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Her throat tightened. Not because he was wrong—but because he was right, and because he saw her doing it, and because he said it with that maddening softness, like a kindness wrapped in a critique.

For a heartbeat, she hated him.

For the next heartbeat, she almost wanted to cry.

She did neither.

Instead, she said, in the most business-like manner she could manage, “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. Your insight is as welcome as ever.”

He did not flinch. He only extended his arm. “Perhaps we can draw his eye back to you. Shall we?”

And because she could not think of anything clever, and because her legs would not carry her back toward the tea table just yet, she placed her hand lightly on his sleeve.

They walked a slow, meandering circuit of the conservatory. Her fingers brushed his coat, the fine wool warm beneath her gloves. His stride was even, quiet, dignified. He did not speak. She did not breathe. Not properly.

Just long enough.

Long enough for Captain Marlowe to glance over.

Long enough for Miss Langley’s giggle to falter.

Long enough to spark the smallest flicker of jealousy.

And just long enough to see Darcy, from the corner of her eye, offering a perfunctory bow to Miss Ashford, who looked thrilled and slightly seasick.

Very well. She would return the favor.

And heaven help them both, because if they were not careful, they were going to sabotage every decent match in London.

On purpose.

17 December

D arcy had always disliked parlour games.

Even as a boy, he had found them vexing—artificial, forced, reliant on chance.

And now here he was, nearly thirty years old and still playing one, though this version involved fine gloves, half-sipped tea, and conversational ambushes scattered across a room of eligible women.

He stood near the pianoforte at Lady Blakeney’s afternoon salon, a teacup cooling between his palms, and regarded Miss Ashford with a kind of grim appreciation. She was, by all reasonable measures, a success. Handsome, composed, well-connected. Entirely uncontroversial.

She would do. And he hated that he thought in such terms.

“Do you not think,” Miss Ashford asked, fluttering her fan like a distracted butterfly, “that hothouse blooms are the most romantic of all? Orchids in December—it is like a secret love letter from the sun.”

Darcy blinked. Not because he disagreed with the sentiment—though he very much did—but because he had just decided this would be the metaphor that haunted him through every conservatory for the remainder of his days.

“An interesting analogy,” he said carefully. “Though I doubt the sun had orchids in mind.”

“Oh, but they are so enchanting,” she said. “Last week I saw one shaped just like a teacup. I told my brother I should like to carry one on my wedding day, and he laughed and said they only bloom for a fortnight.”

“A practical observation,” Darcy murmured.

She beamed. “Yes, but I told him that is precisely what makes them romantic. A fleeting bloom. Like passion.”

He could feel his spine stiffen. “One hopes for something slightly more durable in marriage.”

Miss Ashford laughed. It was a tinkling sound, like a set of spoons accidentally dropped into a harp.

“How terribly earnest, Mr. Darcy. But yes, I suppose durability is useful… in furniture.”

He stared at her.

She laughed. It was not unpleasant, but neither was it warm. It rang like crystal tapped too sharply. “You are so very droll, Mr. Darcy. One wonders if you ever do smile.”

He did not reply. There was no need. She did not seem to expect conversation so much as reaction. Laughter, agreement, something rehearsed.

He wanted to close his eyes. Just for a moment. Instead, he sat still, every inch of him straining not to look like a man whose time was running out.

Because it was.

This was what it had come to. A polite, presentable young woman who believed passion ought to wilt prettily after a fortnight, and with whom he could not form even the roots of a connection even if his future depended on it—which, vexingly, it rather did.

Across the room, Elizabeth Bennet was speaking to the Marchioness of Denby. Her hands moved when she spoke, not wildly, but with purpose. She laughed at something, tipped her head back slightly, and Darcy felt something shift in his chest.

Then she caught his eye.

Her expression—he could not read it. Not teasing. Not exactly sympathetic. Perhaps resigned. Like a woman watching a once-noble hound attempt to court a goose.

He looked away first.

Miss Ashford had taken the pause as license to continue. “Did you see the patronage list for the Orphans’ Benefit? Mama was so gratified to be included. She says it is quite the most important charity this winter—apart from the alms-for-aproned-widows society, but no one likes their treasurer.”

Darcy inclined his head. “It is a worthy cause.”

“Oh yes,” she said eagerly. “I visited one of the foundling homes last week. Such tiny beds. I could not think what to say to the children, so I brought gingerbread and left it in the hall. I hope that was the done thing.”

He paused, uncertain whether the question was genuine.

She pressed on. “They do not really speak, you know. Not properly. One does not want to overstay when conversation is so limited.”

Darcy said nothing. He found that preferable to saying something he would regret.

Miss Ashford seemed unfazed by his silence. “But I am terribly fond of the cause, truly. I have already ordered a new gown for the benefit—deep blue with silver trim. It seemed… appropriate to the theme.”

“The theme is child welfare.”

“Yes,” she said earnestly. “And children do love spangles and ribbons.”

Darcy inhaled once, slowly. The teacup in his hand felt suddenly heavier, as if weighed with the full burden of his dwindling prospects.

This was it. This was his best option.

A woman who confused philanthropy with fashion and thought affection could be measured in sequins.

He resisted the urge to close his eyes.

Miss Ashford looked pleased with herself, clearly interpreting his silence as agreement rather than despair. She adjusted her glove, glanced across the room with the contented air of one who believed she had done her conversational duty.

Darcy was beginning to calculate how many more minutes he must endure—just long enough to appear civil, not long enough to encourage—

“Miss Ashford,” came a familiar voice. Elizabeth had arrived at his elbow with a kind of unstudied chaos about her that should not have been allowed in drawing rooms. “How delightful to see you. I was just saying to my aunt—somewhere in this room, I believe—that no gathering is complete without a lady whose voice rings with the sweetness of a bell.”

Miss Ashford blinked. “Oh. How kind.”

Elizabeth smiled. “One hates to be the only one paying such compliments so early in the evening, of course. But it is a risk worth taking.”

What the devil was she about now? Darcy’s fingers tightened on his cup, and he did not dare to look at her directly.

“Mr. Darcy,” she added, at last meeting his gaze, “you look as though you are enjoying yourself immensely.”

“I am bearing it well, I hope.”

“Oh, admirably,” she said. “You might almost pass for a man engaged in meaningful conversation.”

“Almost.”

Miss Ashford looked briefly unsettled, then rallied. “We were just discussing the Orphans’ Benefit. Mama is on the patronage list, you know.”

“Ah,” said Elizabeth, with the tone of someone admiring a particularly earnest puppy. “A noble cause.”

“Oh yes. I even visited one of the homes. They are terribly small—everything in miniature, really. It is difficult to know what to say to a person the size of a tea tray. I brought gingerbread and left it in the vestibule.”

“How thoughtful,” Elizabeth said, eyes twinkling with polite peril.

“And I have already ordered my gown for the benefit. Blue and silver. One must strike the proper note.”

Elizabeth inclined her head. “Then the event is saved. I imagine the orphans will sleep easier knowing their guardians are embroidered in silver and blue.”

Darcy very nearly choked on his tea.

Elizabeth turned to him. “Mr. Darcy, are you unwell?”

“Perfectly well, Miss Bennet.”

“Good. I should hate to think you were rendered speechless by embroidery.”

Miss Ashford looked puzzled. “We were speaking of orphans.”

“Were you?” Elizabeth said lightly. “Then I must have misunderstood. I had assumed you were about to tell me the name of your modiste.”

Silence followed. A long one.

Miss Ashford rose. “I believe I see someone I ought to greet. Excuse me.”

She walked off, posture just a shade too stiff for comfort.

Elizabeth turned back, face composed but eyes dancing with mischief. “Was that helpful?”

Darcy exhaled slowly. “She was nearly out of things to say. I feared she was about to quote Pope again.”

“Then I saved you.”

“I am not helpless.”

“No,” Elizabeth said. “Only doomed.”

“I thought you were supposed to be helping me,” he retorted testily.

She smiled right back. “I did. You are welcome.”

He could not help it. He smiled—just barely. “Miss Ashford is a perfectly respectable choice.”

“She is,” Elizabeth said, with a lightness that did not illuminate her face. “And Captain Marlowe is everything a sensible woman ought to want.”

Darcy glanced toward the crowd. “Then we are both admirably sensible.”

“Unusually so.”

Darcy’s gaze followed the thread of her voice, settling briefly on the back of Marlowe’s uniform.

“He seems… earnest,” he said.

“Oh, painfully,” Elizabeth replied. “And dreadfully courteous. I do wish he would contradict me more.”

“Perhaps he is too wise.”

“Or too cautious. There is nothing so tedious as unrelenting agreement.”

He looked at her. “I had not found you tedious.”

Her eyes flicked to his, sharp and unreadable. “You have never agreed with me long enough to find out.”

A breath passed between them—shallow, charged, entirely inappropriate.

Elizabeth smoothed her glove. “You ought to return to Miss Ashford. I believe she was preparing to astonish you with her views on classical architecture next.”

“I am braced for it.”

She glanced up, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Be kind.”

“Always.”

She dipped her head, almost a bow, and slipped away into the crowd—leaving him standing very still, wondering whether anyone else had ever made being reasonable feel quite so foolish.