Page 41

She turned more fully now, one brow rising. “Someone mysterious? Or just someone missing a nose?”

Darcy’s mouth twitched. “Neither, I hope. Though he does possess both eyebrows, which seems to be your preferred criteria.”

She fought a smile. “Ah, yes. Brows like thunderclouds and a proper sense of disdain. Very hard to come by.”

He inclined his head toward the card tables. “Mr. Lane. He is clever, reasonably wealthy, and only half the room believes he fled the country during the French invasion scare.”

Elizabeth followed his gaze. Mr. Lane stood beside a potted plant, impeccably dressed and visibly blinking at the same place on the wall for the last minute.

She gave Darcy a pointed, deliberate look. “He is approximately a hundred and six.”

“He is no more than forty.”

“Years? Or chins?”

Darcy exhaled. “I thought you preferred a man of experience over one who is wet behind the ears.”

“Not the Napoleonic kind.”

He shifted. “It was only a suggestion.”

“And I am grateful,” she said sweetly. “In fact, in the spirit of reciprocity, I shall introduce you to Miss Cressida Ogilvy.”

“I do not believe I know her.”

“Oh, you would remember. Elbows like bayonets. Thinks all conversation should begin with ‘Do you hunt?’ Her family breeds mastiffs.”

Darcy looked pained. “That cannot be true.”

“It is. Her last suitor required stitches.”

He gave her a long, level look. “You are not serious.”

She smiled brightly. “Perfectly. Unless, of course, you have a better gentleman in mind for me. One without a treasonous history or multiple chins.”

“I am beginning to suspect I have walked into a trap.”

“Oh, Mr. Darcy.” She turned back to the bust, letting her voice drop just a touch. “You made the trap. I only added ribbons.”

He did not reply at once. Perhaps he was searching for a retort sharp enough to cut through her smile. Or perhaps—and she rather hoped this was the case—he was trying not to smile himself.

“You are in rare form today,” he said at last.

“I consider it a public service,” she replied. “Besides, someone must keep you sharp. You would grow blunt with disuse, like an old letter opener.”

Darcy lifted one brow. “Do you insult everyone who tries to help you?”

“Only those who try with such a look of martyrdom.”

“I do not look—”

“Oh, you do. Like a saint about to be canonized for enduring social luncheons and matchmaking attempts.” She glanced sideways. “Unless, of course, that is your true aim. Martyrdom by tea cake?”

He gave a quiet snort. “If so, you have already ruined it. No saint would tolerate you for long.”

She smiled. “That is rather a poor reflection on you , I should think.”

He opened his mouth to reply—but before the words could form, a familiar voice cut in, low and falsely sweet.

“Mr. Darcy! There you are. Charles said you would be here but I had nearly despaired of finding you.”

Elizabeth’s spine went rigid. She turned at the voice and stopped breathing.

Caroline Bingley.

Not a ghost, not a trick of the light— here .

Miss Bingley stood just behind them, a picture of calculated ease.

She was dressed in sage green trimmed in gold, her hat wide enough to qualify as architecture, and her smile so composed it might have been lacquered into place.

She swept into the gallery as if the room had been laid out in her honor and was only just meeting her expectations.

Elizabeth’s eyes flew to Darcy instinctively. Her expression said everything she could not speak aloud: You knew she was here?

He did not look at her. Not at first. He only bowed with a stately, “Miss Bingley.”

“Oh, and I see you have found someone you know. Miss Eliza, what a surprise to see you in London,” she added, with a nod that might have passed for a courtesy in poor lighting.

Elizabeth snapped her attention back just as Caroline offered her one of those soft, glass-edged smiles—half courtesy, half performance. She managed a nod that came several beats too late. Her mouth moved before her brain could supply anything useful. “Miss Bingley.”

The name tasted bitter.

Caroline’s eyes swept lazily across the gallery until they landed on Jane. “Oh. I did not realize your sister was also in town. How very… quaint. Curious, is it not, that we all came away from Meryton at the same time?”

Something sour bloomed in her chest. Her breath caught, sharp and wrong, and her fingers twitched for something to hold. Caroline’s voice had not changed at all—still sweet, still clipped, still wielded like a blade passed politely across a tea tray.

Caroline turned back to Darcy. “It was good of you to extend the invitation to town when you did. We have found it just lively enough. Though I suppose that depends on the company.”

Elizabeth froze and her glare shifted back to Darcy. He had invited them?

He had brought her here!

Every careful plan, every ounce of distance she had tried to put between herself and that woman—undone. And Darcy was the cause of it!

Caroline’s gaze glittered, as if she could see the smoke curling out of Elizabeth’s very ears. “Do excuse me. I see Lady Frances, and I must not keep her waiting.” She turned and walked away as though the conversation had been both pleasant and mutually desired.

Elizabeth stood still for one second too long. Then she turned to him, voice low and sharp.

“You invited her?”

He looked at her then, brows slightly pulled. “Excuse me?”

“She said—that horrible woman said you invited her and her party to town!”

Darcy blinked. “Yes. That is—yes. When I left Hertfordshire, Bingley was sorry to see me go, and he had some business that required his attention anyway. It seemed reasonable to return together.”

Elizabeth stared at him.

“You invited them,” she said flatly. “To London.”

Darcy’s brow furrowed. “It was not meant—I only invited Bingley. He—”

But she just held up a hand in disgust, silencing him. There was no longer any point in listening.

Of course Caroline would come. Of course she would. The only stupid part was thinking she would not. She had brought herself to London with some ridiculous idea of escape, as though a change of scenery could change the rules of the game.

And here was the first player on the board, smiling like nothing had ever been lost.

“You could have said something!” she hissed. “You could have warned me that she would be here!”

“I did not think it would matter. I did not know you—” He stopped. “What has she done to you?”

She shook her head.

He stepped closer—not enough to draw notice, but just enough that only she could hear. “Elizabeth,” he said, quietly. Not as a reprimand. Not as a challenge. As a friend trying to find her through the noise.

The sound of it startled her more than it should have. He never used her name like that. Never without irony or exasperation.

Not like this.

It was too gentle. Too real.

She did not look at him.

“No,” she said, just as softly. “Do not—please. Just… you have done enough.”

Whatever kindness he had meant to offer, whatever sense he had that she might explain herself, she could not let it take root. Not when she could not afford the truth.

Not when he would see how utterly stupid she had been.

He looked as if he wanted to say something else—several somethings—but his mouth closed again.

She did not wait for another attempt. She turned, found Jane, and walked away with purpose she did not feel.

The statue beside them seemed to smirk behind its missing nose.