing, like a wildflower meadow in spring. Darcy appreciatively downed the glass and helped himself to another, reasoning that, fruity drinks such as this were normally made for ladies and therefore, were unlikely to be potently laced with alcohol.
A hand clapped onto his shoulder and turning he saw Mr Hurst swaying slightly.
“Damn fine drinks in this place.” Hurst grunted.
Darcy quickly schooled his features into a look of bored nonchalance as he prepared to listen to Hurst prattle on about the quality of the cold cuts and wine. Draining his glass to fortify him against the inanity of the conversation to come, he quickly refilled it and taking steady swigs, half listened to Hurst, murmuring his agreement in all the correct places.
Eventually Hurst staggered off in search of the card room and Darcy let out a sigh of relief. His headache seemed to have dulled somewhat, which came as a great relief, turning to scan the crowd he noticed several pairs of hopeful matrons and their daughters eyeing him speculatively. Realising that standing by the refreshment table left him vulnerable to introductions, he ladled out another serving of punch and quickly strode away from the table, performing a circuit of the room.
He wandered lowly, once, twice, thrice, around the room, stopping to refill his glass each time he passed the refreshment table. As he walked, he watched Bingley dancing with the blonde they had been introduced to earlier, unable to recall her name, not that it would matter. After all Bingley was famous for falling in and out of love, Darcy didn’t even bother to try and keep up with his friend’s romantic escapades anymore. A chuckle tore from his mouth as he thought of his friend’s past exclamations of being struck by cupid’s arrow at first sight. Gods, Bingley was a romantic sot.
Darcy’s eye wistfully strayed back towards the refreshment table, idly wondering how he could get the receipt for the punch. Draining his glass, he stumbled back to the refreshment table to pour himself another cup of the heavenly nectar and then took up residence leaning against a nearby pillar. Closing his eyes he savoured the sweet ambrosia, surprising himself with the realisation that he was mildly enjoying the assembly.
“Darcy!” a voice interrupted.
Sighing, Darcy opened his eyes to see a jubilant Bingley, flushed from the exertions of dancing, standing in front of him.
“Come Darcy! I must have you dance, rather than stand about in such a stupid manner. It seems that the only person you have become acquainted with is Mr Long’s famous punch!” Bingley grinned, raising an eyebrow.
Sighing, Darcy felt his earlier black mood returning but made no move to reply.
“Come Darcy! Let me introduce you to my dance partners sister, she is sitting just behind us, and dare I say it, she is very lovely.”
Darcy snorted, “Bingley, you know I have no affinity for the blonde statues that you moon over. Besides,” Darcy swayed, “If she is sitting out a dance, she cannot be as lovely as you declare.”
Bingley laughed, “You are in fine form this evening! The lady in question is quite different in looks than her sister, but no less lovely for it!”
Seeing his friend was in one of his hounding moods, Darcy sighed and mentally prepared a scathing set down for whichever wallflower Bingley was trying to pin onto him. “Which do you mean?”
Bingley moved slightly to the side; Darcy followed the line from Bingley’s tilted head. There before him was the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld. She was petite in the extreme, with a figure filled out with luscious curves that was wrapped up in a delicate sprigged muslin. A riot of dark curls, straining against their pins and framing a heart shaped face, a sensuous rosy mouth and the most beguiling dark eyes. Eyes, which at that very moment were saucily regarding him, one delicate brow arched, as if silently daring him to dispute her beauty.
He could do no such thing; at this moment he was no longer master of himself. His throat was dry, the abundance of punch he had drank seemed to rush straight to his head. His heart hammered in double time as, dizzily, he regarded the forest nymph before him.
“Fuck me! How did I miss her when we arrived.”
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