Page 20

Darcy exhaled, sharply. The drawing room at Netherfield was uncomfortably warm, though no one else seemed to notice.

Caroline Bingley was fluttering over garland placements.

Louisa Hurst had begun rehearsing ballads on the pianoforte.

A footman brought in tea, and Bingley was already rambling about card tables and syllabub.

And Darcy stood by the window, too still, too silent, as the voices swirled around him.

He had not even dismounted properly. The horse had barely stopped before he had tossed the reins at a groom and stalked inside, ignoring Bingley’s cheerful murmur: “You are in a mood.”

Mood .

Yes, he supposed he was.

Darcy flexed his jaw, hard enough to ache. Wickham should have been penniless. Disgraced. Vanished into the anonymous rot of distant regiments. But instead—

Instead, he had sauntered up to Elizabeth Bennet as though the world owed him a warm welcome and a pretty girl on his arm.

As though he belonged.

As though nothing had ever happened.

Darcy’s hands curled against the windowsill. The room behind him rippled with warmth and chatter, but the glass beneath his fingers was cool, almost sharp, and that suited him better.

He had not seen Georgiana’s face the day she arrived at Ramsgate. He had only read the note left on the bed. Only heard Mrs. Younge’s excuses. Only pieced together the rest from the few letters he had been lucky— lucky —to intercept in time.

If he had been one day later—

He swallowed hard.

And now Elizabeth, so bright, so unflinching, had stood beside that man and laughed.

What had Wickham told her? What polished lies had he spun between fluttering lashes and practiced ease?

Had she noticed how his eyes darted just once toward Darcy before he spoke?

Had she cared?

No.

Of course not. Why should she? She knew nothing. She had no reason to suspect the danger. She had only seen two men who clearly disliked each other.

And Mercy help him, Darcy had played right into Wickham’s hand.

“We are… known to one another.” The words had come too slowly. Too stiff. A dead giveaway to someone who could pick out the pit of his thoughts with one flick of her eyebrow. Someone who would now write out all her puckish delight in that blasted journal.

He closed his eyes. The fire popped behind him. Someone laughed—Caroline Bingley, perhaps. Bingley said something about musical chairs and who might play the flute this year.

Darcy could not move.

The image was a brand in his memory now: Elizabeth’s lashes low, her expression amused, her body angled toward Wickham ever so slightly, like she was curious. Like she wanted to hear more.

Like she trusted him.

And why would she not? Wickham had the advantage. He always had. Charm, warmth, an instinct for saying the exact right thing with the exact right smile.

Darcy had none of that.

What he had was knowledge—and no way to share it.

Because if he did—if he told her the truth, or even a piece of it—then Georgiana’s name would be dragged into it. Her letters. Her trust. Her heartbreak. All laid bare in a drawing room for the sake of warning a girl who had already made up her mind.

Darcy could not do it.

He could not even tell Bingley.

Bingley, who was currently muttering something about apple tarts and candied walnuts, and whose only worry was whether they should rearrange the ballroom seating.

Egad, how he envied him.

“Mr. Darcy,” Caroline drawled, a little too close. “You do not wish to add your voice to the planning?”

He did not turn. “I find myself with little to add.”

She gave a breathy laugh. “You are always so modest.”

She moved nearer. He felt her presence rather than saw it—silk and perfume and careful calculation.

“I do hope you intend to dance at your friend’s ball,” she murmured. “It would be such a disappointment otherwise.”

Darcy resisted the urge to step away. “I have made no plans.”

“Then make one now.” Her voice dipped lower. “With me.”

He turned then. Slowly. He kept his expression neutral, but had no qualms against letting a bit of steel into his voice. “I do not anticipate being in much demand.”

“Oh, do not be coy. A man with your… credentials is always in demand.”

Darcy inclined his head. “Then I shall leave the floor to those more deserving of it.”

She stared at him for a beat too long before retreating. Louisa called her over to inspect some lace samples, and Caroline left with a swish of skirts and a stiffness to her shoulders that pleased him more than it should have.

He exhaled again. Tried to ground himself.

The rational part of him whispered: It was one moment. One meeting. She is not in danger. You are overreacting.

But the rest of him—older, wearier, and not at all reasonable—knew better.

Wickham did not appear. He infiltrated. He charmed. He watched. He waited.

And when people least expected it, he took.

He had sworn— sworn —never again.

And now Elizabeth. So sharp. So brave. So utterly unconcerned.

He clenched his jaw.

It would be nothing, he told himself. Wickham would not dare try anything again. Not with Darcy nearby. Not with half of Meryton watching. Not when—

But he knew better. Wickham did not care—in fact, he would flaunt his ability to gain the lady’s favor before Darcy’s nose. There was no mistaking that look of suspicion from earlier. Wickham had already sensed some history, some interest on his part—even if it was merely circumstantial.

And Elizabeth—Elizabeth, who could best him in argument and outpace him in observation—had no idea what kind of creature she was smiling at.

He had to do something. He could not warn her. But perhaps… he could shield her.

Make her lose interest. Point her elsewhere. Find someone suitable, someone dull and kind and safe, and nudge her gently in that direction.

All without ever appearing to interfere.

Darcy’s hands relaxed slightly on the sill. A plan was still a plan, even if it was desperate.

And better to act now—before Wickham’s influence deepened, before Elizabeth’s pride tangled too tightly with his lies.

He straightened just as Bingley called to him from across the room. “Darcy! You must help settle it. Louisa claims the orchestra ought to face the windows, but Caroline insists they should face the hearth.”

Darcy turned, his expression cool, composed. “What is the argument for the windows?”

“Natural light.”

Darcy lifted one brow. “The ball begins after sunset.”

Caroline Bingley clicked her tongue. “You see? Charles I told you that already.”

Mrs. Hurst sniffed and deliberately turned her head away from the others.

Darcy returned to the window.

The pieces were shifting again. The clock was ticking louder. And for the first time in weeks, the February deadline no longer seemed like the most urgent thing he had to face.

Not with a wolf prowling the edges of the dance floor.

Not with Elizabeth’s smile caught in its teeth.