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Darcy turned toward the window, where the moonlight pressed weakly against the glass. “I do not concern myself with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. I think only the most foolhardy of gentlemen would.”

That remark drew a pleased smirk that Miss Bingley probably thought she concealed behind her fan. But Darcy saw it clearly in her reflection in the glass.

It mattered not, though. The image of Elizabeth Bennet—chin lifted, eyes bright, voice like flint and rain—was still stamped somewhere behind his ribs.

He should have stayed in Derbyshire.

At least there, he knew which way was north.

E lizabeth had not intended to stop in Meryton that afternoon, but her mother had insisted on trailing poor Jane through three separate milliners’ shops, and Mary had somehow vanished into a discussion on psalm structures with the curate’s wife.

Which left Elizabeth loitering outside the butcher’s with nothing but a half-penny in her pocket and the distinct sense that she might scream if one more person asked if Jane’s heart was now committed after her two dances with the gentleman at Netherfield.

So she crossed the square.

The bookshop was crammed to the rafters with shelves, unevenly heated, and smelled faintly of crumbling pages and dust. In other words, paradise.

It was not a large bookshop. Which was unfortunate, as Elizabeth had ducked inside precisely because she wished not to see anyone—particularly anyone tall, silent, and given to brooding near firelight.

And yet, standing three paces from the poetry shelves, she found herself staring at Mr. Darcy. Or at least, at the back of his coat.

He was studying a volume of Pope with the sort of intensity one reserved for obscure treaties or classified naval plans.

Elizabeth paused mid-step.

He had not seen her—she was certain of it. His back was to her, his attention fastened to the page, his entire posture the picture of practiced disinterest. And yet she could feel it— he knew . Of course, he knew.

She hesitated a beat too long at the end of the aisle, then turned pointedly toward the moral essays, pretending to examine a volume on dutiful wifehood that made her eyelid twitch. She had not come to talk to anyone. Certainly not to Mr. Darcy.

It would be unbearable if he turned.

Worse if he did not.

He did not.

She shifted. The book she held had an unfortunate mildew stain. She returned it and picked up another. Too heavy. She returned that one as well and picked up one that crackled loudly when she tried to open it. That would not do at all. She put it back.

Still nothing.

The rustle of a page being turned behind her was the only sign he had not turned to stone.

She glanced over her shoulder—purely accidental—and caught the sharp, motionless profile of his face, eyes locked on the same line as before. As if she were not there at all.

It was infuriating.

He could at least pretend to be startled. Or uncomfortable. Or conscious of her existence.

Elizabeth plucked a third book from the shelf and flipped it open with all the force of irritation.

From behind her, calm and utterly unsympathetic, came the voice: “You always approach as though you mean to pounce.”

Elizabeth arched a brow without turning. “You always speak as though you expect it.”

He closed the book with great care. “Miss Bennet.”

“Mr. Darcy.”

They stared at each other as he shifted his book from one hand to the other.

“Your sister must have very… mature taste,” Elizabeth said at last, sliding another volume off the shelf. “Is that your excuse today?”

“For purchasing Pope?”

“For haunting the bookshops of Meryton.”

“I might say the same.”

“I am always haunting,” Elizabeth replied. “It is how I maintain my reputation.”

She flipped open the book she had taken— Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women. A dubious find.

Darcy stepped closer. Not much. Just enough to see the title.

His mouth could hardly behave itself, and one brow was flickering dangerously. “Planning to reform?”

“Certainly not,” she said, tucking the book back where it belonged. “I was hoping to find a scandal. Alas. No murder. No seduction. Not even a decent duel.”

“Your tastes are… unconventional.”

Elizabeth moved down the shelf. “I prefer the term ‘honest’.”

“Of course.”

A long pause followed. Neither moved to leave. A breeze from the open door rustled the pages near the counter. A boy sneezed outside.

“Did you enjoy the assembly?” she asked, feigning politeness.

“I did not.”

“How shocking.”

“Did you?”

She smiled. “Of course not. I had to speak to you. Lovely to see you again, by the by.”

He blinked once.

Elizabeth turned slightly, running her finger along the edge of a worn spine. “There was one highlight, however.”

“And what was that?”

“They served Lady Lucas’s punch recipe. Guaranteed to make the evening pass in a blur of bad breath and dizzy dancing.”

Darcy looked away before he laughed, but the sound was unmistakable—a short breath, forced through his nose.

Elizabeth turned, satisfied.

“Do you read Pope often?” she asked.

“Not often.”

“Then may I suggest a different volume?”

“You may suggest anything,” he said mildly. “I do not guarantee acceptance.”

Elizabeth plucked a book from the corner and held it out. Satirical Verse, Volume II .

He took it.

Their fingers did not quite touch. But close.

“Careful,” she said. “That one bites.”

Darcy only stared at her with one brow quirked.

But he did not put the book back.

C harlotte’s mother kept an overheated drawing room and an endless supply of indifferent biscuits, which was why Elizabeth arrived with low expectations and a spare handkerchief.

She did not mind these little gatherings—provided no one expected her to embroider or sing—but this one had an extra guest.

Several, in fact.

Mr. Bingley had come with his sisters and, more to the point, Mr. Darcy.

He stood near the window, posture immaculate, looking very much like he had not sat down since the reign of Queen Anne.

At present, he was speaking in low, polite tones with Sir William Lucas about the comparative strengths of rock walls and hedgerows, with all the seriousness of a treaty negotiation.

Elizabeth sat beside Charlotte, resisting the temptation to fan herself with a bit of sheet music—Maria was unlikely to use it for anything else. The fire roared. The biscuits were soft. A fly circled the ceiling with suicidal determination.

“You are watching him,” Charlotte murmured without looking up from her needlepoint.

Elizabeth smiled sweetly. “I am watching a man discuss boundary markers as though they were matters of national defense.”

Charlotte’s lips twitched. “Masonry is a serious subject.”

“Oh, it is. Especially if one wishes to avoid the scandal of insufficient walling.”

Across the room, Darcy gestured to the window. Sir William nodded sagely.

“They have moved to Seneca,” Elizabeth said in wonder. “He has brought in the Stoics. That must be a new personal best.”

Charlotte did not reply. She merely reached for another biscuit.

Elizabeth leaned in, eyes narrowing in amusement. “Did you know he once translated all of De Officiis ?”

Charlotte blinked. “He did not.”

“He did. Over the course of one winter, apparently. Said it calmed his nerves.”

Charlotte gave her a look.

Elizabeth shrugged. “Some men take long walks. Others copy Latin maxims by candlelight.”

“And you remembered that.”

“It was memorable,” Elizabeth said, far too quickly.

Charlotte’s eyebrow rose. “Ah.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Darcy turned slightly—just enough to glance toward the tea table, where Miss Martin from Clapham was attempting to peel an orange with her gloves on.

Elizabeth tilted her head.

“What,” Charlotte asked warily, “are you thinking?”

“I am thinking,” Elizabeth said slowly, “that Mr. Darcy has just looked at Miss Martin for more than one second, and I find that… interesting.”

Charlotte nearly choked on her tea. “You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, come now. She is pleasant. Her father is in trade, but wealthy trade. She speaks passable French. She plays—something stringed. And she has a sort of rustic elegance, do you not think?”

“She wears hair combs made of seashells.”

“So does the sea,” Elizabeth murmured.

Charlotte stared.

Elizabeth’s smile widened. “It could work.”

“You do not like Mr. Darcy.”

“I do not dislike Miss Martin. Rather, I am perfectly neutral regarding her.”

Charlotte set down her tea with excessive care. “Elizabeth Bennet, if you are matchmaking for sport—”

“It is not sport. It is… community service.”

“Because?”

“Because he is clearly here to marry someone. And we should all be terrified.”

Charlotte laughed, then caught herself and glanced toward her mother, who was pretending not to eavesdrop from three feet away.

Elizabeth added, “I am simply safeguarding the neighborhood. Strategically. Preventatively.”

“You are meddling.”

“I am generous-minded.”

Charlotte paused. “And if he looked at you instead of Miss Martin?”

Elizabeth did not answer at first. She plucked a biscuit from the tray and stared at it as though it might offer her absolution.

“Then I would immediately join a convent,” she said. “Or fake a contagious illness. Something with pustules.”

Charlotte gave a low laugh. “I shall hold you to that.”

Elizabeth popped the biscuit in her mouth and said, through the crumb, “Mark my words: if he approaches me, I shall go pale and collapse onto the pianoforte.”

Charlotte glanced across the room. “Pity. Because I think he just finished with my father.”

Elizabeth swallowed. Stiffened. Slowly turned.

Mr. Darcy, very tall, very unsmiling, was now looking directly at them.

Charlotte sipped her tea with a pointed slurp. “Do try not to swoon too soon. The pianoforte was just tuned.”

Elizabeth stiffened as Mr. Darcy began to cross the room.

She did not move, but she did lower her teacup, straighten her shoulders, and brace herself for a display of manners that would leave them both bruised.

He was coming directly toward them.

Ten feet.

Seven.

Three—

He passed.

Elizabeth blinked. Darcy did not so much as glance at her as he swept by, stopping just short of the pianoforte to address Mr. Bellamy, a gentleman of respectable age and absolutely no fashion sense.

The two men exchanged greetings — one stiff, one eager — and then Darcy said something low enough to blur beneath the hum of the room.

Elizabeth reached for another biscuit she did not want.

Then she heard it.

“Who? … Oh, you must mean Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn,” Darcy was saying.

Elizabeth froze mid-chew.

“I do not find her objectionable,” he continued, in a voice so studiously neutral it might have been drafted by committee. “She possesses a certain… liveliness of mind. If one could find the means to bridle it.”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed.

“She might even manage a household without incident,” he added, “provided the guests were not overly sensitive or excessively fond of conversation.”

Mr. Bellamy gave a diplomatic chuckle.

Elizabeth, for her part, took a slow sip of her tea.

Charlotte leaned in. “Are you—?”

“Well,” Elizabeth said lightly. “Perfectly well.”

She placed her teacup back in its saucer with the serene exactness of a woman restraining the urge to throw it.

Charlotte studied her. “You do not seem well.”

Elizabeth smiled. “No? I feel quite composed. It is astonishing what one can endure when one expects absolutely nothing.”

Across the room, Darcy continued speaking to Mr. Bellamy with grave civility. Elizabeth did not look, but she heard the scrape of a chair and the rustle of his coat as he turned slightly—angled just enough for his words to carry.

“I fear, sir, you mistake disinterest for loathing. I profess to no such strength of feeling. I hardly know the lady, but I find Miss Bennet’s company…

invigorating,” he said, in the same tone one might use for laudanum or a sudden breeze through a crypt.

“Though she might test the constitution of any gentleman fond of peace.”

Charlotte’s brows rose.

Elizabeth leaned toward her with airy cheer. “Did you hear that? How kind. Mr. Darcy has decided I am medicinal.”

Charlotte blinked. “You are not going to respond to that.”

“Certainly not,” Elizabeth said, lifting her chin. “I never contradict a man offering compliments.”

Darcy, without turning, continued: “Not everyone is suited to lively conversation. Or its… consequences.”

Elizabeth took a sip of tea.

“Indeed,” she said. “Just as not everyone is suited to excessive brooding. I have heard it leads to joint pain.”

Charlotte choked on her biscuit.

Elizabeth tilted her head, just enough to let her voice carry across the room.

“Well,” she said airily, “he must be in want of a wife.”

Charlotte blinked. “What?”

Elizabeth took another sip, not looking at Darcy.

“Why else would he be expounding on the merits or demerits of every lady present? Though heaven help the woman who accepts the post. She would have to keep to herself, speak only when spoken to, and express her affection chiefly through superior floral decorations.”

Charlotte snorted so violently she had to pretend to cough.

Darcy did not turn, but his shoulder tensed.

Elizabeth reached for another biscuit and broke it in half. Calm. Casual.

Charlotte leaned close. “You are going to get us both cut.”

“Let them try,” Elizabeth said sweetly. “I have excellent penmanship and a gift for satire. I am invincible.”

Darcy’s conversation continued for precisely one minute longer before he excused himself and made for the back of the room.