Sequestered to the loneliest corner of the country ballroom stands the distinguished Mr. Darcy. He is a handsome gentleman of twenty-eight years, with a wealth of black hair and a stately stature. His countenance is as a king; no smile lines his face as he observes the night’s festivities with scrutinizing eyes. He presents a curt nod to others only when it is absolutely inescapable, and swiftly declines any offers to dance. With his affluence and good looks alone, every eligible young lady is at his beck and call, all except for one, Elizabeth Bennet. She is the only young lady that Darcy finds desirable. That acknowledgment, however, causes a shiver to pass through his rigid frame. The thought of being allured by a woman of Elizabeth’s lowly status is most deplorable to his estimation. Spotting her in the crowd he quickly turns away, lifts his chin, and stiffens his back. It would be imprudent of him to display his feelings. He longs to abandon the uncivilized banquet and return to the dignified setting of Netherfield Park.