Page 57

Miss Bingley turned slightly toward him, her tone still light. “And you, Mr. Darcy. You have always shown such… independence in your choices. I confess, I had imagined your preferences leaned in quite another direction.”

He inclined his head. “Then I am glad to have corrected the impression.”

She laughed. “Ah, but the best men are always full of surprises. I only hope Miss Ashford will prove more agreeable than—well, than the alternatives one might have expected.”

Miss Ashford lifted an eyebrow, faint but unmistakable. “I should hope to be agreeable in any case, though I must admit I am curious what expectations I am now tasked with exceeding.”

“Oh, nothing you cannot manage,” Miss Bingley said smoothly. “After all, it is said that men of serious temper prefer quiet households. And women of—how shall I put it?—strong conversational habits do not always provide that kind of peace.”

Darcy felt the corner of his jaw tighten.

Miss Bingley smiled wider, just for him. “But I am certain you will be quite content.”

With that, she offered Miss Ashford a gracious nod and moved off, leaving behind a wake of rosewater and restraint.

Darcy exhaled again.

He tugged at his collar, then caught himself. Useless habit. He had chosen this. He had made the match. Miss Ashford was polite, lovely, and entirely reasonable. She would not demand too much. She would not look at him and ask questions he could not answer.

He turned back toward the fire.

And then he heard it.

A laugh. Low, bright, familiar. Not loud—but distinct. A flash of sound in the room’s gentle murmur, like silver on glass.

He did not turn at once. He looked instead at the flame, now split at the center and bending.

Miss Ashford said something—he did not hear it.

Then he glanced over his shoulder.

Elizabeth was still on the arm of Captain Marlowe, who stood with the unshakable posture of a man convinced he had won a prize. He spoke with enthusiasm, gestured too broadly, laughed too easily. His stance was all claim and confidence, as though simply being beside her conferred distinction.

Darcy could not hear what he said, but Elizabeth tilted her head in answer. She was listening. Not retreating. Not correcting him. Just standing there while the man preened.

Darcy’s hand closed around the edge of his glass.

This was what she had chosen.

A man who wore his self-satisfaction like braid. A man who believed a handful of prize money and a well-timed proposal made him worthy of her.

He looked away, but too late. The floor had already gone unsteady. The air felt thin. His coat too warm.

Miss Ashford touched his arm. “Shall we move toward the punch?”

“Yes,” he said. He had to clear his throat. “Yes. Of course.”

He offered her his arm.

And watched Elizabeth walk further into the room on the arm of her captain—smiling, radiant, and infinitely far away.

He had done the right thing. The responsible thing. The rational thing.

So why did it feel like losing something he had not even been allowed to claim?

“ N ot too warm?” Captain Marlowe asked, adjusting the edge of Elizabeth’s shawl for the second time.

“It was perfectly warm the first time,” she replied.

Marlowe hesitated, then let the fabric fall. He straightened, adjusting his cuffs with a casual flick, then smoothed the front of his coat with both hands. A glance toward the gathering crowd, a breath that deepened his stance—he was ready to be seen. And she, apparently, was his.

Jane glanced over with a soft look—gentle, affectionate, full of encouragement. Elizabeth returned half a smile. Encouragement felt a lot like pity, when offered from across a battlefield.

She had angled herself away from the hearth on purpose. The warmth pressed against her back now, threading down her spine in slow pulses that made her neck itch. She could not shift without drawing attention. She could not turn without seeing him .

The room swelled around her—voices overlapping, laughter peaking and falling like a tide she had forgotten how to ride.

Mr. Bingley stood beside Jane, hands loosely clasped, his head tilted slightly as though listening for something no one else could hear.

He looked content. Quietly dazzled. As though he had already arrived at the thing he wanted most and now was simply admiring it from every angle.

Elizabeth caught the word “pamphlet” from somewhere to her left. Another voice—gentleman, older—mentioned satire. Then a burst of laughter from a pair of ladies near the pianoforte. One held a folded broadsheet in her hand, her gloved finger tapping at the page with dramatic relish.

“Oh no,” Elizabeth murmured. “We are about to be joined.”

Captain Marlowe chuckled. “Are you referring to the pamphlet?”

She stilled. The blood behind her eyes pulsed once—hard.

He had heard. Of course he had.

“I saw three copies on the sideboard at breakfast,” he said. “My manservant thought it amusing to read aloud before I had even sat down.”

Elizabeth managed a polite smile. “Cheerful start to the day.”

“I knew at once it must have come from a woman. You can always tell.” Marlowe leaned in slightly. “Far too much cleverness to be accidental.”

Jane hesitated. “It seems a strange thing, to admire anonymous insults.”

“Not insults,” Bingley said cheerfully. “Observations. There is quite a difference. And besides—no one was named.”

Elizabeth gave a small laugh. “A mercy.” If it were not for the blessed anonymity, she might have to commit a minor crime before supper.

Her ears burned. She could feel it—could feel the heat climbing up her throat and along the sides of her face like ink in water.

She sipped her punch too quickly and blinked to keep her expression from slipping.

Next time, she would simply pour it down her dress.

Less obvious than flinching at every clever phrase she had written herself.

“Oh, the bit about the bishop and the gaming house nearly sent me into a fit,” said Marlowe. “What was it? Something about his passion for collecting relics—of every vice known to man?”

Bingley laughed. “Or the line about Lady P’s banquets being ‘a remarkable imitation of food.’ That nearly made me spill my wine.”

Elizabeth managed another smile, hollow and well-practiced.

A pair of gentlemen, having caught the tail end of the joke, veered toward them with eager expressions.

One of them, a fellow named Hardy, was already chuckling.

“The authorship is half the fun, is it not?” he said, grinning.

“There’s already a pool at White’s. I believe Lady Charlbury is the current favorite.

She has the right wit—and the wrong sense. ”

Elizabeth did not join in. “I am not certain it is a game worth playing,” she said. “Speculating about anonymous writers feels a touch… ungracious.”

“Oh, come now, Miss Elizabeth,” said Mr. Hardy. “I never heard a lady uninclined to gossip! Surely whoever wrote the thing means to be talked about.”

“Lady Adelaide has been mentioned,” offered Miss Grafton. “But the tone is a bit too pointed for her, I think.”

“And too polished for Lady Charity,” Bingley added.

“Oh,” Jane said, laughing as she turned toward Elizabeth. “I almost thought it sounded like something you might have written—”

Elizabeth inhaled sharply and coughed into her glove. “As if I could be that clever!” she blurted, too loudly.

Brilliant. Perhaps she could also wear a sandwich board and ring a bell.

“Do not be so modest, darling! I have often thought you the funniest—”

“Oh, but what of Lady Cheltenham!” Elizabeth interrupted. “Surely you have read her letters? So dry one might use them for tinder.”

Jane blinked. “Of course. That is a far more likely guess.”

Mr. Hardy grinned. “Lady Cheltenham, now there is a woman who could eviscerate an archbishop with a single footnote.”

The group laughed. Elizabeth did not. But she smiled. Because it was either that—or scream.

Two ladies joined them—Miss Grafton and Miss Dunsmore, each carrying a glass of wine and the air of women who had come to see and be seen.

“Well, now, it sounds as though you are all trying to guess the same as everyone else. Have you reached a verdict?” Miss Dunsmore asked. “We are all dying to know.”

“Lady Charlbury,” said Hardy.

“Lady Cheltenham,” ElizabetAnd a nose for snakes, apparently.h said quickly.

“I have heard Lady Honora.” Miss Grafton sipped her wine. “A sharp tongue and a reputation for mischief. And she does use semicolons as though they are shillings.”

A few more gentlemen drifted in—an officer in navy blue, a balding man with an enviable laugh, and a young man Elizabeth vaguely recognized from a card party the week before.

The circle widened. Names passed easily from one speaker to the next, each suggestion more absurd than the last.

Elizabeth smiled. She nodded. She offered opinions with the appropriate amount of curiosity and restraint.

And inside, she was melting.

The group shifted as Miss Bingley approached, every posture subtly adjusting to make room for their hostess.

She stepped into their circle as though she had a right to command it, a gloved hand resting lightly against her waist as she turned to greet them. Her gown caught the candlelight just enough to dazzle without daring to compete. Her smile was perfectly cast: warm, composed, utterly appropriate.

Elizabeth met her eyes.

It was only a glance. But it struck like the sudden give beneath ice. Whatever warmth her smile suggested, her eyes told another story entirely.

And Elizabeth, for one breathless second, could not feel her hands.

“Or perhaps the true author is wise enough to let others take the credit.”

There was a slight arching in posture—just enough to let her presence be felt. Elizabeth straightened her spine.

Captain Marlowe raised his glass. “What is your guess, Miss Bingley? Have you solved the mystery?”

She looked at Elizabeth. “I could not presume. But whoever she is, she certainly has an eye for detail. And an ear for weakness.”