Around the edge of the room walked Mr. Darcy, his eyes scanning the ball. It was stuffy and hot in the room, the chatter of people seated rising above the music, making it hard to distinguish what they were dancing to. Not that it would matter, he thought, all the dancers were unrefined, unpracticed. He supposed Miss Bingley, now dancing with her brother, was not. She was the picture of 'technically perfect'. But, for all his thoughts, he did not find this as attractive as he perhaps once would.

He passed a group of women, mothers to some of the dancers it appeared. He could hear their barely veiled gossip behind their fans and fought down a grimace. He continued walking, wishing he could return to the Bingley's home. Ideally, he'd be back in Pemberly, but if he must, Netherfield would do.

He paused at the doorway to the balcony, the smoky air giving way to the fresh crispness of the country. He took a breath and stepped out into the dimness. He realized, shortly after moving into the dimly lit space, he was not alone and took a moment to observe his new companion.