It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single boy in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a future wife—unless that boy was Oliver Bennet. Not that Oliver was in possession of a good fortune, mind you, but it seemed impossible to him that having such a fortune would so completely transform his disinterest in one day having a wife.
Or, more importantly, being one.
So it was with no small amount of dismay that he listened to his mother share the exciting news about one Charles Bingley.
Mrs. Bennet yanked on the lacing of the stay pressed tight beneath his breasts as she said, “Have you girls heard that Netherfield has been let?”
Oliver gritted his teeth as the cinching fabric pushed his chest up and forward—accentuating a shape that made him utterly nauseous—and at the equally suffocating address of his sisters and him as girls. This could only be expected, however, as Mrs. Bennet, like most of the world, believed that Oliver was the second-eldest Bennet daughter, rather than the only Bennet son.
Oliver could count on one hand the number of people who knew the truth, and Mrs. Bennet was not one of them.
Stay tied, Mrs. Bennet pushed the wooden busk into the front opening, forcing him to stand up straight and further emphasizing the curves of his chest. There were few articles of clothing Oliver loathed more than the busked stay, if only because the pressure of the piece of wood pressed between his breasts was a constant reminder of a part of his body Oliver never wanted to see.
Satisfied and oblivious to his discomfort, Mrs. Bennet wrestled the emerald gown over Oliver’s head and pulled it down, adjusting as necessary as it fell over the horrifying undergarments. Oliver shifted on the stool on which he stood, doing his best not to glower at his reflection in the mirror. He hated seeing himself in a dress, which was unfortunate given the amount of time he was forced to spend in one. Done up like this, his hair tied into two simple braids and a green ribbon to match the gown, he looked like a stranger.
“Netherfield has been let? To whom?” Jane asked, seated beside the window next to the mirror. She shot Oliver a sympathetic smile while he averted his gaze, studiously avoiding his own reflection.
“A young man by the name of Bingley, with an income of four or five thousand a year!” Mrs. Bennet responded. “How fortunate this turn of events is for you girls. I’ve already asked Mr. Bennet to introduce himself and invite him for tea.”
Kitty and Lydia giggled on the other side of the room.
“Is he very handsome?” Lydia asked.
Mrs. Bennet frowned. “Well, I haven’t yet met him, dear, but that should hardly be a priority.”
“Do you know if he’ll be at the Meryton Ball tonight?” Kitty asked.
“Why, I should hope so!” Mrs. Bennet beamed at Oliver’s reflection as she finished smoothing out the gown. “Surely one of you girls will catch Mr. Bingley’s eye tonight, if he does attend. I think it quite impossible that he won’t notice such handsome company.”
Oliver stepped off the stool. It wasn’t so bad when he couldn’t see himself. If he was careful not to look at his chest—or anything below the neck, really—
“Elizabeth,” his mother admonished. “Could you at least pretend to be looking forward to the ball? Honestly, I don’t know how you expect to ever be married when you plod about so morosely at every ball we attend.”
Oliver’s jaw clenched at the grating sensation of hearing the name he’d outgrown long ago. Still, the last thing he needed was attracting his mother’s displeased attention. So, with practiced ease, he donned a small, apologetic smile.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” he said. “You know how much I dislike wearing a busk—I’m simply adjusting still.”
Seemingly satisfied, Mrs. Bennet nodded and clapped once, gesturing for the door. “Well, come along, girls! We mustn’t be late.”
Lydia, Mary, and Kitty all rushed out the door, with Mrs. Bennet right behind them. Oliver moved to follow with a sigh, until Jane lightly gripped his shoulder.
“Are you all right?” she asked softly. “I could tell Mama you aren’t well if you’d prefer to stay home. You could even go out on your own…”
The suggestion blossomed inside him, filling him with hope, but Oliver crushed it before it grew large enough to hurt. He would go out on his own, in clothes that actually suited him, proudly bearing his true name … tomorrow.
“The Bartholomew Fair,” he said softly. “I’ll go out then. Do you think you could…?”
Jane smiled. “I’ll keep Mama busy. If the ball becomes too much tonight—”
“I’ll let you know. Thank you, Jane.”
She hugged him tightly and whispered, “Anything for my little brother.”
Oliver closed his eyes, pressing his face into Jane’s shoulder as her words filled him with warmth and pulled the corners of his lips up. This was what he would hold on to tonight. This feeling. This rightness of hearing Jane call him her brother.
One day, the rest of the world would know the truth too.
They’d no sooner stepped into the ball at Meryton than Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, “Oh, isn’t this just lovely?”
Kitty and Lydia cooed in agreement while Oliver took in the scene before him glumly. The ballroom was large, the painted walls casting an evergreen hue on the polished hardwood, which gleamed with a fresh coat of wax. Oliver estimated there were probably five dozen or so people in attendance, all dressed in not quite their finest, as this was a public affair, but dressed up all the same.
Mr. Bennet said something to Mrs. Bennet, then strode off confidently into the room, probably to mingle with the other husbands in a corner somewhere as he typically did at these affairs.
The dancing had already begun, pairs swooping together and apart in the center of the room while others mingled along the edges. It was there Oliver would prefer to stay—tucked away in a corner where fewer people might see him. But of course, Mrs. Bennet would never allow that. As far as his mother was concerned, it was each of their responsibilities to attract an upper-class suitor with coquettish smiles and batted eyelashes. Oliver grimaced.
“There he is!” Mrs. Bennet whispered all too loudly. “In the north end of the room beside the large portrait of the master of the house! Yes, I’m quite sure of it—he fits the way Mrs. Long described perfectly. Why, he is handsome, isn’t he?”
The young man in question was, Oliver had to admit, good-looking. His short hair was a golden-red, and his pale, freckled face seemed kind. But he wasn’t alone; with him were two women—both of whom shared his coloring, so were likely his relatives—and a dark-haired young man, who looked to be between Oliver’s and Jane’s ages and seemed about as thrilled to be there as Oliver was. But at least Oliver had the decency to pretend he wasn’t miserable; Bingley’s companion appeared to have no such compulsion.
“Oh, he is handsome!” Lydia exclaimed. “And who is that with him?”
“Why, I believe Mrs. Long mentioned he was traveling with his companions,” Mrs. Bennet answered. “That gentleman must be Fitzwilliam Darcy, and the women, Bingley’s sisters.”
Oliver stopped paying attention after that. Mrs. Bennet hovered over her children like a mother duck and her hatchlings, despite Oliver being seventeen and Jane even older, but eventually Jane and Oliver broke away from her. As they strayed out of earshot, Oliver’s shoulders finally relaxed. The two of them wove between people, Jane smiling shyly at familiar faces and responding with quiet, polite conversation when respectability demanded. Oliver smiled and nodded at all the appropriate moments, though he hadn’t the faintest idea what any of the conversations entailed.
It wasn’t until they’d spoken to three or four people that Oliver realized they were nearing the end of the room where Bingley and his friends resided. His eyes narrowed at Jane, who had been leading the march. Was she approaching them on purpose? She hadn’t looked at them once, but her path seemed clear.
She was, perhaps, approaching without looking like she was trying to approach, which suited her. Jane didn’t particularly enjoy being the center of attention, and she would never presume to directly approach someone—even if that someone was a very handsome boy. In any case, if her motive was to attract Bingley’s attention without appearing to, it was working. While Jane spoke to a young man who reminded Oliver of an overeager puppy (Oliver had already forgotten his name), Bingley’s gaze settled on her. Jane laughed politely at something decidedly unamusing, then Bingley said something to his morose companion and began moving toward them.
Oliver’s eyes widened, and he quickly turned back to the conversation Jane was having with the excitable boy. His pulse jumped as the sensation of someone nearing him from behind grew stronger. Should he alert Jane? Maybe
it’d be best if she didn’t know—then she could react more naturally. Yes, alerting Jane would likely only result in making her anxious.
“Don’t you think?” It took Oliver a moment to realize Jane was looking at him.
“Oh.” His face flushed. “I, uh, I beg your pardon, I was distracted. What was the question?”
Oliver was fated never to know, however, because at that moment a tall gentleman with golden-red hair approached the group and said, “Excuse me, miss.” Bingley smiled at Jane. “I apologize for interrupting, but I couldn’t help but notice you haven’t a partner to dance with. Would you do me the honor of joining me on the floor?”
Jane’s face pinked, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Oh, I would love to,” she said softly. “That is, if Mr. Harrison doesn’t mind?”
“Please!” The excitable boy—Mr. Harrison, apparently—gestured for Jane to go on. “Don’t hold back on my account.”
Jane’s gaze met Oliver’s, and he grinned and nodded encouragingly. “Enjoy.”
So Jane took Bingley’s outstretched hand, and the two of them stepped into the center of the room as a new set began. Oliver couldn’t help but smile—Mrs. Bennet was going to be thrilled. And they did make a handsome pair. Jane certainly seemed happy enough about the development.
Of course, this now left Oliver in the awkward position of being alone with Mr. Harrison, who wanted to talk about embroidery, of all things.
“It’s such a feminine art,” he was saying, “so simple, but it can be truly beautiful with a skilled hand. I envy the ability of a woman to create such delicate work. Are you quite skilled in embroidery, Miss Bennet?”
Oliver pursed his lips at the address—and the implication that he would be skilled in a feminine art because Mr. Harrison mistook him for a woman—before forcing his shoulders to relax as he met Mr. Harrison’s gaze. “I can’t say I am. If you’ll excuse me.”
Oliver didn’t wait for permission—or, more importantly, give him the opportunity to protest—before turning away and continuing along the perimeter of the room. He spotted Jane dancing with Bingley. She looked absolutely radiant, giggling shyly as they met in the center of the floor before separating again.
Jane looked happy, and for the moment, that was enough.
Oliver’s gaze wandered across the room. He found Bingley’s friend—Darcy, was it?—standing exactly where Bingley had left him when he went to ask Jane to dance. The two women had found dancing partners of their own, so there he stiffly stood, alone, his back to the green wall like it was his only protection.
It was a sentiment Oliver could relate to.
The boy’s hair was longer than Bingley’s and framed his face in loose waves that curled
out like a crown. It looked very soft. What would it feel like to run his fingers through it?
A young, pretty woman with blond curls spilling over her shoulders approached Darcy. Oliver couldn’t hear what was said from this distance, but he had a guess based on the way Darcy shook his head and waved his hand, and the woman frowned and walked away, looking slightly insulted.
Interesting.
Then Darcy was looking at him and Oliver froze. Everything in him demanded he look away before he was caught staring, but it was already too late, and Oliver found he couldn’t pull his gaze from him. There was something magnetic about Darcy’s dark eyes, about his slightly furrowed brow as the boy held eye contact with him. Oliver’s face warmed, his heart pounding in his ears so loudly the music of the room fell away. Though he was trapped like a moth pinned to a board, from that distance Oliver couldn’t quite make out the color of Darcy’s eyes. Green? Brown? Somewhere in between? Whatever the color, the boy’s eyes were pulling him in—until, all at once, they turned flinty. Darcy’s lips thinned, his brow furrowed more deeply, and something like disgust flashed over his handsome features. He shook his head and looked away.
The spell broke, and Oliver’s face flushed as he forced himself to turn away. He felt oddly like the entire room had caught him doing something illicit, though he couldn’t fathom why. Still, the distaste in Darcy’s face felt like a slap. It shouldn’t have mattered—Darcy was a stranger, and they hadn’t done anything but briefly look at each other. And yet, the apparent rejection stung more than it should have.
So what if Darcy wasn’t interested in approaching him, or even looking at him for that matter? Neither was Oliver. He needn’t waste a second more of his time with a boy determined to be so miserable.
Sometime later, Jane found him again, her face flush with delight. “There you are!” She laughed breathlessly. “Have you not danced with anyone yet?”
“I haven’t,” Oliver answered with a small smile.
“Oh, but you should! It’s so fun. Even Mama has begun dancing with Father!”
Oliver blinked—now that was a surprise. “Really? Well, that should lift Mama’s spirits. You certainly seemed to have fun with Bingley.” He grinned. “He seemed to be enjoying himself too.”
Jane blushed. “Do you think? I was so focused on not making a fool of myself—he really is handsome.”
“He seemed quite taken with you. He didn’t look away from you once the entire time you were dancing.”
Jane beamed, then took his hand. “Come, let’s find you a dancing partner.”
Oliver’s stomach plummeted. “Oh. That’s really not necessary—”
“Nonsense! I won’t have you standing by miserably while the rest of us enjoy ourselves.”
His face warmed. “Who said I was miserable? I’ve been perfectly content watching you dance. I’ll have you know, watching everyone is plenty entertaining. Did you not see the gentleman who tripped over his own two feet and fell on his arse?”
Jane shook her head with a laugh. “I know the perfect dancing partner for you. Bingley mentioned his friend, Darcy, hadn’t found anyone to dance with thus far, so I told him about you and he agreed it’d be a great match!”
Oliver’s eyes widened, dread dripping down his spine like ice water. “You did what?”
“Please, just give it
a chance. At the very least it’ll keep Mama from clucking about you all night.”
That, Oliver had to admit, was true. Avoiding yet another lecture from Mrs. Bennet about Oliver’s vanishing prospects might actually make the displeasure of dancing with a man who would ogle his chest and hips the entire time almost worth it.
But there was still a problem, namely that it was Darcy who Jane was trying to set him up with—the one boy Oliver had decided he absolutely wouldn’t interact with any further.
“Jane,” Oliver pleaded. “Does it have to be him? I don’t think this is a good idea—he doesn’t seem to like me very much.”
Jane paused, interest sparking in her eyes. “What makes you say that? Did you speak to him?”
“Well, no…”
“Then?”
Oliver could feel the flush creeping up his neck and bleeding into his cheeks. He hadn’t even said it yet, but he already knew how weak it was going to sound. Honestly, what was Jane going to think about We looked at each other and he didn’t seem interested?
“He … glowered at me,” Oliver said carefully. “I just didn’t get the sense that he wants to be here, and he didn’t seem particularly happy to catch my gaze—”
Jane didn’t look impressed. “You think he doesn’t like you because he looked at you?”
“I know that sounds ridiculous, but—”
“Oliver.” Jane said it softly, only loud enough for the two of them to hear, but it was enough. Hearing his name brought a flood of warmth, of rightness, and ridiculously, he found himself smiling at it, despite the dire situation.
Jane took his hands in hers and met his gaze. “Just give it a chance, for me. Please?”
Oliver was absolutely certain this was a terrible idea, but for his elder sister, there was little he wouldn’t endure. And she knew it.
“Fine,” he grumbled, and a grin spread across Jane’s face.
Then, before he could think better of it, she was pulling him through the crowd toward Bingley and Darcy, who were in the middle of what appeared to be a heated discussion.
“You haven’t danced with anyone yet!” Bingley was saying. “Surely there’s someone here who has caught your eye by now?”
“There is not,” Darcy said with finality.
Oliver pulled Jane to a stop. Even she seemed to notice the tone of the conversation, because she nodded toward two unoccupied chairs nearby. Oliver and Jane sat, pretending not to be paying attention to Bingley and Darcy’s conversation even though they were very much still within earshot.
“Darcy, I insist,” Bingley said. ...
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