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Chapter Thirteen

T he Bennet household had entered what Mrs. Bennet called “preparation day” and what Elizabeth privately considered “battle readiness with embroidery.”

Lydia had claimed the full-length mirror in the front hall and refused to relinquish it.

Kitty was testing different arrangements of her fringe with the solemnity of a coronation.

Mary had set up a music stand in the parlor and begun practicing quadrille harmonies on the pianoforte with missionary determination.

Mrs. Bennet presided over it all like a general in ribbons, surrounded by swatches, pins, and anxious sighs. “Jane, darling, do stand still. That shade of blue may look heavenly in candlelight, but we must be sure. Hill! Bring the candle! No, not that one. The wax drips.”

Jane, who had not moved, looked mildly amused. “It is the same dress I wore last month, Mama.”

“Yes, and I thought it too pale then, but no one listens to me,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Besides, you did not dance then, not properly. This time is different.”

“Because this time Mr. Bingley is hosting,” Kitty said knowingly.

“Because this time,” Mrs. Bennet sniffed, “we are being watched.”

Elizabeth leaned in from the window seat. “Then I hope we make a good show of it. Lydia is currently curtsying to her own reflection.”

“I am practicing ,” Lydia huffed. “Anyway, Jane’s going to get all the attention no matter what. Unless Mr. Wickham comes, and then it is anyone’s game.”

Charlotte Lucas arrived not long after, all pinched cheeks and wind-reddened nose from the walk. She accepted a seat, declined a biscuit—which was rather unlike her—and waited until the room settled somewhat before turning to Elizabeth.

“You heard, I suppose?” Charlotte said, settling into her seat with the calm satisfaction of someone who absolutely had not kept a running tally—despite knowing every detail.

“Mr. Darcy has now called on the Wheatons, the Gouldings, the Everlys, the Markhams, the Breretons, the Hoxleys, and the Latimers. He took tea with the Everlys, dined—briefly—with the Breretons, and left the Hoxleys so quickly their pudding had not finished steaming. Mrs. Goulding said he only stayed ten minutes and refused the ginger biscuits, which she considers a personal insult. And of course, he has been to Lucas Lodge.”

Elizabeth raised a brow. “Are we tallying up his visits like sightings of a rare bird?”

“More like plotting his migration pattern,” Charlotte replied. “No family is too humble—or too well populated—to escape a call. Even the Latimers, and they keep ducks in the front garden.”

Elizabeth huffed a laugh. “I suppose that proves he is not averse to having his boots soiled. Amusing fodder for my journal, to be sure.”

“And now, even when Mr. Bingley is unable to accept invitations, Mr. Darcy goes in his place. Alone . Mothers are beginning to reconsider their opinions—and brush the sugar off their best tea sets.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “Are you suggesting he is… what? Wife-hunting?”

“I am suggesting it no longer looks like anything else.”

She squirmed faintly in her seat. “That is absurd.”

“Is it? Because if he is not intending to court anyone, he is making a remarkable show of pretending to.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Charlotte raised a brow. “But he is leaping from one prospect to another at such a pace that I doubt Richard Sheridan himself could keep up. Rather suddenly, I might add. It is almost as if he is on a deadline.”

Elizabeth blushed to the tips of her ears. “Oh, now you sound ridiculous.”

Charlotte smiled, slowly. “Too ridiculous even for you?”

Elizabeth fixed her gaze on her skirt. “I find it far more likely he is bored.”

“A bored man is much less purposeful,” Charlotte sniffed. “He does not return anywhere. One call per household, no matter how many daughters are trotted out. It is almost admirable, the efficiency.”

“I do admire a man who approaches matrimony like a military campaign,” Elizabeth said. “We should all be so strategic.”

Charlotte gave her a dry look. “Except he has not called here.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “Are you saying Longbourn has been snubbed?”

“I am saying people are beginning to wonder. Five unmarried daughters and not so much as a card sent in your direction. If he truly is hunting a wife, as half of Meryton now believes, it seems… odd.”

“Perhaps he is afraid we will swarm him.”

“Perhaps he has already made up his mind.”

Elizabeth went still for half a second, just long enough for Charlotte to notice.

Then she smiled and said lightly, “If so, I pity the poor girl. She will spend the rest of her life convincing him that novels and conversation are not crimes.”

“I did not say he has found someone to court,” Charlotte replied. “But that he certainly seems to have found someone not to pay his attentions to.”

Elizabeth scoffed. “Come, Charlotte. You are letting your imagination carry you off again. I am sure I do not care two straws for whatever oddity Mr. Darcy is about from one day to the next, and neither should you.”

“I find it more useful than debating thread counts,” Charlotte said, glancing at Lydia, who was now arguing with Kitty over which of them deserved the new sash.

Elizabeth tried not to smile.

“You cannot pretend you have not noticed before,” Charlotte accused.

Elizabeth sighed. “Really, I thought we had settled the matter. Mr. Darcy can be as dour as he pleases. What do I care?”

“Because people are starting to talk, and your name has come up. He is not subtle about it,” Charlotte added.

“Almost methodical. Anyone who might be available and suitably bred gets at least fifteen minutes of frowning. And everyone remembers how he knew you at the Assembly before you were introduced.”

“I am not concerned,” Elizabeth said too easily. “I find it comforting, in a way. Mr. Darcy is clearly determined to be disappointed by someone more appropriate than me.”

Charlotte tilted her head. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Accidental,” Elizabeth said. “Do not encourage me.”

H e had not meant to stop in town.

But Bingley had run out of sealing wax, and Darcy was pacing, restless and entirely useless. So now he stood in Meryton’s bookseller, surrounded by trite titles— The Devoted Friend , Essays for the Melancholy Soul —all of them taunting him with their pretense of wisdom.

He had just turned to leave when the bell over the door rang.

Wickham.

Darcy went still.

The sound of boots, the self-satisfied cadence—he knew it before the man even spoke.

“Ah, Darcy,” Wickham said, smiling like he owned the street. “Twice in one week. This must be a record.”

Darcy did not return the smile. He did not move at all. “You will forgive me if I do not mark the occasion.”

“Always gracious.” Wickham meandered toward the shelves, glancing at titles with the casual interest of someone who had no intention of buying anything. “Are you shopping for yourself, or someone more… insightful?”

Darcy’s fingers clenched the spine of a book without registering the title.

“I need no advice from you, if that is what you are asking.”

“No,” Wickham said lightly. “But I imagine you need something from someone. Or rather, about someone.”

The skin between Darcy’s shoulders itched. He did not look up.

Wickham leaned against the shelf like he had never destroyed a life. “Been thinking,” he went on. “Really quite a bother —dashed nuisance, honestly. I wish I could remember what happened to those letters.”

Darcy’s hand stilled.

His voice, when it came, was quiet enough to cut bone. “You told me you destroyed them.”

“I said they were no longer in my possession. That is not quite the same thing.”

The bookseller returned from the back room, humming.

Darcy took his parcel in silence. It was that or risk bloodshed.

Outside, Wickham followed.

“I understand your concern,” he said as they stepped into the street. “A sister’s reputation is a fragile thing. One poorly chosen word, one intimate phrase—disaster.”

Darcy stopped.

“If you speak her name—”

“I would never!” Wickham grinned, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “You have made your feelings perfectly clear.”

Darcy’s pulse thudded against his collar. His hand twitched—fingers curling as if to crush the paper package still in his grip.

“Do not presume to know my feelings.”

“Oh, of course.” Wickham’s tone oozed false deference. “Perhaps I should try another regiment. Since you seem to have staked your claim in Meryton?”

Darcy said nothing. His jaw was locked tight enough to ache.

Wickham shrugged, adjusting his gloves with lazy elegance. “I suppose your stay here has not been entirely uneventful. Small towns love their mysteries. And a stranger who will not dance is always good for a whisper.”

Still no reply.

“Of course,” Wickham said, his voice casual, his eyes sharp, “you may have found a way to endear yourself in spite of your natural… economy of words.”

Darcy breathed once, shallowly.

“Oh, but I forget myself. The second Miss Bennet seems to have you well understood. Sharp girl. Very observant.”

There it was. The hit beneath the smile.

Wickham waited. Too still. Measuring. Waiting for Darcy to flinch.

He did not. But it cost him.

“She does like to observe,” Wickham said softly. “And she is very good at it. She had one or two rather sharpish things to say about you, I will say. Fear not, old friend—I defended your honor most nobly.”

Darcy’s vision tunneled, just for a moment. “I do not require—”

But Wickham was already turning, waving his fingers. “Oh, of course. You need nothing. Well then, I shall leave you to your errands.”

And he vanished, boots clapping over the cobbles.

Darcy stood on the step, hand trembling around a parcel of sealing wax, breath slow and deliberate—because if he let it slip for even a moment, he might run after that man and ruin him . Right there. In the street.

Instead, he stared at the empty place Wickham had left.