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Chapter Twenty-Seven

T he ice on the Serpentine was glassy and treacherous, reflecting the pale winter sun with a brilliance that made Elizabeth squint. Skaters glided across its surface, their laughter mingling with the crisp air.

The fire crackled cheerfully at the edge of the skating green, hemmed in by pines and a tidy arc of iron braziers. Elizabeth adjusted her mittens, fingers still stinging from the cold despite the wool, and turned toward Jane with a sigh of contentment—or at least something meant to resemble it.

“Without nutmeg, as requested,” said a voice just beside her.

Elizabeth turned to find Captain Marlowe standing there, breath clouding the air, one gloved hand extended with a tin cup of cider. The steam curled upward, fragrant and promising. She blinked once. Twice.

She accepted the cup, careful not to let her surprise register. “Well. That is terrifyingly specific of me.”

His smile flickered—pleased, but uncertain. “I pay attention.”

She tilted her head. “I cannot recall when I might have said such a thing.”

Marlowe cleared his throat. “It was... at Lady Haversham’s musicale. You declined the punch—Mr. Darcy, I believe it was, he brought you something else, and you said nutmeg reminded you of a childhood illness.”

Elizabeth blinked. That had been three weeks ago, and she had not given the remark—or the drink—a second thought. Even Captain Marlow himself had not stuck in her memory, because she had not been introduced to him yet.

Cider without nutmeg. He listens like a spy but blushes like a poem.

Indeed, no one could claim Marlowe did not pay attention. Not in the penetrating, almost forensic way that Darcy observed everything—as if cataloguing weaknesses—but in a gentler, more reverent manner, like a schoolboy taking notes on a subject he hoped might one day like him back.

It was... flattering. And unnerving.

Men who noticed things were either useful or dangerous, and Captain Marlowe, she was beginning to suspect, might be both.

Not in the sense of cunning, or risk—but because he seemed so determined to get it right.

So painfully eager to please. He memorized her preferences like they were battle plans, brought her drinks tailored to her offhand remarks, retrieved holly as though it were a medal of honor.

She sipped the cider again and swallowed carefully.

She had meant to encourage him. Truly, she had. But it was proving harder than expected to admire a man who never seemed entirely sure he deserved to be standing beside her.

He hovered beside the brazier, eyes darting to her boots, then to the bench, then back again. Was he trying to decide whether to offer his arm or fetch a blanket or excuse himself entirely? The poor man behaved as if every woman required constant supervision and half a dozen cushions.

Elizabeth said nothing, unsure whether encouraging him meant inviting more of this fluttering solicitude or gently guiding him toward firmer ground. She shifted slightly, as if to make room on the bench—but not enough to suggest she needed company.

His gaze flicked toward Jane, who stood serenely silent beside the fire, holding her cup and watching him with calm interest. Somehow, that stillness seemed to unnerve him more than a direct assault.

“I—ah—should see about another cushion for the bench,” he said quickly. “The wind comes in strongest from this side.”

He was gone before either sister could respond.

Elizabeth sipped her cider. “That was a retreat,” she said dryly.

Jane tilted her head. “I did nothing.”

“Precisely,” said Elizabeth. “And it terrified him.”

Jane sipped her cider, one brow arched as she stared, unblinkingly, at Elizabeth.

“You need not say it,” Elizabeth muttered, her boot heel nudging at a scorched chip of bark.

“I am not certain I was going to,” Jane said mildly, her eyes still on the fire.

Elizabeth stared at the cider in her hands. “He is very kind.”

“Undeniably.”

“And attentive.”

Jane’s laugh was more breath than sound. “Painfully.”

Elizabeth glanced at her. “I am being serious.”

“So am I.” Jane’s lips quirked. “I admire attentiveness as much as the next lady. But he does seem to believe you incapable of keeping your seat by a fire without the aid of three cushions and a naval escort.”

Elizabeth exhaled. “It is in his nature to be considerate.”

“I know. But is it your nature to take to your cushions like a coddled pug?”

Elizabeth looked down, running her thumb over the edge of the tin cup. The steam rose in quiet tendrils.

“If you are not serious,” Jane said softly, “it might be cruel to let him believe otherwise.”

“I am not encouraging him.”

Jane’s brow lifted.

“I am not!” Elizabeth insisted. “He brought cider. That is hardly—”

“Custom-spiced cider. Without nutmeg. Because he overheard you once, weeks ago, and remembered. Oh, and let us not forget that you wounded his pride once and he still came to heel when you snapped your fingers. And today, there was hardly room for us in his carriage amid all the hot bricks he laid out for your comfort. I do not think he is making casual gestures.”

Elizabeth frowned into her drink. “Do you think he is handsome?”

“He is,” Jane allowed. “He wears that uniform like a promise.”

Elizabeth’s mouth tightened. “Promise! Such an apt word. I should very much like someone to keep one.”

“That sounds rather bitter.” Jane was quiet for a moment, then said gently, “You deserve more than that.”

Elizabeth turned slightly, eyes narrowing. “Do I? I wonder.”

“You do,” Jane repeated, not as correction, but as fact.

Elizabeth looked away. “Then why does it feel as though I have already asked too much?”

Jane did not answer. She simply reached out and brushed a fleck of ash from Elizabeth’s sleeve.

Across the green, Captain Marlowe turned from a knot of officers.

A woman laughed at something he had said—but the moment his gaze found Elizabeth, the sound seemed to fall away.

His expression shifted, not quite into a smile, but something suspended between anticipation and relief.

He hesitated. Then, adjusting his gloves with needless care, he began making his way back across the frost-hardened ground.

Elizabeth straightened. Her spine found its steel. Her gloves were smoothed.

Jane’s eyes flicked to the movement, her tone edged with wariness. “Lizzy...”

But Elizabeth had already risen from the bench and stepped forward, intercepting him with a warmth she summoned like an actress to her mark.

“Captain,” she said, her smile a flawless courtesy. “I was thinking of trying out my skates. Would you assist me?”

He brightened, visibly heartened. A flush touched his cheeks—not just from cold, but from the awareness of her attention.

He stood before her a little taller, his shoulders a touch squarer.

When he reached to adjust the fall of her scarf, asking whether the wind had turned too sharp, whether the fire was making her eyes sting, Elizabeth did not flinch.

She let him fuss, let him think it pleased her.

Perhaps it did, in a strange, soft way—like being wrapped too tightly in a blanket that you had not asked for.

Before he could say more, a familiar voice broke through the light chatter of the crowd.

Elizabeth and Jane turned in unison. Mr. Bingley was making his way toward them, his stride brisk, cheeks flushed from the cold, and eyes alight with pleasure.

"Miss Bennet! Miss Elizabeth!"

He reached them with a boyish grin, bowing slightly. "Captain Marlowe," he added with a nod, "what a delightful surprise to find you all here."

They exchanged greetings, and Jane, ever gracious, inquired after his sisters. Mr. Bingley responded warmly, but his gaze lingered on Jane.

"We are planning a gathering for Christmas Eve," he said after a few pleasantries. "Nothing grand. A bit of music, some cards, perhaps a parlor game or two. I hope you will all come."

He smiled at them all, but his eyes kept drifting back to Jane—hopeful, intent, and so clearly smitten that Elizabeth had to look away for fear of smiling too much.

“I am sure it will be delightful,” Jane replied. “We would be… delighted, will we not, Lizzy?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Of course.”

“And I have managed to convince my sisters to keep the guest list restrained this year,” Bingley added with a touch of pride. “Only a few friends and neighbors. Some of my friends from school, and… well, Darcy will be there, of course.”

Elizabeth managed a polite nod. She had assumed that the moment he opened his mouth.

She would be astonished if it were otherwise.

But the certainty of his presence landed differently now—now that Captain Marlowe seemed ready to step forward.

Now that she might have to look Darcy in the eye while another man tried to claim her attention.

It was not guilt, exactly. Just… a new discomfort. One that made her toes curl.

“And Miss Ashford,” Bingley added, with a little laugh. “My sister was—ah—somewhat surprised to learn she would be joining us, but I think she has made peace with it now.”

Elizabeth blinked. “Peace with Miss Ashford?”

Bingley tilted his head. “Oh! Yes, you have not heard, then. Darcy is engaged. He proposed yesterday, I believe. My sisters have scarcely spoken of anything else since.”

He smiled as if he had delivered news of a successful harvest.

Elizabeth did not smile.

She managed something—a murmur, perhaps, or a nod—but she did not trust herself to speak just then.

Beside her, Jane shifted. “Well. That is happy news, indeed.”

“Yes,” Bingley agreed. “She is very elegant. Exceptionally composed. I daresay she and Darcy will suit each other quite well.”