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She beamed. “The best kind.”

He looked at her for a long moment, unsure whether he meant to retort or retreat—and genuinely uncertain which would be more dangerous.

Before he could decide, a familiar voice broke in.

“Ah, Darcy!” his grandmother approached, sherry in hand and satisfaction practically steaming from her bonnet. “I see you have found refreshment—and a conversational partner. Will you introduce me?”

Darcy’s jaw flexed. She knew very good and well who Elizabeth Bennet was, but she was forcing him to make the public introduction, anyway.

He turned, voice even. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, may I present my grandmother, the dowager Countess of Matlock.”

Elizabeth curtsied. “It is a pleasure to meet you, madam.”

The dowager offered a faint bow of her head. “Entirely mine, Miss Bennet. I have heard… fascinating things.”

Darcy closed his eyes for a single breath.

“We are in need of your opinion,” the dowager continued smoothly, with the air of a woman who had absolutely not just laid a trap.

“We are discussing the morality of metaphor,” she announced to the nearby listeners, who had all gone conveniently quiet.

“Mr. Barrington insists that any poem with a tragic female lead is a veiled indictment of the poet’s mother. ”

Elizabeth made a sound that might have been a laugh, if one sharpened a laugh on a whetstone.

“Surely not,” she said. “Sometimes a drowning is just a drowning.”

“I said the same,” Darcy muttered, more to himself than to her.

The dowager’s eyes gleamed. “So you agree, Miss Bennet? Or do you think metaphor always conceals a deeper truth?”

Elizabeth’s smile turned sly. “I think metaphor is how poets get away with melodrama while pretending to be misunderstood.”

A crackle of laughter followed—genuine, unrestrained. Even Mr. Barrington gave a sheepish cough.

Darcy fought a smirk. He lost.

And that was when the dowager turned the knife with grandmotherly grace.

“Of course, Darcy’s tastes run to practical generosity. You have been quite charitable since inheriting, have you not, my dear? Especially toward institutions like the Foundling Hospital. I recall a rather memorable picnic…”

Darcy’s spine locked. Ice trickled down his neck.

Elizabeth Bennet turned to him with her brows delicately raised, as if awaiting a favorite song.

“A picnic?” she asked, all innocence.

The dowager sighed with a satisfied smile—rather too content to play along. “There was an auction. Quite a stir, as I recall. Bidding became… spirited.”

Elizabeth sipped her punch. “Was there a winner?”

The dowager smiled sweetly. “Oh yes. One young lady showed real commitment. I remember a broken fan. Possibly a veiled threat.”

Darcy stared straight ahead.

Elizabeth leaned closer. “You fetch a high price for a man who does not smile.”

He looked at her. Fully. Directly. “I am not for sale.”

Her smile widened just enough to be called dangerous. “Oh, I know. That is what made you expensive.”

The group around them broke into knowing laughter.

Darcy did not. But his fingers tightened around his glass.

She was dangerous. Not because she mocked him.

Because she meant nothing by it. Because it cost her nothing to say exactly what she thought, and it left him—unaccountably—without a defense.And that notebook—he realized, distantly—was not just for amusement.

She was not merely collecting trifles. She was keeping something at bay.

He stood beside her until the room began to thin, until the sherry ran out, and until someone asked if Miss Bennet would be reading her own verses next time.

She declined, demurely.

But Darcy was certain she would write about this later. And—God help him—he almost wanted to read it.

April 1808 Bath

T here were worse things than Bath in April.

The air was soft and faintly sweet, the windows left open just enough to tease out the candle smoke, and the musicians—though clearly exhausted—were still playing with just enough conviction to keep the dancers moving.

Elizabeth Bennet was, at present, not dancing.

She stood to the side, punch in hand, watching the swirling gowns and high laughter with the practiced neutrality of someone who had already refused three partners and only mildly regretted it.

She was visiting the Gardiners for a brief spring holiday while Mr. Gardiner negotiated a new silk contract—Mrs. Gardiner had claimed it would be “refreshing.” Elizabeth had not realized that meant damp, perfumed, and brimming with dowagers wielding lorgnettes like weaponry.

Still. There were sweetmeats. The music was pleasant. And if one stood at just the right angle near the pillar, one could write notes without being caught.

Tonight’s assembly: Two-and-a-half handsome men. Three crushed toes. One persistent suitor with a damp glove and tragic ideas about Byron.

She had just tucked her notebook back into her sleeve when a movement across the room caught her eye.

Tall. Dark coat. Stiff posture.

No. Oh, good heavens, no.

Elizabeth blinked. Then looked again.

It was him.

Mr. Darcy of Pemberley—brooding, unsmiling, and looking as though he had been dragged to the ball by threat of disinheritance. Or his cousin.

It had been months. Nearly a year, in fact. And yet there he was, as if conjured by some mischievous spirit with a taste for discomfort. He was standing near the edge of the crowd, speaking with no one, his eyes roaming the room like a man seeking the nearest exit.

He looked older. Or perhaps it was the severity of his expression—more guarded than she remembered. And yet—

He had seen her.

She knew it before their eyes met. Felt it like a shiver through her spine.

He did not smile. Of course not. But something shifted in his posture. A hesitation. A flicker. His eyes locked onto hers across the room with the force of a thrown gauntlet.

Elizabeth turned sharply back to the refreshment table.

No.

This was not a salon, or a bookstore, or a summer garden with inconvenient auctions and interfering grandmothers. This was Bath. Neutral territory. He would not approach. He would not—

“Another set, if you please!”

The caller’s voice rang out across the room, and Elizabeth barely heard it over the sudden thunder of her own pulse.

She turned, just in time to see Mrs. Hargrave—fluttering, flustered, absurdly delighted—bearing down upon her.

“Ah, Miss Bennet! How fortunate! We need a final pair. Just one more gentleman and—ah! Sir! You there!”

Elizabeth’s stomach dropped.

Mr. Darcy stood not ten feet away. Eyes narrowed. Jaw set.

Mrs. Hargrave beamed. “Miss Bennet, Mr. Darcy—how charming. Please, to the floor.”

Charming.

Elizabeth stared at the woman as though she had just asked her to waltz with a lion.

Darcy spoke first. Of course he did. “If Miss Bennet does not object.”

The words were polite. His tone was flint.

Elizabeth’s lips parted. Closed again. There were a dozen ways to decline, and all of them would mean explaining herself to Mrs. Hargrave. And perhaps to half of Bath.

She met his eyes. “Only if you are quite certain, Mr. Darcy. I should not like to impose.”

His mouth twitched—something between a grimace and a smile. “I believe the imposition may be mutual.”

She handed her punch to a startled onlooker with enough force to slosh it onto his cuff. Then she lifted her chin and took Mr. Darcy’s arm—the one so stiff it could have belonged to a toy soldier.

They took their place at the end of the set.

It was going to be a very long half hour.

She did not look at him.

“You are everywhere,” he said, under his breath.

“Try not to sound so thrilled.”

The music began. They stepped forward—hands brushing, a flicker of heat—then turned away again. Rejoined. Glided apart.

It was a well-practiced dance. Predictable. Familiar.

Unlike him.

“You were not invited to this, were you?” she asked as they passed again.

“My aunt Lady Catherine is in town. She demanded my escort.”

“I hope she is pleased.”

“She was . Until now.” He tipped his head—barely—to the wall of dowagers. Two in particular sat like marble statues, expressions carved from disdain. One gave Elizabeth a look that could have peeled varnish.

Elizabeth smiled, sharp as broken glass. “Then I shall consider the evening a triumph.”

They met again in the center. Hands clasped.

Too long.

His palm was warm. His grip not quite severe enough to feel impersonal. Her pulse kicked anyway.

They parted. Turned.

“Still writing your observations?” he asked.

She raised a brow. “Still hoping for a cameo?”

“I was hoping for an absence.”

“I am told absences make the best stories.”

He muttered something uncharitable. She chose to misinterpret it.

“Your flattery is relentless,” she said sweetly. “Careful, or I shall think you intend to make a second bid.”

He looked at her then—fully, intently.

She regretted it instantly.

His eyes were dark, unreadable, and far too direct. For a moment, she felt pinned—not by ridicule, but by recognition.

She stepped too early. Recovered. He did not comment.

They turned again. Mirrors. Reverse. Hands touched and released.

Her cheeks were warm now—not from exertion.

From him.

From the press of his palm, firm and deliberate. From the way he looked at her only when he thought she was not watching. From the knowledge that everyone else in the room saw them as a pair now, if only for the length of a dance.

It was intolerable.

It was exhilarating.

It could not happen again.

She had worked too hard to avoid entanglement. Too hard to protect her reputation, her future, her family. She could not afford a man like Mr. Darcy—not with his disapproving aunts and silent moods and eyes like that—

The music reached its final phrases. They turned, stepped, slowed.

They bowed. She curtsied. They stepped back.

A breathless silence stretched between them.

Then he turned—to retreat, perhaps, or escape—but instead collided with a footman carrying a full tray.

The crash was immediate and glorious. Glass scattered. Liquid fanned in every direction. A candied almond went skidding into someone’s shoe.

Elizabeth covered her mouth with one hand.

He straightened slowly, dripping.

He looked at her.

She was already turning pink from the effort of not laughing.

His scowl deepened. “Not a word.”

She curtsied again, lower this time. “Would not dream of it.”

And then she vanished into the crowd before the laughter could catch her.