Page 32

Elizabeth stilled. The man who had avoided her for weeks. Who had so often refused to meet her gaze. Who had once made her a foolish promise five years ago, and now stood with his coat slightly wrinkled and his hair nearly undone, looking—

Trapped.

Just like her.

She straightened. A thought began to form. A very, very bad idea.

But not the worst she had ever had. Not by far.

D arcy had been seconds from escape.

He had slipped into the anteroom, coat folded over one arm, gloves in hand, his cravat tugged slightly loose at the throat. Upstairs—blessedly quiet, deliciously private—beckoned with the promise of solitude.

Behind him, Bingley was still laughing at something Miss Bennet had said, and Caroline was likely circling the perimeter, preparing to declare the entire evening a dismal failure.

He had no interest in either.

All he had to do was climb the stairs without being intercepted. One flight. One quiet withdrawal.

He did not make it. Because she was suddenly there.

“Mr. Darcy.”

The sound struck like flint to tinder—unexpected, sharp, and far too near. He froze before he even registered why.

He turned. Elizabeth Bennet stood before him, cloak unfastened, cheeks flushed from the heat of the ballroom—or something else. Her eyes were far too clear for the hour.

“I was hoping to catch you,” she said lightly. “You are meaning to retire.”

It was not a question.

“I am,” he replied. “Eventually.”

Her smile intensified—just slightly, the ghost of something amused or furious or both. “Good. Then there is time.”

“For what?”

“For a proposal,” she said.

His pulse did something strange—skipped, maybe. Or tripped over itself. It could not possibly mean what it sounded like.

She waved a hand. “Not that kind.”

Darcy stared. He could not remember ever being more tired, more suspicious, or less equipped to interpret Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

She was commanding the conversation with the precision of a general and the mischief of a child, and he—Darcy of Pemberley—could not seem to marshal a single coherent response.

She stepped closer. “I have had an idea.”

“Must it involve me?”

“Entirely,” she said, and he could not decide if the word was meant as a kindness or a threat. “You are going to London.”

He blinked. “I am?”

“Of course you are,” she went on, as if he had already told her.

“You have exhausted the local supply. No more mothers to impress. No more daughters to ignore. You have had tea and biscuits with every girl in the county who meets your impossible standards—except one, and I daresay that omission was deliberate.”

Darcy opened his mouth to protest—what, exactly, he could not say.

Elizabeth only smiled. “It is the most logical course. London. Where fortunes bloom in drawing rooms and daughters are not measured in pigs.”

He cleared his throat. “It seems you know more about my plans even than my own coachman does.”

“Well, if he has been long in your service and still has not guessed your temperament by now, I daresay you should find a new coachman. Anyone with half an eye can see what you mean to do. And I will be going to Gracechurch Street to stay with my aunt.”

He blinked. “You are leaving Meryton?”

“Only for a little while. But it occurs to me that we are both—how shall I put this—cornered.”

His eyes narrowed, the flicker of suspicion flaring once again. She saw it—of course she did—and that only seemed to amuse her more.

She forged on, cheerful and maddening. “You need a wife. Or so everyone says.”

He tensed.

Not visibly—no, not in any way most would notice—but Elizabeth had spent years honing her observations of him. She saw the minute shift in his shoulders. The sudden stillness in his jaw. As if her words had struck something he had tried very hard to keep buried.

“Do they?” he asked, voice level. Too level.

She tilted her head, the picture of innocent mischief. “Oh yes. You are the subject of quite a number of drawing-room dissertations. They have you firmly pegged as a man on a mission.”

“Do they,” he said again, flatter this time.

Elizabeth pretended to ponder. “It is either that or you are touring the countryside in search of the most disappointing lemon tart. I chose the more charitable interpretation.”

Darcy frowned.

“And I,” she continued, with the air of someone plunging forward before courage gave out, “am in a similar bind. My mother has been fluttering about Mr. Collins again. And Jane—well, Jane may be sorted, but the rest of us are becoming something of a cautionary tale.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said slowly. “Mr. Collins?”

She blinked. “You have not heard of him? I am astonished. He is practically a family institution. A cousin. A clergyman. A man of great… self-regard and limited imagination. At least, that is how he seems in his letters.”

Darcy’s brow furrowed. “The heir?”

“Precisely. The entailed heir to Longbourn, and, according to my mother, a gift from Providence. He was meant to visit a fortnight ago, but alas, duty called him to attend the spiritual needs of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

Darcy’s head snapped up. “What?” Of all the unholy intersections in the world, it had to be this. He felt his stomach lurch, as if two nightmares he had fought to keep separate were suddenly collapsing into each other.

Elizabeth’s smile curled. “Oh yes. Lady Catherine. His patroness. You may have heard of her?”

“I have that misfortune.”

“You have?” Her eyes narrowed. “Ah, yes. The same aunt who spells her name with a ‘C.’ Yes, I recall. Well, I suspect Mr. Collins will be sent along shortly to secure the family property with one of the four eligible Bennet daughters. My mother is taking inventory. Mary seems willing. Lydia asked if he wears a red coat. Kitty asked if he dances. I asked if I might be excused.”

“And your mother said?”

“She said I was her second prettiest daughter and that refusal would be selfish.”

Darcy opened his mouth. Closed it again. “I see.”

Elizabeth nodded, brightly. “So you may understand why I am interested in mutually beneficial exits.”

His mind was spinning now, though he did his best not to show it. Mr. Collins. Lady Catherine. Elizabeth being paraded like a prize turkey in front of a man who pronounced ‘parsonage’ as if it were an honorific.

She must be joking.

Except she was not. Not entirely. Not enough.

“If I am to understand you properly, you mean for us to go… to London? Together?”

“Together? What nonsense! But at the same time ,” Elizabeth said, “now that prospect has its merits. London is full of possibilities. It is Christmastide. There will be parties. Your connections, my instincts—we might make quite the matchmaking duo.”

He could only gape at her.

A footman passed by, and Elizabeth stepped marginally closer, her voice lowered. “We both need to marry someone respectable. Soon. Preferably not each other.”

His brows lifted.

“Oh, come now,” she said with mock innocence. “Surely you do not think we would suit?”

“I think,” he said slowly, “that you are speaking very quickly and very little of it makes sense.”

“Because I am exhausted. And I have had too much punch. And I cannot breathe in this room.” She paused. “But I do mean it.”

“Why?”

She gave him a look. “You ask that now? After more than five years of mutual provocation?”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Miss Bennet. What has happened?”

Her eyes flicked away. “Nothing.”

“That is not—”

“Nothing I care to tell you,” she said, more sharply. “Do not make me regret this.”

He watched her. The flush in her cheeks. The too-careful tone. The way her hands gripped her cloak just a shade too tightly.

Something had happened. But she would not say.

He could refuse her. Call it a mad idea—because it was. He could return to London alone, and spend the next month dancing with heiresses and tolerating introductions engineered by his aunt and grandmother.

Or—

He could allow her to help him. Just a little.

She tilted her head. “What do you say?”

Darcy exhaled. “You would truly help me court other women?”

“Vigorously,” she said. “With ruthless, cheerful efficiency.”

“And you expect the same in return?”

She smiled. “It is only fair.”

There were at least six good reasons to say no.

Darcy nodded once. “Very well.”

Her smile widened, triumphant and tired and something else he could not name.

“December, then,” she said. “Let the season begin.”

And then she vanished—laughing, cloak swinging, already swallowed by the crowd.

He was left staring after her. Still holding his gloves. And possibly his doom.

Still entirely uncertain what had just occurred.