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Elizabeth snapped her journal shut and tucked it neatly into her reticule. “Perhaps. But I doubt they will fetch much—unless I begin naming names.”

“I imagine half the room suspects you already have.”

Elizabeth scoffed—but her cheeks betrayed her with a sudden warmth. “Nonsense. I am always vague.”

“Are you?” Charlotte arched one brow. “I doubt that. You like accuracy too well.”

“One can still be ‘vaguely accurate,’” Elizabeth insisted.

“Indeed. Miss Markham believes you are composing poetry.”

Elizabeth made a face. “Then she deserves whatever verse I assign her.”

Charlotte laughed. “I hope it rhymes with ‘ambition.’”

Elizabeth sipped her tea, fighting a smile. “It could.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to reply—but paused as a harried young woman appeared at her elbow, eyes wide. “Miss Lucas? Maria has torn her hem again. She says she will not leave the retiring room until you come help her.”

Charlotte sighed. “Third gown this season, and it is only November.”

“Go,” Elizabeth said, waving her off with a grin. “Save her from sartorial ruin.”

Charlotte gave a helpless shrug and vanished after her sister.

Elizabeth turned back to the tea table, where the silver service steamed politely, and poured herself another half-cup.

Elizabeth had just taken another sip of tea when Miss Bingley approached, her manner all warmth and her eyes quite otherwise.

"Miss Eliza," she said with the smile of a woman preparing to serve compliments like fruit on a toothpick.

“How fortunate to find you in repose. Louisa and I have been positively beside ourselves. We wagered—quietly, of course—on which young lady Mr. Darcy might favor with the supper set. I must admit, I lost a great deal of pride on your behalf.”

Elizabeth sipped more of her tea. “Did you? You must have too little imagination.”

Miss Bingley laughed. “Not at all! Although, I confess, I was certain he would prefer… someone else.”

Elizabeth smiled. “How generous of you to take such an interest in his affairs. Though I admit, I cannot imagine a more diverting topic for sisters to gamble upon.”

“Oh, nothing beyond sisterly amusement,” she said, retrieving a biscuit with unnecessary finesse. “But one does like to see a gentleman remain consistent in his standards. Otherwise, people might begin to wonder.”

“Indeed,” said Elizabeth, her tone light but her eyes sharp. “When a man’s actions contradict his preferences, it is often not the gentleman who is misjudged.”

Miss Bingley’s lips tightened before softening into another syrupy smile. She reached for the tea service with a sigh, brushing aside a fold of her shawl that had drifted over the table.

“How stifling these rooms become, do they not?” she said airily, lifting the lid of the sugar bowl and peering inside as though she expected it to contain secrets.

Elizabeth offered a noncommittal hum, her attention already returning to her teacup. The table was small, and with two ladies seated close, there was hardly room to move without touching something that was not one’s own.

“Well. I do hope you enjoy the attention this evening has brought you. We cannot all endure such scrutiny with... grace.”

Elizabeth set down her teacup. “It is true. Some thrive under it. Others merely endure.”

There was a pause, just long enough for a flicker of something colder to pass between them. Then Miss Bingley rose, brushing an invisible thread from her skirt.

“Do enjoy the rest of the ball, Miss Bennet. It has already proven most enlightening.” With a final nod, she turned and glided away, the rustle of her gown fading into the noise of the corridor.

Elizabeth took another sip of tea, letting the warmth settle behind her smile. The retiring room hummed with low conversation and the occasional rustle of silk, but for one rare and shining moment, she felt perfectly composed. Composed, victorious—and almost, but not quite, gracious.

She had just set her cup down when the door swung open again.

Kitty bustled in, cheeks pink, eyes darting—followed by Jane, whose expression was split somewhere between apology and concern.

Elizabeth sighed inwardly. So much for peace.

"Lizzy," Kitty whispered urgently, "Mary is upset. She started playing the pianoforte in the supper room and wouldn't stop. Now some of the girls are laughing at her."

Jane added, "She is crying behind the ficus plant and she will not come out for me. I am not sure what to say to her."

Elizabeth sighed, setting down her teacup. "Come, let us go find her."

D arcy had just set down his glass of claret—barely palatable, like everything else this evening—when movement at the edge of the crowd caught his eye.

Wickham again.

Still circulating, still charming, still impossibly at ease in a room where he had no business trespassing. Darcy had lost count of how many ladies Wickham had made laugh already. Half the room seemed to find him delightful.

Darcy did not.

He had stopped looking for a suitable partner two sets ago. There was no one left—no one worth the conversation, let alone the trouble. The only tolerable company in the room was currently surrounded by sisters and suitors and too many eyes.

Elizabeth Bennet was not an option.

And then—

Wickham turned toward the far side of the ballroom and made a direct approach.

To Miss Bingley.

Darcy straightened almost imperceptibly, his gaze narrowing. There was a brief exchange—words he could not hear, but the cadence was familiar. A request. The next dance.

And then, to his astonishment, Miss Bingley nodded.

She smiled.

She accepted.

Darcy did not move. He could not have moved if he wished. He merely watched as Wickham bowed and turned toward the refreshment table, his path carving straight across Darcy’s.

Of course it did.

They collided halfway between the punch bowl and the cluster of palms near the orchestra.

Wickham stopped. Smiled. “Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy’s jaw tensed automatically. His hand brushed against the edge of the punch table, and for one foolish second, he imagined upending the entire bowl into Wickham’s face. “Lieutenant.”

Wickham’s smile widened by a fraction. “Still so formal. I must say, I expected a warmer greeting on such a splendid evening from an old friend.”

Darcy’s gaze narrowed fractionally. “We were never friends.”

“Strange. I could have sworn we once shared Christmases and tutors and far too many sermons from your father.” Wickham clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on the balls of his boots. “But perhaps I misremember.”

“You often do.”

Wickham’s mouth twitched. “Touchy tonight. Must be the air. Or the company.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. “If you mean to test my patience—”

“Oh, I never test,” Wickham said mildly. “I observe. And I must say, you are holding up better than I expected. All things considered.”

Darcy glanced past him—briefly, involuntarily—toward the far end of the room, where Elizabeth stood in conversation with Charlotte Lucas.

Wickham followed the look.

“Ah,” he said lightly. “That explains the mood.”

Darcy stilled. A flicker of alarm passed through him—but he kept his expression flat.

“She does have the sort of smile that invites confidences, does she not?” Wickham mused. “The clever ones always do.”

Still, Darcy did not move.

Wickham’s tone turned thoughtful. “I wonder how much she would forgive, if the story were tragic enough. Some women can be quite… receptive to sorrow, provided it is handsomely delivered.”

Darcy’s gut twisted. Not from doubt in her judgment—but from the certainty that Wickham knew exactly how to spin his poisons. Sympathy was a soft target, and Elizabeth’s heart was not shielded the way his was.

“Careful,” he said softly.

“Only admiring her virtues, Darcy. I thought you of all people would appreciate that.”

Darcy’s lip curled.

Wickham smiled. “Come now. You cannot expect me not to notice her. That would be ungrateful. No gentleman could be so ungenerous.”

“You do not know the meaning of the word.”

Wickham gave a soft laugh. “You wound me.”

“I would do more,” Darcy said quietly, “if we were not standing in a ballroom.”

That stopped Wickham, for just a moment. His smile slipped—just a fraction. “Still the same Darcy. Always ready to protect what is his.”

Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “She is not yours to threaten.”

“Nor yours to guard.”

They faced each other, motionless, the noise of the ballroom slipping into a distant blur.

Then Wickham gave a shallow dip of the head—mockery, not manners.

“Do give my regards to Miss Elizabeth,” he said. “She seems worth the trouble.”

He turned, his boots clicking smartly on the polished floor, heading back toward the dance floor where Miss Bingley was waiting with an expectant little smile—leaving Darcy still, silent, and very nearly undone.

Darcy wanted to strike him. Just once. Not as a gentleman, not as Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley—but as a brother. As a man who had watched Wickham nearly destroy a girl he loved.

Enough.

This had been a mistake. All of it. Bingley’s ill-timed taking of Netherfield. His own misguided belief that he could contain the damage from a safe distance. Wickham, Elizabeth, the deadline looming like a noose—none of it could be untangled here.

He would write to his steward tomorrow. Make arrangements to return to Town by the end of the week. There was nothing left for him in Hertfordshire.