Page 14

“Please let it be a cancelled assembly,” Elizabeth murmured.

Charlotte ignored her. “Netherfield has received its final carriage. Mr. Bingley’s friend has arrived—the one he mentioned to Papa.”

There was a collective shriek—Kitty’s loudest—and a thump as Lydia tried to vault over the chaise.

Mrs. Bennet bustled into the room. “Is he rich?”

“He is very rich,” Charlotte confirmed.

“Is he handsome?” Kitty asked.

“He is very tall ,” Charlotte replied, which was enough.

“Is he single?” asked Mrs. Bennet, eyes shining.

Charlotte glanced at Elizabeth. “So far as I know.”

Elizabeth folded her arms. “Does this man have a name, or are we meant to refer to him as ‘he’ all night?”

“Darcy.”

Everything stopped.

Jane looked up from her letter.

Mary turned a page.

Elizabeth was fairly certain her heart fell stone dead in her chest.

“Mr. Darcy,” Charlotte repeated. “From Derbyshire, I heard. Why, Lizzy, you look as though you have heard the name before. Have you met?”

Elizabeth blinked. “We have… encountered.”

Mrs. Bennet was too thrilled to notice her daughter’s tone. “Darcy! What a grand name! And so distinguished!”

“Pompous,” Elizabeth muttered.

“You must all look your best,” her mother declared, waving her hand like a battle standard. “There is no telling what might happen at this assembly. Jane, where is that ivory ribbon? And Lizzy—Lizzy! Do not wear that gray muslin again. It makes you look like a governess.”

Elizabeth stood. “Then I shall pair it with spectacles and a contract of employment.”

“Wear the plum,” Charlotte said. “It makes you look dangerous.”

Elizabeth arched a brow. “Do I not always?”

But her smile had thinned.

Darcy. Here.

With only a few months to go…

And of course, he would attend the Assembly. Of course he would. The man was bound by duty, honor, and possibly some supernatural compulsion to interfere with her peace.

E lizabeth had never liked the Meryton Assembly. The room was too small, the floorboards often snagged her slippers, and the punch always tasted faintly of soap—thanks to Lady Lucas’s obsession with orange flower.

Tonight, it was also far too warm. The windows were fogging from the press of dancers and chattering neighbors, and her mother had already elbowed two ladies away from the card table in search of better seating.

Elizabeth hovered near the edges, pretending to examine the floral arrangements. Charlotte stood beside her, leaning close.

“The new tenants from Netherfield have arrived,” she murmured, eyes flicking toward the entrance.

Elizabeth did not look.

“They brought a party. Oh, Papa was right. Mr. Bingley is handsome.”

“And the sister? You said he had one, yes?”

“Two, but the younger one is the unmarried one. That must be her there, smiling like she invented politeness.”

Elizabeth sipped her punch. “That sounds exhausting.”

“Be kind. You may end up dancing with one of the gentlemen.”

“Heaven preserve me.”

A ripple passed through the room as the newcomers were greeted and fussed over. Elizabeth kept her eyes fixed firmly on the flowers.

Until she heard the voice.

“Good evening Miss Bennet,” came the drawl. Familiar. Crisp. Dry as cut glass.

Her spine stiffened.

She turned. Slowly.

Darcy stood a pace away, dark coat immaculate, expression rather opaque. Mr. Bingley was beside him, all golden curls and cheerful energy, and a woman on his other arm—elegant, perfectly styled, and immediately recognizable.

The woman in orange.

The very same who had narrowed her eyes at Elizabeth across a salon in London two years ago, when Elizabeth had been laughing with Darcy—one of a handful of times they had ever been entirely civil. They had never spoken, she and the woman in orange. But they had understood each other.

The woman gave her a faint smile now. “You look familiar.”

Elizabeth smiled back, polite and distant. “Do I?”

“I never forget a face. Especially not one from London.”

“I suppose that depends on the lighting.”

The woman’s lashes fluttered. “Have we met?”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “I do not recall your name.”

“Then we cannot have.”

Darcy cleared his throat, too loudly. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, may I present Miss Caroline Bingley.”

They both looked at him.

Then back at each other.

Caroline’s smile returned—fixed and gleaming. “Miss Bennet. How charming to meet you properly.”

“Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth said with a curtsy that felt like handling a blade by the wrong end. “A pleasure. And Mr. Darcy, how pleasant to see you again,” Elizabeth said smoothly, as though her heart were not doing something extremely foolish beneath her stays.

“You two are acquainted?” Mr. Bingley asked, bright-eyed.

Elizabeth frowned. “Only in the vaguest sense. We once shared a picnic.”

“A charity picnic,” Darcy said flatly. “For a good cause.”

“Good cause, indeed. It was an auction,” she clarified.

“A charity auction!” Mr. Bingley rejoined. “By Jove, what a fine thing. Was it an art auction? Darcy has that fine Reni I have often admired. Was that where you got it, Darcy?”

“Oh, no, it was not that sort of auction,” Elizabeth corrected. “Rather, the gentlemen himself was on the block.”

Darcy’s face turned a curious shade. Miss Bingley went utterly pale. Mr. Bingley laughed. “He never was!”

“Oh, indeed. He went for quite a lot. I paid.”

Caroline Bingley blinked, and her mouth dropped open as if she wished she had thought of that notion first.

“You bought him?” Mr. Bingley hooted, slapping his rather unappreciative friend on the shoulder.

Elizabeth took a sip of punch. “Only for an afternoon. When I reflect on all the better ways I could have spent seven pounds, though, I think it rather a poor investment.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then Miss Bingley cleared her throat. “What a charming story. And where did this philanthropic engagement take place?”

“Derbyshire,” Elizabeth said. “Rather under the watchful gaze of the dowager countess, if I recall.”

Miss Bingley paled. “Ah. Of course.”

Darcy’s expression had not changed. “So,” he said. “This is your kingdom.”

Elizabeth raised a brow. “Hertfordshire? Hardly. But yes, you have finally ventured into my corner of the world.”

“Remarkably intact, considering.”

“I make no promises about the company.”

He glanced around. “It seems… festive.”

“You mean chaotic.”

“I was being generous.”

She smiled. “You are not known for that.”

“Nor you for mercy.”

“Then we are well matched.”

They stared at each other a moment longer, neither willing to cede the smallest ground.

Miss Bingley cleared her throat. “Mr. Darcy, perhaps you would do me the honor of showing me the room. I find these assemblies so… provincial without proper guidance.”

Darcy was about to respond—his mouth had just begun to form the word no —when Mr. Bingley stepped in with a bright smile.

“I would be delighted to do so,” he said quickly, offering his arm before Darcy could speak. “And I believe we have yet to meet our lovely neighbor. Miss…?”

Elizabeth stepped in. “Mr. Bingley, may I present my eldest sister, Miss Jane Bennet.”

Jane offered a curtsy. “It is a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine entirely,” said Mr. Bingley, who looked as if he had just been handed the last candle in a storm.

Miss Bingley’s smile tightened. “How charming.”

Elizabeth did not roll her eyes, but it was a near thing.

Miss Bingley took Mr. Bingley’s other arm with forced grace, clearly displeased but unwilling to protest in public. The trio moved into the crowd.

Darcy lingered.

“So,” Elizabeth said, voice cool. “Still unmarried? Or is that lovely creature in taffeta and ostrich feathers the lucky lady?”

He gave a tight grimace. “Not if I can help it. And you?”

“I suspect the question is unnecessary.”

He looked her over, slowly. “Your mother must be all but distraught.”

“She has ample other distractions. You should dance,” she said, just to provoke him.

“I never do.”

“Pity. Your auction record promised so much.”

He laughed, a sharp exhale. “You have not changed.”

“Neither have you.”

He bowed stiffly. “Enjoy your evening, Miss Bennet.”

She curtsied, just as stiffly. “I plan to.”

Darcy walked away.

Elizabeth turned toward the punch bowl and stared at her reflection in the ladle.

Her hands were trembling.

She would write about this later.

Or she would try.