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Darcy tried to read his letter again, scowling.

“Darcy?”

He looked up.

Bingley grinned, triumphant, holding aloft a single glove. “I have one. The other has vanished. I suspect Caroline stole it in protest.”

“Mm.”

Bingley blinked. “That was a noncommittal noise. Are you quite well?”

Darcy folded the letter and then ripped his fingernails along the existing crease, just for good measure. “Do you recall whether my uncle, Lord Matlock ever met Wickham in Town? Perhaps while we were at school?”

Bingley paused, the glove drooping slightly. “I… do not think he ever had an occasion to. His own sons had finished school by the time we all came to Cambridge. Why?”

“No reason.”

That was a lie. But a necessary one.

The letter had arrived that morning with no prior warning—no preamble, no polite query about Georgiana’s health. Just that sentence. A girl of her age, position, and musical ability.

Visible.

Darcy had heard that word in another context, only months ago. It had come from Georgiana herself, eyes low, voice thin: “I did not think he would be visible. I only meant to write. I did not know he would come inside.”

Darcy’s knuckles pressed into the table.

He had meant to track down George Wickham and threaten him with debtor’s prison or something altogether more dreadful before anything reached the earl’s ears. Clearly, he had failed.

And if Elizabeth Bennet ever learned the truth—if she looked at him with pity instead of fire—

He would not survive it.

This was not about Georgiana’s scandal at all. This was about him .

Bingley was still speaking, something about a tenant’s rent coming due and whether hedges could be charged as part of the maintenance.

Darcy barely heard it.

He had just over five months remaining.

Five months to resolve the matter of his own marital status before his trustees could legally act on the clause in his father’s will and begin “reallocating” the remaining portion of Pemberley’s estate—Georgiana’s share.

And five months was hardly enough time to even allow for decency in a courtship, let alone prudence in the choice.

The funds would not disappear. Not exactly. But they would shift, and with them, so would control. Proof that his house was not in order. That if someone —perhaps someone too clever and too curious for her own good and his—ever pulled at a single loose thread, the entire facade might fall.

Georgiana would no longer be under his sole protection. And the next time a Wickham came to call—letter or no—there might be no one to stop him or the ruin he would surely spread.

Matlock was not simply issuing a family recommendation. He was laying down a marker. If Darcy could not resolve his own affairs, the earl would begin resolving Georgiana’s.

“You are not listening,” Bingley said cheerfully, tugging on his cravat with one hand and finally finding the second glove with the other.

“I am listening.”

“What did I say?”

“You were misquoting the rent schedule.”

Bingley squinted. “Oh. Good. That was the boring part.”

Darcy stood, adjusting his coat. The letter was folded and slipped into his inner pocket, though it felt heavier now than it had that morning. Like a verdict waiting to be delivered.

“We are going to Mrs. Philips’ for tea,” he said aloud, mostly to remind himself.

“Indeed, we are.” Bingley’s tone was far too pleased.

“Where there will be people.”

“Many of them!”

“And conversation.”

“Endless amounts.”

Darcy shut his eyes for a single beat. “Excellent.”

Bingley laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “It will not be quite torture. Miss Elizabeth will be there. You always fare better when she is present.”

Darcy almost swallowed his tongue. Because that, too, was uncomfortably close to the truth—and he had no idea what to do with it.

He followed Bingley out of the study, every step weighted by the paper in his pocket and the woman he was trying very hard not to imagine sitting just a little too close, saying something just a little too clever—just loud enough for him to hear, just sharp enough to lodge behind his ribs.

And he would like it.

And that was the problem.

E lizabeth had not wanted to attend.

That should have been enough reason to stay home, but Mrs. Bennet had declared it a “golden opportunity” and promptly shoved everyone into their best walking gowns.

Jane, being Jane, had complied sweetly. Mary brought two tracts to share with Mrs. Philips.

Kitty and Lydia had barely managed to button their boots, squealing the entire way about who owed whom money to spend later in town.

By the time they reached their aunt’s narrow front path, Elizabeth had resigned herself to a long hour of tepid tea and unrelenting floral upholstery.

She had not accounted for Darcy.

He was already there when they arrived, seated stiffly on the edge of a low settee with Miss Bingley perched beside him like a lonely swan trying to pretend a rock was her mate. Mr. Bingley was speaking with Sir William Lucas and waving his arms about in a way that threatened several teacups.

Darcy’s gaze flicked up as they entered. Then immediately back down.

Elizabeth looked straight ahead and smiled at Mrs. Philips. I am not here for him. I am here for the tea. I am here for the conversation. I am not here for him.

And yet, of course, a chair had been left for her—directly beside the fire, and directly across from Mr. Darcy.

Mrs. Philips ushered her over with such delight, there was no polite way to refuse.

“Lizzy! Right here, dear. What excellent timing—Mr. Darcy was just observing how warm the fire is. Do sit.”

Elizabeth sat.

Darcy inclined his head, as if they had not nearly cut each other off at the knees just last week.

She smiled politely.

The air was stifling with wood smoke and some sort of over-baked pastry. Elizabeth sipped her tea and glanced around the room.

“What a pretty gathering,” she said brightly. “All the ladies look so well this afternoon.”

He said nothing, but one brow lifted infinitesimally. A flicker of suspicion, or perhaps just dread.

“Do you not think so, Mr. Darcy?” she asked, with theatrical interest. “Miss Lucas looks particularly radiant, I believe. That ribbon becomes her, does it not?”

She nodded meaningfully toward Charlotte, who sat with her mother near the pianoforte, looking as she always did in social settings—mildly tranquilized, moderately resigned, and wholly unconvinced that anything pleasant would come of the day.

Darcy’s eyes moved. Just barely. A mechanical, tactical flick in Charlotte’s direction. He gave no comment.

Noted . Appreciates good posture, lacks imagination.

She kept her tone perfectly mild. “I daresay a man of taste might do worse.”

A small shift beside her—Miss Bingley, stiffening like a drawn bowstring.

Elizabeth turned her head, all guileless sweetness. “And you, Miss Bingley—how fortunate you are to possess such a striking shade of orange silk. It is so rare to find something that can hold its own against a flame.”

Miss Bingley blinked. Her eyes darted upward as if she could see the truly wretched plume of her turban—vivid, unflattering, and roughly the color of boiled carrot. Then, startled into vanity, she lifted one hand to adjust the offending feather and offered a gracious little simper.

“You are very kind.”

Across the hearth, Darcy stirred in his chair. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his eyes and fixed Elizabeth with a stare that could have melted enamel.

She smiled back, demure and innocent as a parson’s niece.

Journal entry for tonight . Page title: " How to Be Helpful Without Being Shot." Subsection: 'In Which I Recommend Wives to a Man Who Clearly Cannot Be Trusted to Choose One Without Intervention.'

She folded her hands in her lap, the picture of sociable composure.

If he meant to go wife-shopping in Hertfordshire, she would at least ensure the inventory was properly labeled. That he seemed to overlook the most sensible options—and allow himself to be hunted by the least—was hardly her fault.

Besides, she was having a perfectly delightful time.

Jane had been handed a cup of tea before she had fully stepped into the room. Mary was already cornered by Mr. Philips, who was offering loud opinions on moral education. Kitty and Lydia were whispering, giggling, elbowing each other with alarming frequency.

Then Lydia’s voice rang out, clear as a bell. “They’re coming to Meryton!”

Mama turned. “Who is coming, child?”

“The officers!” Lydia beamed. “They’ve been posted just outside the village—dozens of them. In uniform, Mama. I nearly swooned.”

“They say Colonel Forster is very handsome,” Kitty added, clasping her hands and squeezing her arms together until her bosom… well, her fichu no longer served its office.

“Oh, my word!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “Dozens of eligible young men in uniform, just a few miles away? This is a blessing.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and accepted her tea. “And here I thought we already had more than our share of distractions.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lydia huffed. “You do not swoon over anyone.”

“That is because I like to remain conscious.”

Darcy, from across the fire, lifted his brow—but said nothing. Instead, he deliberately looked away from the conversation.

She could not help herself. “Do you object to the militia, Mr. Darcy?”

“I object to little, Miss Bennet. Though I find it curious how swiftly uniformed strangers become objects of worship.”

Lydia beamed, not remotely insulted. “Oh, we’ve always loved uniforms.”

Elizabeth sipped her tea. “It does not take a red coat to inspire admiration. Some gentlemen manage it with nothing but black broadcloth and a glower.”

She said it lightly, too lightly, but Darcy’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Glowering is vastly underrated,” he said. “It wards off nonsense.”

“And conversation,” she added, teeth flashing.

Darcy’s gaze held hers. “Precisely.”

The room had gone oddly quiet. Elizabeth glanced away, mortified to find Mrs. Philips, Sir William, and even Jane watching with interest.

Mrs. Bennet leaned forward. “Did you hear, Mr. Darcy? The officers will be stationed quite near Meryton. Very near indeed.”

“I had not heard,” Darcy said without looking away from Elizabeth.

“We shall be entirely overrun with officers!” Mrs. Bennet cried. Not in dread, but something quite the reverse.

“Perhaps Hertfordshire has room enough,” Elizabeth said mildly.

“Not if they all want tea,” muttered Miss Bingley, who had not been addressed but would not allow herself to be left out.

A ripple of polite laughter passed around the room.

And then Sir William cleared his throat. “With so many new visitors, and such a fine house as Netherfield among us, it does rather put one in mind of… a ball.”

Miss Bingley’s fan paused mid-flutter.

Mrs. Bennet sat bolt upright. “A ball?”

Mr. Bingley, bless him, smiled like someone had offered him cake. “An excellent suggestion!”

“I could not agree more,” cried Mrs. Philips.

“Oh, how charming!” cooed Mrs. Bennet. “A ball at Netherfield—how delightful!”

Elizabeth slid her eyes toward Darcy.

He was watching her.

He had not smiled. He had not frowned. He simply observed her, as if she were some puzzle to be measured and solved and catalogued away.

She lifted her chin.

Darcy turned his attention back to Sir William. “I believe that would be Mr. Bingley’s decision.”

“Indeed it is!” Bingley said. “And I shall make it at once. We shall host a ball in a fortnight. Let us say the nineteenth of November.”

“Oh, no, quite impossible,” her mother protested. “That is the day the vicar’s wife means to host our charity society for tea.”

There were one or two murmurs of assent from the other matrons present. Elizabeth shifted on her feet and slid her gaze back to… oh, no, not Darcy. How odd that her eyes had skipped back there? She cleared her throat and looked instead to Mr. Bingley.

“Good heavens,” the gentleman cried. “Far be it from me to tread on such an important date. Let us put it back one week to the twenty-sixth. There, will that date suit everyone?”

Elizabeth made herself look pleased. She even clapped lightly with the others.

But she could feel the heat in her cheeks. Darcy had not said a word in protest. Which meant he was going to be there. Which meant she would see him again, in full ball attire with punch and hothouse flowers and a string quartet and everything. Which meant…

Elizabeth’s cup had gone cold.

As the guests began to rise and shawls were fetched, Darcy stepped beside her to retrieve Miss Bingley’s wrap.

He leaned in—just slightly.

“I hope you do not mind being stared at again, Miss Bennet,” he murmured.

Elizabeth blinked. “Not at all. I quite enjoy being an object of worship.”

He smiled, sharp and brief. “I suspected as much.”

And then he walked away.

Elizabeth stood perfectly still, her face perfectly blank.

She would write about this later.