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Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, who was clearly suppressing a smile.

“I make no promises about the harp,” she said.

Mr. Gardiner leaned forward. “I know you girls were hoping for a tour of the mountains, but first, we have an invitation to a garden party in two days’ time. At Lady Chiswell’s estate, near Matlock. Mrs. Hartley arranged the introductions. Apparently it is in aid of the London Foundling Hospital.”

“Oh, that sounds delightful,” said Jane.

Elizabeth arched a brow. “Delightful? I expect it will be a riot of bonnets and matchmaking.”

“Well, yes,” said Mrs. Gardiner cheerfully. “That is what makes it delightful.”

Mary made a vague noise of disapproval, and Elizabeth bit her lip to avoid laughing.

“It will be good for you,” her aunt added. “New faces. Fresh air. A change of scenery does wonders for one’s perspective.”

Elizabeth turned her gaze back to the window. The houses were closer now. A shop sign swung gently in the breeze, its paint faded but the lettering still proud.

New faces. Fresh air.

She was not looking for love. She was not looking for anything at all.

But it would be good, just for a while, to not be known quite so well.

T he knock was far too cheerful.

Darcy, seated with his boots off and a Latin grammar open in his lap, considered ignoring it. Mrs. Reynolds would answer in due course, and whomever it was could be politely turned away with the usual excuse: “ Mr. Darcy is not receiving visitors at present.”

But then the door opened anyway, and he realized—too late—that the usual excuse would not be sufficient.

“Gad’s teeth,” said the figure silhouetted in the doorway, “you are still reading that abominable book.”

Darcy did not rise. “It is not abominable. It is precise.”

“Yes, well, so is gout.” Major Fitzwilliam crossed the study as if he owned it, pulled Darcy’s grammar from his hands, and dropped it on the side table with all the reverence of a stable boy chucking a saddle. “Where are your shoes?”

“Where they belong.”

“Now you sound exactly like Seneca. Egad, you are worse than I feared.”

Darcy sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Why are you here, Richard?”

“Why, to see you, cousin. To admire your fine taste in solitude. To breathe deeply of the morbid air that must surely be thick with your melancholy. And—incidentally—to drag your hideous carcass to a social function.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I am not—”

“You are.” Fitzwilliam dropped into the chair opposite, draping one leg over the arm with military slouch.

“You have been buried here for half a year. You have frightened off a full third the staff, scared away every neighboring hostess, and even poor Bingley thinks you are about to turn into a ghost and start haunting the east wing.”

“Bingley exaggerates.”

“He does. He said wraith. Ghost was my modification.”

Darcy closed his eyes.

“There is to be a garden party. Tomorrow. Near Matlock. The Lady Chiswell is hosting—do not roll your eyes, I already saw it—and I have it on good authority there will be lemonade, bad poetry, and at least three ladies who have recently taken up harp. It will be intolerable. But I shall not endure it alone.”

“I am not going.”

“You are.”

Darcy opened his eyes. “Have you ever considered diplomacy?”

“Every time I decline a promotion.”

“Which is never. How much did your father pay for the last one?”

Richard scoffed. “I earned that, cousin. The general found me a very useful courier.”

“If this is your way of being ‘useful,’ I wonder that he did not put you back to Lieutenant.”

The room fell briefly quiet. Darcy pressed his fingers into his temples, trying to summon the thread of peace he had briefly touched before the knock. Fitzwilliam never stayed long—he was on leave, but only barely, and the War Office would snatch him back the moment his boots were laced.

Darcy could have been more hospitable. Could have stood, could have ordered tea, could have played the dutiful host.

Instead, he sat motionless, barefoot, trying to remember why he had ever allowed himself to care about anything he stood ready to lose.

“The party,” he said at last. “Why?”

“Why the party, or why are you attending?”

“The former, as I am not attending.”

“Of course you are.” Fitzwilliam uncrossed his legs and sat forward, hands clasped over his knee.

“The Lady Chiswell was an old friend of your mother’s.

Her daughter was widowed last year, and the family has decided that throwing an outdoor gathering in the name of charity is a splendid way to restore her to society.

There will be food. There will be flowers.

There will be gossip, and music, and quite possibly the French ambassador’s niece. ”

“I see.”

“And I,” said Fitzwilliam, grinning, “will be there. At my mother’s behest, of course.”

“You are not due back in London?”

“No, but you are due back among the living.” Fitzwilliam stood and gave him a hard look. “You have mourned long enough. The black will keep. But if you mean to sit in this mausoleum for the rest of your twenties, do not expect me to keep you company.”

Darcy exhaled. “You are a bastard.”

“Entirely true. But I am also the only one Mrs. Reynolds will permit past her guard. Oh, and the dowager countess ‘expects’ to see you, which amounts to a command.”

Darcy glanced down at his bare feet, then back up.

“You are serious.”

“Gravely. I intend to wear my good boots. You should as well.”

“Richard.”

“Yes?”

“If I must attend this farce, I will not suffer alone.”

Fitzwilliam’s grin widened. “Excellent. I shall be sure to draw attention. Perhaps recite Byron under a rose arch. Or better yet, flirt shamelessly with every widow present. Someone ought to keep the ladies distracted from your dour glower.”

“I hate you.”

“Not nearly as much as you hate parties.” Fitzwilliam moved to the door, then paused. “Eleven o’clock. I will not come up and fetch you, so you had best be at the carriage.”

“And if I am not?”

“I shall send Lady Chiswell’s footman into your bedroom with a harp.”

Darcy scowled.

“See you tomorrow,” Fitzwilliam called, and was gone.

The door closed with a click. Darcy sat alone once more.

He stared at the abandoned grammar. He did not retrieve it.

Instead, he bent to put on his boots.