The Scotsman’s Ghost: or How to Wreck a Yule Party (Christmas With Darcy and Elizabeth)

15. Fifteen

Fifteen

Darcy

I walked into the ballroom, already regretting my life decisions. The noise, the heat, the endless stream of people talking at me—I’d had more pleasant experiences being thrown from a horse.

Bingley, naturally, was grinning from ear to ear, delighted to be playing host, while Caroline Bingley hovered nearby, fluttering around him like an overfed butterfly. But my attention, as much as I tried to avoid it, was drawn elsewhere.

Elizabeth Bennet.

She had arrived with her family, and somehow, without doing much at all, she had managed to become the only person I could see in the room. This woman was becoming a problem. A serious problem.

Across the room, I spotted her laughing at something Bingley said to Miss Bennet—her eyes sparkling, her smile wide—and suddenly, the ballroom felt stifling. I tugged at my cravat.

I needed air.

“Aye, that’ll do ye wonders. Can’t breathe ‘cause ye’re gawkin’ at her again, are ye, lad?”

I didn’t even flinch. I should have known better than to hope for an evening without Ewan’s interference. Every time he appeared, it was like an invisible punch to the gut. And yet, it seemed I was building up some sort of tolerance for gut punches.

“Would ye just speak up tae the lass? She’s had her eye on ye for weeks, ye daft fool.”

“She has not.”

“Oh aye, ‘cause ye’re the grand expert at readin’ folk, aren’t ye now?” Ewan rolled his eyes, leaning against the wall near the refreshment table.

Bingley caught sight of me and waved from across the room. “Darcy! Over here!”

I gave him a brief nod. Perhaps I should feign illness now…

Ewan, naturally, followed me as I crossed the room, his hands casually tucked behind his back like he was going for a pleasant evening stroll. It was eerie how Charlotte Lucas passed right through him, but he managed to stomp on the toe of some red-coated lieutenant until the young man yelped and spun round, looking accusingly at his inebriated comrade.

“Stop that!” I hissed under my breath.

“Ye’d best pick up yer pace, lad. That bloody redcoat’s havin’ words wi’ yer lassie now. He’ll be charm-in’ the shoes right off her feet afore ye ken it.”

My stomach flipped, and I glanced quickly in Elizabeth’s direction. Sure enough, there he was—Wickham, all smiles and smooth words. Elizabeth was looking up at him, her expression a mixture of admiration and amusement.

Blast.

Wickham dared to come here? Tonight? I hadn’t realized my fists were clenched until Ewan clucked his tongue next to me.

“There it is again—the bloomin’ scowl. Ye’ve all the subtlety o’ a cart wi’ a busted wheel, but that’s about all ye’ve got. Where’s yer spine, man? D'ye need me tae send out a search party fer it?”

I reached for a glass of wine from a passing tray, resisting the urge to throw it in his direction. Instead, I took a long drink and tried to compose myself.

"Ye could at least say somethin’, lad. A kind word, maybe? Or crack a wee joke? She’s one fer a laugh, that lass."

I swallowed the wine with more force than necessary. “I’m not discussing this with you.”

“Aye, then I’ll take it on meself! Look at her! Even that cursed redcoat hasn’t put her off, an’ the man’s got all the depth of a puddle.”

I finally shot him a look of warning, but Ewan just winked. “What? Just makin’ an observation, lad. Aye, if I had yer face an’ half yer coin, I’d be dancin’ circles round the lass.”

“I beg you,” I whispered sharply, “stop talking.”

“Beg all ye like, lad, but that lass isn’t goin’ tae wait forever.” He gave me a sly grin and then strolled off—presumably to harass some unsuspecting militia officer.

I took a steadying breath and made my way toward Bingley, who was still waving like a madman. If I couldn’t avoid this disaster, I could at least pretend to be invested in polite conversation. Polite being a relative term.

“Darcy, my friend!” Bingley boomed as I approached. “Isn’t this evening simply perfect? I was just talking to Miss Bennet about planning more festivities this winter.”

“I’m sure it will be agreeable,” I replied, hoping I sounded more convincing than I felt.

Bingley beamed, entirely oblivious to my discomfort. “I was thinking we might have some ice skating on Meryton’s pond, or maybe even a bit of caroling around the fire. What do you think, Miss Elizabeth?”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. I’d thought she was on the other side of the room! But as I turned my attention, I found her standing at my elbow, her head tilted as she regarded me in a way that seemed… both curious and cautious. “That does sound delightful,” she said. “I am quite certain that anything Mr. Bingley plans will be met with pleasure by the neighborhood in general.”

“Splendid!” Bingley cried. “Why, as soon as the ice is thick enough, we shall make merry.”

“Have you ever been skating, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth asked.

“I... I have,” I stammered, the words coming out far more stiffly than I intended.

“Ah, but can ye stay on yer pins?” Ewan quipped from behind me, no doubt smirking like the fool he was.

I shot a glance over my shoulder but found nothing, just the maddening hum of party conversation. Still, the ghost lingered—right in my ear, apparently determined to ruin what little composure I had left.

“Darcy?” Bingley’s voice broke through my haze. “Someone you were looking for?”

I straightened up, forcing a tight smile. “No, of course.”

“Ye certain aboot that, lad?” Ewan’s voice came again, closer this time. “Yer posture’s stiffer than a pike.”

Suddenly, what felt like a hand— his hand—clapped me firmly on the back. It wasn’t visible to anyone—probably not even me, if I had twisted round to look—but the force of it made me lurch forward, nearly stumbling into Elizabeth. She stepped back, startled, and Bingley’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Mr. Darcy!” Elizabeth scolded. “Have you lost the last manner you possessed?”

“Ach, there he goes!” Ewan laughed from somewhere behind me. “Still standin’ there like ye’ve a stick up yer backside!”

I managed to recover myself—barely—but I could feel all three of them watching me now. Bingley and Miss Bennet exchanged puzzled glances, and Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed as if trying to solve the puzzle that was me .

“I—” I cleared my throat, forcing out a laugh that sounded horribly strained. “Just a misstep. A sore muscle… from riding yesterday. I’m afraid it has been troubling me some. Perhaps some fresh air would do me good. If you’ll excuse me.”

Elizabeth’s frown deepened, and I could feel her eyes following me as I hurried toward the nearest exit. Behind me, Ewan’s laughter echoed, growing fainter but no less humiliating.

I didn’t stop until I was halfway to the terrace, heart pounding, my mind racing. It was only by sheer willpower that I hadn’t made a complete spectacle of myself... yet.

But if I lived to see another day without being committed to an asylum, it would be a miracle.

Elizabeth

I was beginning to wonder if there was any corner of the room where I could stand without running into someone I was trying to avoid.

The Netherfield Ball had been exactly as expected—grand, lively, and packed with half of Meryton. I had successfully dodged Mr. Collins for most of the evening—a triumph in itself—only to find myself now dodging another, far more intimidating figure.

Mr. Darcy.

The man had been acting oddly all evening—though to be fair, his definition of “odd” was quickly becoming “business as usual.” I’d caught him glancing in my direction at least a dozen times, each time with a look that was part confusion, part fascination, and wholly unsettling.

It wasn’t that I thought he meant any harm. He looked more like he was trying to figure out what I was, rather than who. The way he stared sometimes—well, it was as if he were seeing something I couldn’t.

I spotted him across the room now, standing near Mr. Bingley, looking as though he’d rather be slopping hogs than dressed in formal attire. His gaze flicked to me, just briefly, before he looked away again, and I felt a strange, unsettling pang of pity.

Poor Mr. Darcy. What must it be like to be trapped inside your own head?

Charlotte had once said that it was better to be poor than to be mad. You could climb out of poverty, but madness? That would follow you forever. And here I was, watching it unfold before my very eyes.

I sighed and turned my attention to Lydia, who was still holding court near the punch bowl with Lieutenant Denny and Mr. Wickham. The latter had, unsurprisingly, charmed half the room already, and Lydia, of course, was completely smitten. As I approached, she let out an excited squeal, nearly spilling her drink in the process.

“Oh, Lizzy!” she cried. “Mr. Wickham has just been telling us the most delightful story about—”

“I’m sure it’s riveting,” I cut in, offering Mr. Wickham a polite smile before glancing back at Mr. Darcy, who had somehow managed to inch even closer.

He was acting stranger than usual—looking at me, then at Mr. Wickham, then back again, as if trying to decipher some unsolvable riddle. His jaw was tight, and his posture even stiffer than usual, which I hadn’t thought possible.

“Excuse me for asking,” I began, unable to resist, “but have you noticed anything... off about Mr. Darcy tonight?”

Mr. Wickham’s expression changed ever so slightly. He glanced over at Darcy, then back at me, before offering a slow, knowing smile. “No more than usual. Stiff as a fire poker, is he? Oh, I wouldn’t worry, Miss Elizabeth. I doubt he’s capable of harm. Just a man... well, not quite right in the head.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You seem awfully confident about that.”

“Oh, I am,” Wickham said, his voice smooth as silk. “I’ve known him for quite some time. Seen him in... shall we say... less than favorable circumstances.”

“Such as?”

Wickham’s eyes gleamed. “Let’s just say that Mr. Darcy has a history of erratic behavior. I’m not surprised you’ve noticed it.” He paused, his gaze shifting briefly to Darcy, who was now standing almost directly behind me, his expression dark and brooding. “His poor sister, though. Imagine having a madman for a brother!”

Sister? Oh! That was right. I vaguely recalled Miss Bingley saying something about Mr. Darcy’s younger sister when I was staying at Netherfield. I wondered where she was now. Probably as far from him as she could get.

I looked at the gentleman again, my heart softening just slightly. Whatever his faults, I couldn’t shake the growing suspicion that he was less a villain and more... well, a victim of something I couldn’t quite understand.

Mr. Darcy caught my eye and, after a moment of hesitation, walked toward me. His steps were measured, but there was an intensity in his gaze that made me straighten in response. Wickham, sensing the approach, took a step back, his usual charm replaced by something colder.

“Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, his voice lower than usual. “May I have the next dance?”

The question caught me so off guard that I almost didn’t respond. Mr. Darcy , asking me to dance? In the middle of all this?

I hesitated, glancing between him and Mr. Wickham, who looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“Well,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “I suppose—”

Before I could finish, Mr. Darcy gave a short, tight bow and walked off, leaving me standing there, completely bewildered.

Mr. Wickham watched him go, concealing a faint smirk behind his glass of punch. “Odd fellow, isn’t he?”

I didn’t respond. My mind was already racing in a dozen different directions. What had just happened? Why had Darcy approached me like that, only to flee? And why, despite everything I knew of him, did I keep feeling sorry for him?

Darcy

I was an idiot. There was no other explanation for it.

What else could possibly explain why I was striding toward Miss Elizabeth Bennet, hand half-raised in a gesture that was supposed to look polite but probably resembled a man about to shield his face from a punch?

Of all the ridiculous things I’d done lately—nearly decapitating myself in the militia’s presence, fleeing conversations like a schoolboy—I had decided that asking Miss Elizabeth to dance, right in front of Wickham, was somehow a good idea. Why? Because I was tired of Ewan’s endless goading? Because she was practically the only woman in the room who didn’t bore me to tears? Or because I clearly had a death wish?

“Mr. Darcy?” Her voice was amused, curious. I snapped my arm the rest of the way up before it could collapse to my side like a damp rag.

“Miss Bennet,” I said stiffly. “Would you... do me the honor of a dance?”

She blinked at me, as if she hadn’t quite heard me correctly. Probably because I wasn’t sure I’d heard myself correctly. “You already asked that once, and the dance is about to begin, sir.”

“You did not sound sure.”

Her brows raised. “You did not stay to hear my entire answer. Shall I go in search of another partner, sir?”

Her eyes flicked to the dance floor, where a few couples were already pairing off. I saw the hesitation there, the slight lift of her brow. I wouldn’t have blamed her in the least if she did seek another partner. In fact, I might have had a chance to flee the room if she’d done so. But instead, she took a deep breath and looked back at me, waiting for me to pull my head out of my arse.

It was too late to back out now, so I offered my arm, and she accepted with a grace that made me feel about as steady as a horse on ice.

Ewan, of course, appeared the moment we stepped onto the dance floor. “Och, lad, look at ye! Finally showin’ some spine—if ye dinnae look like ye’d rather be grape-shot.”

I nearly tripped over my own feet.

“You are distracted again, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, glancing up at me as we took our places. Her voice was light, teasing. But there was a flicker of something else in her gaze. Suspicion, perhaps? Or maybe amusement.

“Yes, I... I apologize,” I muttered, trying to ignore Ewan as he sauntered up beside me, leaning in to inspect Elizabeth as if she were a prize horse at market. He let out a low whistle. “Bonny lass, that one.”

“Shut. Up,” I whispered under my breath.

Elizabeth blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

I forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace and immediately turned my focus to the music starting up, desperately trying to find something to say that wouldn’t make me look even more insane. “Drying up—the weather,” I blurted out. “It’s... a fine evening.”

Ewan snorted, leaning against a pillar as if he’d been there the entire time, and I saw him roll his eyes and make an obscene gesture. When was I going to stop letting him goad me?

Elizabeth’s lips twitched, and she shot me a sideways glance. “Indeed. It’s remarkable how much the weather can change in such a short time.”

“Yes,” I agreed, desperately clinging to the thread of conversation like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood. “Remarkable.”

We began to move, and for a few moments, I managed to focus. The rhythm of the dance helped. The steps were familiar, and I’d always been a competent dancer. In fact, I found myself relaxing slightly. Elizabeth moved with a grace that was both effortless and captivating. She wasn’t as oppressive for me to be in company with as other ladies—no fussy affectations, no coy glances. Just an unpretentious confidence that was impossible to ignore.

“Why so stiff, lad?” Ewan called from the sidelines, twirling a glass of claret in his hand. “Och, ye’re meant tae enjoy it, lad! It’s a dance, no’ a bloody funeral march!”

I ground my teeth, determined not to let him get the better of me. Elizabeth’s eyes were already too perceptive; the last thing I needed was to draw her attention to the fact that I was having a conversation with thin air.

To my surprise, the dance was going... well. Elizabeth’s steps were light, playful even, and I found myself relaxing into it. Maybe, just maybe, I could manage this without tripping over my own awkwardness.

Then, out of nowhere, a voice chimed in next to my ear: “Ach, lad, yer footwork’s all wrong! Let me help ye.”

Before I could react, Ewan had materialized beside me, his ghostly hand hovering right over mine. “What are you—” I hissed, barely managing to keep my voice low.

He grinned, completely oblivious to the fact that I was already on edge. “Just a wee nudge in the right direction. Like so—”

That was when my foot tangled with Elizabeth’s.

She stumbled, gasping softly as I scrambled to catch her before she fell. I failed. Miserably. Instead, we both nearly toppled over. Somehow, she righted herself, but not without sending me a puzzled look. “Mr. Darcy, are you—”

“Will everyone stop asking me if I am well? I am bloody well not well!” I snappped. And then I instantly regretted it.

Elizabeth blinked, clearly unsure of what had just transpired. “Perhaps... you would like some refreshment?” she suggested, eyeing me as though I might collapse at any moment.

I nodded, desperate to escape before anything else went wrong. “Refreshments,” I managed to say. “Perhaps some... punch.”

As I escorted her toward the refreshment table, Ewan sauntered ahead, weaving through the crowd, still taking the opportunity to shove any redcoats he happened to pass. Old grudges, perhaps. I could only thank whatever shred of luck I had left that no one could say I was close enough to those men to be the reason they suddenly lurched into their dance partners.

I prayed he’d stop there. But, of course, he wasn’t done.

Just as I was handing Elizabeth a glass of punch, Ewan reached out with a grin, plucking one for himself from the sideboard. I watched in growing annoyance as he lifted it lazily to his lips, as if he were the guest of honor. And then... horror set in.

The glass wasn’t invisible. It was just... floating.

I froze. Elizabeth’s eyes fixed on the glass. Then they flicked to me. Then back to the glass.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. All I could do was stare back at her, wordless and useless.

For a second, I thought she might faint. Instead, without a word, she took the glass from the air, her hand trembling slightly, and placed it firmly back on the table—much to Ewan’s consternation.

“Ach, ye’ve some nerve, lass! I wasna done with that!” he sputtered. I prayed he would not pick it back up.

Elizabeth Bennet swallowed the rest of her drink in one swift gulp, set her own empty glass down with a quiet clink, and hurried off—no doubt faster than propriety would allow.

I didn’t stop her. I couldn’t.

Meanwhile, Ewan burst out laughing, clutching his sides. “Well, that went better than expected! She didnae even scream! Ye’ve got yerself a brave lass there, lad.”

I stared at the glass Elizabeth had set down, still feeling the ghost of her fingertips on mine, and did the only thing I could think of. I grabbed the glass, hoping it was rather heavily laced with spirits, and downed it in one go.