Page 43

The third gentleman—tall, sunburned, and too cheerful by half—had been foisted upon her by Aunt Gardiner with a little nudge and a meaningful look.

Mr. Denby. A friend’s nephew, or possibly a cousin’s ward, with land in Essex and a fondness for the outdoors.

His coat was a little too tight across the shoulders, his grin a little too wide, and his voice an octave louder than necessary.

But he was speaking to her. Kindly. With interest. That was more than enough.

Elizabeth straightened her posture and adopted the mildest expression she could summon.

“It must be lovely,” she said, “to spend so much time in the country.”

“Oh, it is!” Mr. Denby boomed. “Open air, good dogs, and clean boots at the end of the day. No better life, I say.”

She nodded. “And your dog is a sporting breed, I believe?”

“Spaniel! Excellent nose. Knows when someone’s coming ‘round before I do. Caught a footman sneaking pastries last month. Not mine, mind—my aunt’s footman. Good lad. Just hungry.”

“Very enterprising,” Elizabeth said.

“Named him Jupiter. The dog, I mean. Not the footman.”

“I assumed.”

“He once chased off a pair of geese and saved a picnic. Never seen a goose look so offended in my life.”

Elizabeth smiled. She could do this. She could make it through one conversation without—

Mr. Denby reached for a glass of cordial from a passing tray and, in the process, caught the edge of his sleeve on the table. A splash of red arced through the air and landed squarely on the front of his cream-colored cravat.

He looked down. “Ah. Blast.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth, meaning to say something soothing. What came out was: “At least your dog has company in the matter of graceful manners.”

There was a pause.

Mr. Denby blinked. Twice.

“I meant—” she began, a bit too brightly, “only that he seems such a clever companion. A credit to his master.”

He smiled, or something close to it. “Right. Yes. Very good.”

He dabbed at his cravat with a handkerchief that did nothing at all.

Another pause.

Then he said, “Excuse me. I believe that sculpture of the bear requires a closer look.”

He departed with more dignity than one might expect from a man damp with cordial.

Elizabeth remained where she was, staring at her own reflection in a silvered tray.

It was not that she had meant to be unkind. It was simply that her tongue refused to behave like a respectable woman’s.

This was not going well.

Not in the small sense of awkwardness or disappointment, but in the larger, urgent sense of failure. She had a plan. She needed a man—any man—willing to marry her before the season turned and the journal turned up again, weaponized in Caroline Bingley’s claw-ringed hands.

She had only to act as someone reasonable. Mild. Wealthy enough not to care about her lack of dowry and indistinct enough for her to disappear into the bowels of invisible society. Safely.

Instead, she had made herself unlikable three times in succession, without even trying.

And Darcy had been no help at all.

He had promised— promised —to be her ally in this miserable campaign. And yet he had ignored her from the moment Caroline Bingley arrived. Left her flailing with strangers while he went off to chat with…

She turned her head, scanning the crowd until she saw him.

Standing stiffly beside Miss Partridge.

Miss Partridge, with whom Elizabeth had spoken once and subsequently pretended not to know.

Darcy looked cornered, and serve him right, the ungrateful ninnyhammer.

She could have told him not to waste his time there.

The girl was gesturing toward a portrait with dramatic little flourishes, probably on about ghost stories again, and Darcy looked as though he wanted to swallow his wineglass.

Elizabeth felt no triumph in watching him suffer. Only the dull, dragging sense that everyone here was trying to be something they were not.

By the time the event drew to its polite conclusion, Elizabeth was too tired to make excuses. She stood at the top of the steps, feeling the wind tug at her ribbon, and prepared to walk in silence to the carriage.

Aunt Gardiner had other plans.

“Well,” she said, cheerfully slipping her arm through Elizabeth’s. “That looked promising.”

Elizabeth blinked. “What did?”

“That tall gentleman in the blue coat—he was hovering for a good ten minutes. And the talkative one! He seemed utterly fascinated.”

“With his dog,” Elizabeth said dryly.

“Still,” her aunt continued, undeterred as they reached the carriage, “I thought you handled them beautifully. Natural, intelligent, just enough wit to be intriguing.”

“I think perhaps I was a bit too intriguing.”

“Nonsense. You charmed them.”

Elizabeth smiled, and it hurt. “Something like that, I suppose.”

Her stomach was hollow. She had been seen, heard, and discarded. She had said the wrong things, or said them at the wrong time. She had not been careful.

And now Caroline Bingley was in town. Which meant danger. Which meant urgency.

Elizabeth turned her head toward the window and watched the buildings pass in a blur of cold stone and flickering lamplight. All she had to do was fool someone. One man. For long enough to sign his name beside hers in a register.

She did not need to like him. She did not need to admire him. She only needed him to stay long enough to save her.

And today, she had scared off three.

B y the time Darcy reached the entrance hall, she was already halfway to the carriage.

Elizabeth’s back was to him—shoulders squared, spine straight, one hand resting lightly on the frame as she stepped inside. Her sister had followed, and then their aunt, bustling slightly with her reticule. The door closed.

Too late.

Darcy stood at the top of the steps, hand flexing at his side, and watched the coach roll into motion with the low jingle of harness. The lamps on either side flickered in the December wind, and the glass of the windows caught the last of the afternoon light.

She had not looked back.

He flexed his fingers once, then tugged his cuff straighter—as if restoring order to his sleeve might restore it elsewhere.

Whatever had unsettled her had started the moment Caroline Bingley appeared—not that Elizabeth flinched, or frowned, or stormed.

She had simply begun to smile too often and say too little. Her laugh rang slightly off-key.

And then she had blamed him for it. Somehow.

They would have done better to keep to their original plan. She might have saved him a deal of trouble, and he might have… well, it did not look as though she fared any better than he had.

She had spoken to three men—eligible, attentive, and increasingly baffled—and emerged from each exchange with the look of someone walking away from a negotiation gone wrong. He knew the expression. He had earned it himself, more than once.

The gestures were there: the nods, the courtesies, the tilt of the head. But none of it had the rhythm of sincerity or the ring of victory.

She had not been charming.

She had been—performing.

Out of what? Obligation?

Desperation?

Darcy narrowed his eyes. He had seen Elizabeth Bennet play at wit, at superiority, at indifference—but never at interest. Never this careful mimicry of a woman who wanted to be chosen.

He knew what she looked like when she was pleased, at her ease. This was not that.

“What brings you out here, Mr. Darcy?” came the voice from behind him, sending a skittering of impulses down his spine that had nothing to do with his present musings. He stiffened and did not turn to face the speaker—no matter, for Caroline Bingley never lacked for courage.

“I confess, I did not expect to see you still here,” she continued. “I thought you would have vanished after Miss Eliza—”

Darcy turned, slowly. “What about Miss Bennet?”

Caroline Bingley stood just inside the doors, one gloved hand resting on the banister, her expression a perfect blend of inquiry and amusement.

“Oh—well,” she continued, “after she made her retreat. You are such particular friends, I thought you might have…” She lifted her shoulders with an exaggerated little laugh. “Vanished with her.”

Darcy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “My engagement calendar is not in any way connected to her schedule.”

“Of course not,” she said smoothly. “Still, it was rather sudden. Though I suppose the day proved a bit more challenging than she expected. One gentleman asked her about music and, from what I overheard, received a rather spirited opinion on... animal husbandry? Or perhaps I was mistaken and she only protested ignorance.”

Darcy’s expression flattened.

Her smile did not falter. “No shame in it. Some girls simply find these gatherings fatiguing. One can only shine for so long before the effort begins to show.”

“She was not fatigued,” Darcy muttered.

“Oh?” Miss Bingley tilted her head. “Then what was it? Nerves? Disappointment? Perhaps she found the field less forgiving than she expected—and has gone into retreat to soothe her vanity. I fancy it shan’t take long, as I presume there is very little to soothe.”

Darcy only turned away.

Miss Bingley waited another moment, clearly expecting a confession or correction—or at least a flicker of amusement. When none came, she sighed theatrically and gave a small, elegant shiver.

“I have not seen my brother since our arrival. I am quite certain he has been absorbed into one of the sculptures. Marble, possibly. Or he has taken root in the refreshments room and is now part of the décor.” She fluttered her hand toward the corridor. “Either way, I am rather weary.”

Darcy did not offer her his arm. He glanced toward the inner rooms. “Then I shall go find him.”

Her smile tightened at the corners. “Of course.”

He turned without further reply and stepped back into the gallery, already scanning the crowd.

He, too, had begun to wonder where Bingley had gone.

A quiet word from his friend might have smoothed the worst of the afternoon.

But there had been no rescue, no interruption.

Only Caroline Bingley, smiling like a woman who already thought she had won.

He left her standing in the entrance hall, alone beside a bust of Hadrian that looked about as sympathetic as he felt.