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Chapter Thirty-Four

T he morning wind snapped like a flag through Fleet Street, scattering soot and stinging her eyes as Elizabeth stepped from the alley’s mouth into the thoroughfare.

It was not the worst of days, but certainly close—grey, blustery, with the promise of sleet heavy in the clouds. Not fit for walking. Not really.

Which made it all the stranger that Mrs. Gardiner had all but insisted.

“You need fresh air,” she had said, too brightly, pressing Elizabeth’s gloves into her hand before she could object. “Perhaps call at Dodsley’s or Nichols’—you used to like browsing.”

The idea of bookshops had not appealed in that moment. But no one refused Mrs. Gardiner when she used that tone.

And so here she was, sent into the weather on the flimsiest of errands, driven into the weather by a restlessness that neither tea nor reason could soothe, with the distinct suspicion that her aunt knew precisely what—or rather, whom—she might find if she walked far enough.

She drew her cloak tighter as the wind caught at her hem. The air was sharp with coal smoke and horse sweat, but the bite of it was better than the hush she had fled. Anything to move. Anything to feel something real.

The clatter of hooves shifted, slowed. A carriage pulled to a halt across the street—black-lacquered, high-sprung, bearing the crest she had once seen impressed in wax on a note.

Darcy’s crest.

Her breath hitched.

The footman dropped down, opened the door—and there he was. Not emerging grandly, not striding toward her like a figure from some tragic sonnet. Just stepping out, one boot slipping slightly against the icy edge of the curb. A moment to adjust his coat. Then he looked up.

He saw her.

Stillness.

His glove stayed caught between two fingers, forgotten. The wind teased his coat open, and she had the stupid thought that he ought to have worn a heavier wool.

He said nothing. But his face—

Oh, mercy. He looked like a man who had tripped over his own ghost. Elizabeth’s pulse lurched.

He had not expected to see her. That much was clear. His hand paused mid-motion, as though he had meant to reach for something—his glove, the carriage door—but had lost the thread of it. A blink. A shift of breath.

She ought to look away. Step back. Disappear into the crowd like a sensible woman.

Instead, she stood rooted, the morning clamor melting into nothing around her.

He was supposed to be preparing for a wedding. He was not supposed to be here, on this street, in this moment, looking at her like—

She squared her shoulders.

Perhaps they were both fools for wandering today. Or cowards for hiding every other day. Either way, the hour had found them.

Neither of them moved.

The moment held, suspended like frost clinging to glass. A lantern swayed above the walk. Hooves clattered somewhere near the corner. But Elizabeth stood rooted.

Then came the worst realization of all.

She wanted to speak to him. She wanted it so badly it felt like hunger. The words formed behind her teeth—scathing, witty, sorrowful, desperate. But her throat clenched, and the moment choked on the silence.

He stepped forward.

And she did not flee.

Elizabeth was the first to draw breath, as if nothing at all had happened.

“Well,” she said, lifting her chin, “this is awkward.”

Darcy inclined his head. “Miss Bennet.”

She turned slightly to face him, the wind teasing a lock of hair across her temple. “We are both out without our handlers. Shall we pretend it is coincidence?”

“I should hope we can still claim coincidence without blushing,” he said. “Unless you believe I orchestrated my grandmother’s gout for the pleasure of meeting you mid-pavement.”

She lifted one brow. “And I suppose you will tell me her gout sent you in search of a new cravat?”

“It did, in fact.”

She blinked.

He looked vaguely pained. “She has taken against the brown one. Said it made me look jaundiced.”

A pause.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “You left the house because of a cravat.”

“I left the house,” he said, “because my grandmother declared, with great solemnity and some theatrical wheezing, that unless I replaced the offending cravat immediately, she would inform Lady Catherine that I had grown slovenly and might be unfit to marry at all.”

Elizabeth bit her lip.

He looked heavenward. “I did not argue. She had a cane.”

“Ah. Then I applaud your courage. Few men can stand up to the sartorial whims of the dowager Countess.”

He almost smiled.

Almost.

And just like that, her lungs hurt. Not from grief. From the stupid, ridiculous joy of watching him nearly laugh at her again. God help her, she had missed that face. That almost.

She folded her arms against the wind as though it could brace her insides.

Across from her, Darcy did not move. His gloves remained in his hand, fingers curled tight around the leather, but there was no tension in his shoulders.

Just stillness. As if he had frozen sometime in the last minute, afraid anything more would crack the ice they stood upon.

She did not mean to speak. But her mouth betrayed her.

“I suppose your wedding is this week.”

A beat passed before he answered. “Tuesday.”

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Tuesday. It sounded like a guillotine appointment.

She tried to say anything else— How is your sister, did your tailor faint from grief, are you eating enough —but all that emerged was:“Mine is Thursday.”

He stiffened and his glove bent in half in his hand. “I see.”

A silence stretched between them—long enough to feel like punishment.

“No invitation arrived at Gracechurch Street,” she said at last, her tone as light as windblown ash.

He hesitated. “Nor to Darcy House.”

“Curious.”

“Surely just an oversight.”

“Yes,” she said. “I am certain your bride meant to send one.”

He did not reply.

Elizabeth let her eyes wander to the rooftops behind him. “The same could be said of me. So many guests to think of. It is difficult, is it not, to keep count.”

“The Gardiners must be terribly busy.”

“Mrs. Gardiner has been a marvel. She sees to everything. The guest list. The gown. The silence.”

He shifted slightly at that, but she did not allow herself to wonder how.

“I am told,” she added, “that Thursday cannot come soon enough.”

He drew in a breath, deep and quiet. “Nor Tuesday.”

She smiled, and it hurt.

There was a sound in the street behind her—someone calling out to a horse, a child laughing—but it reached them muffled, like voices behind glass. This was the quietest they had ever been. The most formal. And it felt like betrayal.

“I hope your bride is everything you were promised,” she said.

He did not nod. Did not blink.

“And I hope your captain makes you very comfortable,” he said, with a steadiness she knew cost him dearly.

Comfortable.

The word sank between them like a stone in water.

When she finally looked at him again, there was nothing civil left in her gaze. And still he stood there, braced against her silence, the street, the weight of everything he could not say.

She wanted to speak. She wanted to scream.

Instead, she offered him a polite incline of her head, as though he were some distant acquaintance and not the man who had lived in every corner of her thoughts since the first moment they met.

“My sister,” she said suddenly, “received another call from Mr. Bingley yesterday.”

That earned his full attention.

Elizabeth forced her smile to stay in place. “He asked her permission to begin a courtship. Quite properly. With great seriousness.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“She accepted, though with caution. She does not trust easily now.”

“Nor should she.”

Elizabeth’s hands curled into the fabric of her cloak. “But it made her smile. So I will not be cross about it.”

“I hope he proves worthy of her.”

She tilted her head. “I rather thought he already had.”

Darcy’s jaw twitched, just once. “He has, in character. But not in circumstances. His sister made that difficult.”

“She always has.” Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “She gave me a parting shot before she left Gracechurch Street. Called it admiration, but it tasted of poison.”

“She will not do so again.”

She turned toward him, just slightly. “No?”

“Bingley has… made her feel his displeasure.” A pause. “He has cut her allowance. Demanded she leave London after the season. She was not pleased.”

Elizabeth blinked. “I assumed you put him up to it.”

His mouth curved—just slightly. “An interesting assumption.”

“And did you?”

“No,” he said. “I simply made him understand what it looked like when his sister drew blood in his name.”

“And did he flinch?”

“He bled.”

Elizabeth looked away.

He waited, as if hoping she would look him in the eye, before adding, “I believe he means to do right by your sister. Whatever else may come.”

She nodded slowly. “And your family? Have they called off the dogs, or merely given them prettier collars?”

A faint sound escaped him—something between a laugh and a breath. “You know them.”

“I do not.”

“You know enough.”

She gave a half-smile. “Then I suppose I can guess: your aunt still thinks you should marry your cousin, your uncle thinks you should marry no one, and your grandmother thinks you should marry anyone but the girl you want.”

He blinked. “That is… remarkably accurate.”

“Good,” she said. “Then I need not waste my breath asking what they have done to make your life miserable. And Miss Darcy?”

“They are family,” he said dryly. “That is their job.” He drew a slow breath before speaking, as if choosing each word with care. “My sister has indeed taken to better fare,” he said. “She is exchanging melodramas for... texts far more suited to her intellect.”

Elizabeth arched one brow. “Quintilian, perhaps? Or Virgil in full, and you translating it while burning wood for warmth?”

A shadow flickered in his eyes. “Something like that. I offered to read aloud, but Georgiana insists on mastering the language herself.” He paused, for no reason she could detect. “It gives her purpose.”