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Chapter Twenty-Three

“ C aptain Marlowe, you must admit, the statue’s posture is rather... suggestive,” Elizabeth said, lifting her chin toward the marble figure in question. “He looks less like a Roman general and more like a man auditioning for a romantic tragedy.”

“Or recovering from one,” the captain replied quickly. Then, with a glance at her expression: “That is—if you think so. I meant only—yes, rather like a man in mourning. Or, perhaps—too much?”

“Do you think the raised hand means he’s surrendering, or reaching for his brandy?”

Captain Marlowe chuckled, visibly relieved. “Reaching for his brandy, certainly. Unless—you would not rather say he was reaching for something nobler? His commission, perhaps? Or is that too dull?”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “That depends. Did his fiancée just elope with a footman?”

“Or with the sculptor, perhaps.” He laughed again, then hesitated. “Though—perhaps that makes him a fool, rather than a figure of pathos.”

She laughed, a short, bright sound that drew a glance from the lady beside them—Lady Ravenshaw, if Elizabeth remembered correctly—who raised one brow before drifting back toward the tea urn.

She had met Captain Marlowe ten minutes earlier, introduced by Mr. Darcy under the guise of “a mutual fondness for Greco-Roman curiosities.” Darcy knew well enough that Elizabeth cared for nothing of the kind, and she doubted Marlowe had thought of Roman art until this morning, but the man had a pleasant voice, an easy way with a joke, and remarkably fine shoulders.

Which, for this afternoon, was more than enough.

At least, it should have been.

His next remark—an insult regarding some man for whom another woman had spurned him—landed poorly. “She said he was a rake, but I suspect she meant the garden variety. Unless, of course, that is unfair. You would know better.”

Elizabeth offered a polite laugh. Her eyes, however, had wandered. Not far. Just across the room, toward a cluster near the refreshments. A tall figure stood half-turned in profile, one hand at his cuff.

She did not need to see the face. The posture was enough.

Darcy.

Still here.

Still watching. With a vast cloud on his brow that promised a thunderclap if one looked at him cross-eyed.

Captain Marlowe gestured toward the next plinth. “This one seems less afflicted by heartbreak,” he said, and then, catching himself, added, “Although that may not be the correct interpretation. I would not presume.”

Elizabeth pulled her attention back. “Or perhaps he simply hides it better. That is the British way, is it not?”

The captain grinned. “Then I am no patriot. Or—” he cleared his throat, “—not when it comes to concealment.”

She smiled again, carefully… so lightly. She had promised herself she would do better this time. Smooth, sociable, not too sharp. She could make this work. Marlowe was charming. He liked her laugh. That was a good beginning.

But the back of her neck itched.

She risked another glance across the room.

Darcy was no longer alone.

Lady Matlock stood at his elbow, head inclined toward his. Elizabeth could not hear the words, but the timing felt precise—as if Lady Matlock had seen her laughing and pulled Darcy aside deliberately.

Captain Marlowe was saying something about sailing ships and figures on prows. Elizabeth nodded, though she missed the start of the sentence.

“I imagine you have seen enough figureheads to know better than to take them seriously,” she offered, hoping it sounded like wit and not an apology.

He tilted his head. “One forgets what they are meant to represent, half the time. They never look seaworthy. Unless… perhaps I have grown too skeptical?”

“Neither do half the men they resemble,” she said.

His laugh was more surprised this time. “And yet, we stay afloat.”

It was a good line. She should have enjoyed it. But her gaze flicked again to the edge of the gathering.

Darcy had not smiled. Not once.

S omeone had moved the flower arrangements.

Elizabeth stepped aside to avoid brushing against a spray of holly and orchids that had not been in that corner an hour ago. Her sleeve still caught a thorn. She muttered something under her breath—not quite a curse, but close—and turned straight into a familiar line of shoulder and neckcloth.

“Miss Bennet.”

Darcy stood directly in front of her, tall and composed and somehow more in the way than any man ought to be in a public room.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said. It came out level, which felt like a small triumph. “I did not see you there.”

“Evidently.”

A pause hung between them, made worse by the fact that she had no glass in hand to hide behind. She did not even have a program to study. He, of course, had one glove on and one off, as if he had been caught mid-moral judgment.

“I trust you are enjoying the salon?” she asked.

“As much as one can amidst such... lively company.”

Her brow lifted. “You complain now that it is lively? I thought you preferred spirited discussions.”

“When they are of substance.”

And there it was. That tone .

“Forgive me. I had not realized we were measuring degrees of substance against laughter now.” She crossed her arms, then dropped them, annoyed with herself.

He glanced past her shoulder, toward the sculpture hall. “Some laughter disguises discomfort.”

“And some discomfort disguises bad manners,” she shot back, just a little too fast.

Darcy’s mouth twitched, but not toward amusement.

Before she could press her advantage—before she could so much as breathe in to add something sharper—an arm looped through hers.

“Miss Bennet!” Lady Strathmore, radiant and clearly pleased with herself, patted Elizabeth’s hand as if it were a small dog and gestured to a girl standing beside her.

“Oh, I was hoping to catch you between gentlemen. You must meet Miss Ashford. Such a lovely girl. And her cousin Miss Barrymore is seated near the duke. I think the three of you would get on splendidly.”

Miss Ashford curtsied sweetly. She was perhaps nineteen, with soft features and a well-coiffed fringe. Elizabeth returned the gesture and the smile, both precisely calibrated.

“Miss Ashford,” she said warmly. “An honor.”

Lady Strathmore turned to Darcy, beaming. “You know her cousin, I think?”

“I do.”

Elizabeth noticed the tic of his jaw. The faint tilt of his head downward—deference, or dread?

They stood in a neat rectangle, polished and correct, for three excruciating minutes. Miss Ashford mentioned a pamphlet she had read last week and could not finish. Lady Strathmore interrupted to ask if the oranges had arrived from Brighton. Elizabeth tried not to stare at Darcy, and failed once.

Darcy took his leave with a bow so exact it might have been traced.

Lady Strathmore leaned in to whisper, “He never stays long. Always slipping away to think. One hopes about Miss Ashford’s fine eyes and charming smile.” She sounded delighted.

Elizabeth nodded and murmured something agreeable, but her eyes were already scanning the floor, tracking the direction of his departure.

He had the gall to look aggrieved? Why, she could almost swear he thought she had betrayed him, when it was quite the opposite. Well! Let him run off and “think.” Let him think and stew and reject her help until he ran out of time.

Ten minutes later, he was back, his expression composed, though Elizabeth noted his left cuff was tugged higher than the right—a small tell, to be sure, but not nothing. Not for a man so fastidious as Darcy.

Miss Ashford looked up quickly, her smile blooming like a flower on cue. “Mr. Darcy. How good of you to come over again.”

He bowed. “A temporary diversion, Miss Ashford—regrettable, I am afraid, but necessary.”

Captain Marlowe reappeared at nearly the same moment, carrying two cups of punch and offering one toward Elizabeth, who declined with a polite murmur.

“Oh—of course,” he said quickly. “Perhaps… too sweet for this time of day?” He laughed a touch too fast. “Well, it would be a pity if it went to waste.” He pivoted toward Miss Ashford with a charming, if slightly over-rehearsed smile. “May I tempt you instead, Miss Ashford?”

She accepted with a gracious nod, and he seemed to exhale in relief.

“But I must thank you again, Miss Bennet. That line about Roman generals and heartbreak nearly caused a duel near the fireplace. Lord Wrexham insists the bust is meant to depict stoicism, but I maintain it is mourning something specific. Possibly a lost dog. Unless… do you think that too irreverent?”

Miss Ashford smiled. “Or a lost poem. The expression is certainly poetic.”

The captain raised his cup, emboldened. “Then we are in dangerous territory. I have been known to quote Pope under the influence of sweet punch—though I shall spare you unless asked.”

Miss Ashford’s expression brightened. “You enjoy verse?”

“When it rhymes and does not linger,” he said with a wry twist of his mouth. “I lose confidence once it gets moody.”

Miss Ashford laughed. “I do adore Pope, but also Wordsworth.”

“Ah,” said the captain, then paused. “One rigid, one weepy. Though—I mean that with all respect. Of course. They do have their moments.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “A fair summary. But you left out the part where Pope settles scores and Wordsworth settles into chairs.”

Darcy made a noise in his throat—one subtle enough that it might have only been a deep breath of ennui , were it not for that little line beside his mouth. Elizabeth wished once again for a glass to hide behind, because… ah, yes, there was Miss Ashford, turning to him with the inevitable question.

“And you, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Ashford asked, blushing prettily, as if she could do it on cue. “Do you prefer romance or reason in your poetry?”

He hesitated. “I admire structure. But sentiment properly expressed can be quite powerful.”

Elizabeth puckered her mouth. That was the most noncommittal thing she had heard all evening.