Pride and Prejudice (Mr Darcy/Mr Bingley)
“Darcy,” Bingley admonished lightly, his soft tone easily audible in the now-empty hall. Distantly they could hear the sounds of the Bingley sisters speaking quietly with their hosts on the covered terrace outside. “You ought not speak so about our present company. They were all souls of gentility.”
“First off, with everyone having departed for the evening we have no present company for me to speak ill of.” Ice clinked in his glass as Darcy turned away from the sidebar to join his friend at a low table. “And I would hardly associate gentility with that oh-so charming gaggle of insipid, backwater noblettes who all had hardly more to their names than their names.” He shook his head in disgust. “Spending the evening with a collection of gormless twits discussing farmland and vying to marry their equally uninspiring daughters off to the first eligible bachelor to come within a 100 mile radius is hardly my notion of a delightful way to take my leisure.”
Bingley made a face at him. “Must you always be so critical?” he asked.
Darcy shrugged. “Perhaps if other people were not so quick to provide evidence of their own faults, I might not find so much in them worth criticizing.” Darcy took a long swallow of his brandy, enjoying the slow burn of alcohol down the back of his throat. “Although you certainly seemed to find enough in the personage of the eldest Miss Bennet to keep your attitude conciliatory.” He glanced slyly at Bingley over the rim of his glass. “She seemed quite taken with you as well.”
“Oh really?” Bingley laughed, eyes sparkling teasingly. “Forgive me for gainsaying your opinion, but I’ve discovered that you’re as like to think so of any lady who holds my gaze for longer than a heartbeat.”
Darcy shrugged, confirming nothing. “Perhaps. But even one as terminally oblivious as you could not have failed to see the way her eyes shone whenever you smiled at her.”
“There’s truth in that I’m afraid,” Bingley agreed with a sigh, something peculiarly wistful in his expression that made Darcy suspect that, had the lovely Miss Bennet not been so woefully unconnected, she might have been given the opportunity to see more of Bingley’s smiles in the future.
The grin that next graced that handsome face, however, was for Darcy alone. “And what about you?” Bingley challenged him, raising one eyebrow suspiciously. “You may have claimed to be unaffected, but I saw the way you were eyeing the dark-haired Miss Bennet in the latter part of the evening. It’s not like you to show such interest in someone else, especially a woman.”
So he’d noticed that, had he? Darcy shrugged with deliberate non-concern. “A passing interest in finding someone in this backwards little town who seems marginally less insipid than the rest of them.”
“But a woman?” Bingley pressed and Darcy sniffed haughtily.
“You well know that I am of the opinion that intelligence is an attractive feature in any person, be they man or woman.” He paused and his lip twisted sardonically. “A pity, however, that not even intelligence seems able to protect people from a fondness for dancing.”
“Darcy!” Bingley sounded rather taken aback. “What possible criticism could you have of dancing?”
Darcy spread his hands beseechingly. “What commendations does it have to defend itself? The whole concept is so horribly pretentious. All dancing does is encourage the small-minded to pay undue consideration to who has danced with whom and how many times, and determining a person’s social status upon those results. Not to mention the tedium of the waltzes and, more often than not, the idle chatter of one’s dance partner.”
“You’re horrible,” Bingley decided, though he was laughing as he said it.
“What?” Darcy defended, trying on an innocent face just to see Bingley shake his head at it.
“I happen to like dancing,” Bingley said, with a toss of his head.
Darcy toasted him with his glass. “Which only proves my point. Ah well,” he sighed in mock despair. “I suppose there’s no other remedy then.” He drained his glass with a smooth roll of his wrist and extended an open palm to Bingley. “May I have this dance?”
Bingley blinked up at him in a mixture of amusement and wary confusion. “What are you playing at now, Darcy?”
“You were displeased that the ball ended so soon, were you not? And since I seem unable to dissuade your enthusiasm for this pursuit, I might just as well indulge you.” Ironic humour sparked in his smile as he added, “And to give the impression of equal enthusiasm, I will play your part and graciously cede the role of the lovely Miss Bennet to you.”
Bingley was shaking his head. “Dear friend though you are, I must admit that I find you passing strange sometimes Darcy.” He grinned with sudden mischief and took Darcy’s hand. “But I would not decline the opportunity for another dance.”
Darcy helped him gravely to his feet, Bingley’s hand large and warm in his own as he shifted his grip appropriately. Bingley slid forward to place his other hand on Darcy’s hip but Darcy forestalled him with a half step back and an eloquently twitched eyebrow.
“I’ll thank you to recall that I’m leading,” he observed precisely, lips quirking as Bingley made a face at him before shifting his hand up to Darcy’s shoulder. Darcy’s own arm dropped to Bingley’s waist, holding him at the correct distance.
The quartet employed for the ball had long since retired, but Darcy was not to be thwarted so easily. Pride and natural talent held him in good stead as he began leading Bingley around the room, feet flowing smoothly through the steps of a simple waltz.
It was subtly different than dancing with a woman. Hard planes shifted under his hand instead of softness, strength and competency etched into solid muscles. Bingley was as broad across the shoulders as Darcy and nearly as tall, eyes mostly level with his rather than peering up at him coyly from below. Bingley moved with confident grace, responding to Darcy’s cues with a relaxed ease borne of years of familiarity. The sheepish smile that flashed across his face the few times he forgot himself and moved to take the lead was refreshingly void of chagrin, a joke shared between equals rather than fear of rejection.
Darcy let his mind drift as they danced, admiring the subtle bunch and flex of Bingley’s body under his tailored suit. They were flowing widely across the floor now, the simple steps shifting into something strong and more compellingly complex than he’d originally intended. Still Bingley kept pace with him, a light, secretive little smile lingering around the corners of his mouth as he matched Darcy’s challenge with equal ardor.
This was almost enjoyable, Darcy realized, in a discovery both novel and disquieting. He doubted very greatly that he’d manage such effortless harmony with one of the fairer sex, not without forfeiting the gentle restraint men employed to honour their fragile constitutions.
After a time his steps slowed, drawing the dance to a close, and Bingley glanced up at him, something soft and strangely exposed in his pale eyes as he stood, calm in the circle of his friend’s arms. “Darcy?” he asked, not much more than a whisper.
Darcy had taken this much too far.
He released Bingley and stepped back with a formal bow. “Well Miss Bennet,” he declared, with a deliberately sarcastic eyebrow. “I must say you dance passingly fair. Thank you for the dance.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bingley.” Bingley echoed, teasingly sober as he made a ridiculous-looking attempt at a curtsey. He was chuckling ruefully as he wobbled upright again, and it was surely Darcy’s imagination that the corners of that expressive mouth were turned just slightly downward as Bingley turned back to the table to reclaim his glass.
“Do you suppose the ladies are prepared to retire?” Bingley asked, nothing added or absent in his voice than there had been before, and Darcy dismissed the lingering whispers in his own mind with brusque practicality.
He shrugged, ambling forward casually. “There is only one way to be certain, though I dare say they certainly ought to be by now.” He sniffed unhappily. “And I have no doubt that they will have far too much opportunity to visit with all your new husband-hunting acquaintances over the coming weeks.”
“There you go again,” Bingley sighed, shaking his head. “I despair of you sometimes, Darcy.”
Darcy nodded easily and fell in step beside Bingley, heading for the terrace doors. “And I despair of you most of the time, so I suppose we’re even.”
No one who liked to dance could possibly be in their right mind, after all.
~owari
“First off, with everyone having departed for the evening we have no present company for me to speak ill of.” Ice clinked in his glass as Darcy turned away from the sidebar to join his friend at a low table. “And I would hardly associate gentility with that oh-so charming gaggle of insipid, backwater noblettes who all had hardly more to their names than their names.” He shook his head in disgust. “Spending the evening with a collection of gormless twits discussing farmland and vying to marry their equally uninspiring daughters off to the first eligible bachelor to come within a 100 mile radius is hardly my notion of a delightful way to take my leisure.”
Bingley made a face at him. “Must you always be so critical?” he asked.
Darcy shrugged. “Perhaps if other people were not so quick to provide evidence of their own faults, I might not find so much in them worth criticizing.” Darcy took a long swallow of his brandy, enjoying the slow burn of alcohol down the back of his throat. “Although you certainly seemed to find enough in the personage of the eldest Miss Bennet to keep your attitude conciliatory.” He glanced slyly at Bingley over the rim of his glass. “She seemed quite taken with you as well.”
“Oh really?” Bingley laughed, eyes sparkling teasingly. “Forgive me for gainsaying your opinion, but I’ve discovered that you’re as like to think so of any lady who holds my gaze for longer than a heartbeat.”
Darcy shrugged, confirming nothing. “Perhaps. But even one as terminally oblivious as you could not have failed to see the way her eyes shone whenever you smiled at her.”
“There’s truth in that I’m afraid,” Bingley agreed with a sigh, something peculiarly wistful in his expression that made Darcy suspect that, had the lovely Miss Bennet not been so woefully unconnected, she might have been given the opportunity to see more of Bingley’s smiles in the future.
The grin that next graced that handsome face, however, was for Darcy alone. “And what about you?” Bingley challenged him, raising one eyebrow suspiciously. “You may have claimed to be unaffected, but I saw the way you were eyeing the dark-haired Miss Bennet in the latter part of the evening. It’s not like you to show such interest in someone else, especially a woman.”
So he’d noticed that, had he? Darcy shrugged with deliberate non-concern. “A passing interest in finding someone in this backwards little town who seems marginally less insipid than the rest of them.”
“But a woman?” Bingley pressed and Darcy sniffed haughtily.
“You well know that I am of the opinion that intelligence is an attractive feature in any person, be they man or woman.” He paused and his lip twisted sardonically. “A pity, however, that not even intelligence seems able to protect people from a fondness for dancing.”
“Darcy!” Bingley sounded rather taken aback. “What possible criticism could you have of dancing?”
Darcy spread his hands beseechingly. “What commendations does it have to defend itself? The whole concept is so horribly pretentious. All dancing does is encourage the small-minded to pay undue consideration to who has danced with whom and how many times, and determining a person’s social status upon those results. Not to mention the tedium of the waltzes and, more often than not, the idle chatter of one’s dance partner.”
“You’re horrible,” Bingley decided, though he was laughing as he said it.
“What?” Darcy defended, trying on an innocent face just to see Bingley shake his head at it.
“I happen to like dancing,” Bingley said, with a toss of his head.
Darcy toasted him with his glass. “Which only proves my point. Ah well,” he sighed in mock despair. “I suppose there’s no other remedy then.” He drained his glass with a smooth roll of his wrist and extended an open palm to Bingley. “May I have this dance?”
Bingley blinked up at him in a mixture of amusement and wary confusion. “What are you playing at now, Darcy?”
“You were displeased that the ball ended so soon, were you not? And since I seem unable to dissuade your enthusiasm for this pursuit, I might just as well indulge you.” Ironic humour sparked in his smile as he added, “And to give the impression of equal enthusiasm, I will play your part and graciously cede the role of the lovely Miss Bennet to you.”
Bingley was shaking his head. “Dear friend though you are, I must admit that I find you passing strange sometimes Darcy.” He grinned with sudden mischief and took Darcy’s hand. “But I would not decline the opportunity for another dance.”
Darcy helped him gravely to his feet, Bingley’s hand large and warm in his own as he shifted his grip appropriately. Bingley slid forward to place his other hand on Darcy’s hip but Darcy forestalled him with a half step back and an eloquently twitched eyebrow.
“I’ll thank you to recall that I’m leading,” he observed precisely, lips quirking as Bingley made a face at him before shifting his hand up to Darcy’s shoulder. Darcy’s own arm dropped to Bingley’s waist, holding him at the correct distance.
The quartet employed for the ball had long since retired, but Darcy was not to be thwarted so easily. Pride and natural talent held him in good stead as he began leading Bingley around the room, feet flowing smoothly through the steps of a simple waltz.
It was subtly different than dancing with a woman. Hard planes shifted under his hand instead of softness, strength and competency etched into solid muscles. Bingley was as broad across the shoulders as Darcy and nearly as tall, eyes mostly level with his rather than peering up at him coyly from below. Bingley moved with confident grace, responding to Darcy’s cues with a relaxed ease borne of years of familiarity. The sheepish smile that flashed across his face the few times he forgot himself and moved to take the lead was refreshingly void of chagrin, a joke shared between equals rather than fear of rejection.
Darcy let his mind drift as they danced, admiring the subtle bunch and flex of Bingley’s body under his tailored suit. They were flowing widely across the floor now, the simple steps shifting into something strong and more compellingly complex than he’d originally intended. Still Bingley kept pace with him, a light, secretive little smile lingering around the corners of his mouth as he matched Darcy’s challenge with equal ardor.
This was almost enjoyable, Darcy realized, in a discovery both novel and disquieting. He doubted very greatly that he’d manage such effortless harmony with one of the fairer sex, not without forfeiting the gentle restraint men employed to honour their fragile constitutions.
After a time his steps slowed, drawing the dance to a close, and Bingley glanced up at him, something soft and strangely exposed in his pale eyes as he stood, calm in the circle of his friend’s arms. “Darcy?” he asked, not much more than a whisper.
Darcy had taken this much too far.
He released Bingley and stepped back with a formal bow. “Well Miss Bennet,” he declared, with a deliberately sarcastic eyebrow. “I must say you dance passingly fair. Thank you for the dance.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bingley.” Bingley echoed, teasingly sober as he made a ridiculous-looking attempt at a curtsey. He was chuckling ruefully as he wobbled upright again, and it was surely Darcy’s imagination that the corners of that expressive mouth were turned just slightly downward as Bingley turned back to the table to reclaim his glass.
“Do you suppose the ladies are prepared to retire?” Bingley asked, nothing added or absent in his voice than there had been before, and Darcy dismissed the lingering whispers in his own mind with brusque practicality.
He shrugged, ambling forward casually. “There is only one way to be certain, though I dare say they certainly ought to be by now.” He sniffed unhappily. “And I have no doubt that they will have far too much opportunity to visit with all your new husband-hunting acquaintances over the coming weeks.”
“There you go again,” Bingley sighed, shaking his head. “I despair of you sometimes, Darcy.”
Darcy nodded easily and fell in step beside Bingley, heading for the terrace doors. “And I despair of you most of the time, so I suppose we’re even.”
No one who liked to dance could possibly be in their right mind, after all.
~owari