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Chapter Twenty-Eight

“ W ell,” said Mr. Gardiner, peering out the carriage window as they slowed, “this street looks particularly cheerful tonight. I believe every townhouse has put on its best holly.”

“It must have heard about my engagement,” Elizabeth said. “London does love a timely bit of gossip.”

Mrs. Gardiner chuckled. “If Mr. Bingley had not already planned a gathering, then fate has been unusually cooperative. It is a pleasant thing, to be seen when the news is still fresh—and in such cheerful company.”

“Fortunate indeed,” Elizabeth murmured, adjusting her gloves. “What better season to parade one’s private decisions in public?”

“Do not be cross, Lizzy,” Jane said gently. “You know everyone means to be kind. Oh, only think how delighted Mama will be when she reads you letter!”

Elizabeth stifled a groan. Her mother would cry, faint, and promptly take credit for the engagement—as if she had personally tied the Captain to the bannister and demanded his intentions. “She shall be inconsolable with joy. I expect a reply at any moment—likely hand-delivered with fainting salts.”

Mr. Gardiner chuckled. “Mrs. Bennet, silenced by happiness. A rare and glorious day, indeed.”

“A pity your parents could not be here for tonight.” Aunt Gardiner laughed softly and leaned forward to adjust the hem of her glove.

“Still, it is an ideal arrangement. A cozy gathering, just fashionable enough. No formal announcement, no pressure—just enough time for London to see the two of you together and form their own very favorable conclusions.”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth murmured. “Let us give them a spectacle. Preferably one with refreshments.”

“You are too modest,” her aunt said, patting her hand. “He is not without distinction—and neither are you, my love. And as for Captain Marlowe’s haste—well. I have always said the navy rewards initiative.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said carefully. “And the admiralty values a well-set dinner table. A promotion and a parlor—what more could a man desire?”

“I only meant—”

“I know.” She pressed her gloved fingers to her temple, then smiled. “Forgive me. My wrap is making me too warm, I fear.”

Beside her, Jane adjusted her wrap and gave Elizabeth a look so gentle it nearly undid her. “You will be so happy, Lizzy,” she whispered. “Truly. I knew it the moment he looked at you in the music room. He sees you.”

Yes, Elizabeth thought grimly, and like any good sailor, he had checked the weather, measured the risk, and dropped anchor.

Elizabeth turned to the window. Outside, the city glowed—gaslight flickering in puddles, frost silvering the corners of the panes.

“He sees precisely what he means to see. A suitable wife. A sensible girl with no fortune and no inconvenient attachments.”

“You are not being fair.”

“No,” Elizabeth said. “But I am being accurate.”

Mr. Gardiner tapped the roof with his cane as the carriage slowed to a stop. “Ah, here we are. Look at that—ivy trimmed and lanterns lit. Very tidy, quite cheerful.”

Elizabeth drew a breath and arranged her features.

They pulled up in front of townhouse the Bingleys and Hursts had leased for the Season—a cheerful, narrow structure with ivy trimmed smartly around the windows and warm lamplight spilling from every pane. The footman opened the door.

Elizabeth stepped down, smoothed her cloak, and followed her family up the shallow steps. Then the door opened.

And there he was.

She had only taken three steps into the entry hall—barely enough to shake off the cold—when the sound of laughter pulled her gaze across the threshold and into the drawing room.

Fitzwilliam Darcy stood near the hearth, tall and composed, dressed in black that caught the candlelight in sharp lines.

Of course he looked good in mourning tones.

Elizabeth imagined he would look devastating in sackcloth and ashes—provided the collar fit well.

His posture was effortless, almost regal, and for a moment Elizabeth could not breathe for the sight of him.

He did not see her.

His attention was fixed on Miss Ashford, who stood beside him in a gown of ivory satin that shimmered like snowfall under the chandeliers.

The cut flattered her figure precisely; the silver trim caught the blue of her eyes.

She was smiling—laughing, even—as she accepted his arm with a kind of studied intimacy, her fingers resting just at the bend of his sleeve as though they had always belonged there.

Her hand on his arm said everything: Mine now, thank you.

Elizabeth’s fingers curled around her reticule, suddenly regretting the lack of sharp implements inside.

He inclined his head to her, the motion smooth, assured, almost gentle.

Elizabeth felt the ache bloom behind her ribs before she could name it. Not jealousy—not quite—but the awful, ringing sense of having walked into a room where she was no longer needed.

She had told him to choose someone like Miss Ashford. If I had it to do over again, she told herself, I would recommend someone with a limp and a nervous cough. Perhaps a tendency to faint.

And now here it was, perfectly executed. Perfectly arranged. And perfectly intolerable.

Elizabeth did not stumble. She did not freeze. She did not do any of the things her heart suggested in its frantic, badly timed improvisation.

Instead, she smiled.

It was a crisp, pleasant smile. The sort one might wear when presented with a tolerably interesting footstool.

The same mile she had worn for days—bright, polished, unassailable.

It did not tremble at the corners. It did not crack.

It was a perfectly serviceable expression for accepting congratulations or tea or a dagger in the chest.

“Oh, how very elegant she looks,” Elizabeth murmured to Jane, who had not noticed a thing.

Jane, beside her, beamed. “Does she not? And look—Captain Marlowe is by the pianoforte. He looks positively anxious to greet you.”

Of course he was. She was the prize goose tonight. Plump, polished, and ready for display.

Elizabeth’s stomach turned. “How decisive of him.”

Then she stepped into the drawing room and let herself be congratulated—by strangers, by acquaintances, by a man she almost chose.

“ I am quite certain I read your name in the betting book at White’s,” said Mr. Montague, slapping Darcy on the shoulder with a grin. “Engaged by Christmas! You have cost me five pounds, sir.”

“I am delighted to have disappointed you,” Darcy replied without smiling.

Montague laughed and moved off to find another drink. Darcy’s jaw flexed once before he forced it still.

Miss Ashford, her features composed pleasantly, glanced up at him from her place at his side. “Are all your friends so energetic, Mr. Darcy, or is it the season that excites them?”

“I cannot say. I avoid most of my friends in December.”

She smiled at that—warm, graceful, unbothered. She looked beautiful tonight. She always looked beautiful. Her gown was pale green, trimmed in cream lace, her hair arranged in a tasteful coronet. She did everything right, and she did it calmly. Without demands. Without expectations.

“I hope I am not included in that list,” she teased gently.

“Certainly not,” he assured her. “You are an exception.”

A perfectly delivered line. He even managed to make eye contact as he said it.

She turned to greet an approaching couple, and Darcy allowed himself a glance across the room.

Bingley was still hovering near Miss Bennet like a man newly converted to religion—hanging on her every word, smiling at nothing, forgetting to blink.

They spoke softly, and Bingley’s expression was so unguarded it made Darcy look away.

That was how it ought to feel—foolish and joyful and entirely unedited. Not calculated. Not clenched.

But not far.

Just beyond them, Elizabeth stood on the arm of Captain Marlowe.

The captain was laughing at something she had said, leaning in slightly as if he could not help himself. His posture was casual but assured—too assured—and Elizabeth, blast her, looked entirely at ease beside him.

She wore that same cool, impeccable smile she had perfected over the last weeks. It gave nothing away. It welcomed nothing in. And he doubted anyone but himself understood half its meaning.

Darcy stayed where he was. To walk across the room would mean acknowledging them. And he was not ready for that.

The Ashfords had found chairs. Mrs. Hurst was deep in conversation with a magistrate, gesturing vaguely toward the wine table.

A ripple of movement caught Darcy’s eye—bright silk shifting between coats and crinolines.

Miss Bingley was crossing the room with impeccable poise, her gown a rich copper that flared precisely at the hem as she stepped.

Her earrings caught the light with every turn of her head, and her smile was fixed in place like a brooch.

She paused just short of their circle, angling herself with practiced ease to face both him and Miss Ashford.

“Mr. Darcy. I believe congratulations are in order. You do have a talent for unexpected choices.”

“Miss Bingley,” he said, inclining his head. “May I present Miss Ashford. Miss Ashford, this is Miss Caroline Bingley, a long-standing acquaintance of my family.”

Miss Ashford dipped a very civilized curtsy. “Miss Bingley. We have not met until now, but I believe I know your name well.”

Miss Bingley curtsied with a genteel smile. “Miss Ashford, you are positively luminous tonight. Allow me to offer my warmest congratulations. Not every young lady manages to secure Mr. Darcy’s regard so swiftly. I imagine there are many who will be... quite surprised.”

Miss Ashford offered a demure smile. “You are very kind, Miss Bingley.”

“Oh, not at all. Kindness has nothing to do with it. One must simply admire what is obvious.”

Darcy kept his expression neutral.