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Elizabeth tucked her hands into her cloak pockets. “From scandal to scholarship. A step in the right direction, one might say.”

He met her gaze then, and his pulse seemed to catch—just enough that she heard the faint beat in his jaw. “And what of you? Any diversion besides wondering if your final dance partner has weighed the mercy of showing up at the vicar’s in a masked slipper?”

Her lips quirked despite herself. “I flirted with the idea of rereading Horace. For company.”

He nodded. “That sounds... manageable.”

She wanted to laugh at the hesitancy behind his tone. He sounded almost—delicate about it. “Yes,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Manageable.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment—just one—everything else vanished.

The noise of the street fell away. The cold was nothing.

She could see it in the way he held himself—too still, too careful.

As though he, too, was listening for something unspoken.

He looked at her like a man who remembered the taste of the fall.And she—well.

She had never been wise. But she had been almost his, once.

And that had been enough to make the world tilt right.

She could not breathe. Could not think beyond the pounding in her ears. If he moved—if he so much as reached for her—she would shatter, and gladly.

He only looked at her.

Say something, she begged him, though no sound left her lips. Tell me I am not the only one drowning.

But he did not speak.

Elizabeth shifted her weight. The quiet between them bristled—not empty, but expectant, like the air before thunder. He seemed taller here, somehow less shielded. The chill nipped at her fingertips, but she did not move.

“You look tired,” she said softly.

He blinked, once. “You always did prefer candor.”

“It is not an insult.” She hesitated, then added, “I am tired as well.”

Something passed through his expression. Not surprise, not quite. Recognition, perhaps. A shared ache. “I can tell. I never meant to…” he began, then stopped, jaw tightening. “No. That is not it.”

She tilted her head. “Then what did you mean?”

“I wanted—” He broke off again, turned slightly away, as though the words themselves might do harm if spoken aloud. “I wanted it to be different.”

Her throat went tight. “So did I.”

He faced her then. Fully. The street faded, the cold forgotten. His eyes dropped—once—to her mouth. Not long enough to be scandalous. Just long enough to undo her completely.

If he leaned in—just one inch—she would meet him. And if he kissed her, God help her, she would never come up for air.

But he did not.

And she stood there like a woman waiting for a coach she had already missed, pretending the platform was exactly where she meant to be.

“I should take my leave,” he said. “You must be wanted at home.”

“Yes.”

But neither moved.

And then, finally, he stepped back. Just one pace. Enough to break whatever thread had held them suspended.

She exhaled. “Good day, Mr. Darcy.”

He bowed, slow and deliberate. “Miss Bennet.”

She turned first—but not fast. Not before she could hear the breath he took behind her, like he was learning how to be alone again.

And as she walked away, she counted her steps the way other people counted sins. Slowly. Regretfully. Knowing she would forget none of them.

She did not look back. She dared not.

“ D o not dawdle, Georgiana.”

“I am not dawdling. I am browsing.”

“You are staring at the same page you opened ten minutes ago.”

Georgiana Darcy sighed and set the volume aside. “It is poetry. One does not consume it like a breakfast roll.”

Darcy said nothing, and she arched one brow in triumph.

He turned away. The shop was smaller than he remembered, and warmer—though whether from the fireplace or the press of bodies, he could not say. Afternoon light slanted through the windows, smudged and sluggish, casting every spine in gold.

She drifted down the nearest row. “Did you bring me here only for amusement?”

He studied the doorway. “Not only.”

Her step faltered. “You thought she might be here.”

Darcy did not answer. His jaw locked tight.

The shop felt narrower than it had moments before, the ceiling lower, the hush too expectant.

He watched a smudge on the shelf beside him, willing it to speak—to offer some clever excuse for why he had dragged his sister here under pretense, chasing the shape of a woman who had already slipped from his grasp.

Something that would spare him the admission.

Georgiana glanced at him over her shoulder. “You are a terrible strategist.”

She turned a corner, disappearing between shelves.

Darcy’s hand found the edge of the counter, fingers pressing into the wood grain. He scanned the room again—every bonnet, every cloak—though he already knew.

She was not here.

Of course she was not here. That brief, windswept encounter on the street had been hours ago—and far too little. She had likely returned to Cheapside long since, tucked away with her relations, warm and unreachable.

Only… if he were to glimpse that dark green cloak once more—just once—he might find the words he had meant to say. The ones that had caught in his throat when she turned away. He would trade this shop, this quiet warmth, for a single moment more in the cold.

He had not expected her. Not really. And yet—

A voice behind him broke the silence. “Mr. Darcy?”

He turned.

A gentleman of middling height stood there, coat unbuttoned and breath a touch quick, as though he had been debating the interruption for some time. “Forgive me—Harrison, sir. Mortimer Harrison. We met last week at Mr. Ashcombe’s table.”

Darcy inclined his head. “Yes. I recall.”

Mr. Harrison shifted, glancing toward the window before returning his attention to Darcy. “Dismal weather this Saturday. I am always astonished how London can appear both frozen and filthy at once.” He gave a short, nervous laugh. “Though I daresay an afternoon spent among books is never wasted.”

“Indeed.”

The man cleared his throat. “I hope I am not overstepping by intruding. It is only that—well, there has been... talk.” His gaze flicked around them, then dropped. “Concerning your sister.”

Darcy’s spine lengthened by a fraction, and his gaze sharpened. He had not spoken, but something cold and precise had settled behind his eyes.

Mr. Harrison pressed on, more quietly. “I would not presume to comment, only—your family’s name commands respect.

And certain... circles have begun to question matters I thought best left unmentioned.

I thought it right you should hear it from a friend, or at least, someone with no stake in the damage. ”

Something in Darcy's chest curled tight. He did not blink. Did not breathe. The quiet civility of it—the calm delivery of his sister’s name to the slaughterhouse—made him want to smash every pane of glass in the shop.

Every instinct itched to demand more—names, sources, retractions—but he forced his voice steady.

“My thanks, Mr. Harrison,” he said, inclining his head with the weight of formality. “Your candor is noted.”

Harrison gave a shallow bow, clearly relieved not to be pressed further. “Of course. Good day to you.”

Darcy did not watch him leave. He only adjusted the cuff of his sleeve with meticulous care and turned back toward the shelves—though nothing on them would hold his attention now.

Georgiana returned just as the man bowed and withdrew. “What did he want?”

Darcy turned to her. “Nothing of note.”

Her frown deepened. “You looked as if he had slapped you.”

He only gestured toward the counter. “Take whatever you like. We are finished here.”

She did not move. “I do not like the way you said that.”

He stepped past her. “If you do not mean to purchase anything, let us take our leave.”