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Elizabeth crossed her arms and looked away, trying to summon the proper amount of fury—but it refused to rise.

This was not a stranger prying into her life.

It was Madeline Gardiner, who had stitched up the hem of her best walking dress, who had smuggled extra biscuits into her coat pocket during childhood visits, who had once faced down Mrs. Bennet’s shrieking hysteria with nothing but a teapot and a look.

Still.

“It was just a scrap of paper in the bin,” Mrs. Gardiner murmured quickly. “I feared it was another horrid letter from your mother. You have been… quieter, these past days, and I only meant to be certain it would not send you into one of your moods again.”

“My moods? ”

“Well, yes. You did spend an entire afternoon arguing with a holly bush.”

Elizabeth pressed her fingers to her temples. “Tell me you did not submit it.”

“I did,” Mrs. Gardiner said, with the placid courage of someone about to be pelted with bread rolls. “It was funny. Witty. Rather too much like your old self to leave in a bin. And no one will guess it was you.”

Elizabeth pinched the bridge of her nose. “I am going to expire from mortification.”

Mrs. Gardiner patted her arm. “If you do, I shall sell your tragic tale to the Illustrated London News and retire to Bath on the proceeds. You may at least give me a dramatic pose for the engraving.”

Elizabet stared at her.

She gave Elizabeth a pointed look. “See? I have been taking notes. Come, Lizzy. This will be terribly enjoyable, even for you.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth—to argue, to seethe, to flee—but no words emerged. Only the sound of the harp, still plinking bravely along, as if unaware it was soundtracking her impending social demise.

And then—God help her—she saw him.

The back of a dark head. A familiar posture. A man near the sideboard, just tall enough to make her breath catch.

Darcy.

Surely it was Darcy.

No one else walked like that. No one else carried tension like a cloak and managed to make it look like elegance. And—oh, no—those eyebrows. She had mocked them once, had written a dozen witty and delightful lines about their severity. But there was no mistaking them now. They were his.

He was here. He was here , and she was about to be paraded like a prize goose with ink-stained feathers.

Elizabeth’s pulse stuttered.

He had not seen her. Yet. But he was turning slightly, shifting his weight in the way she remembered—like a man assessing an exit.

Or an adversary. And he was escorting someone, a woman shorter than himself, her bonnet tied with a pale ribbon.

The angle was poor, the crowd too thick, but Elizabeth’s imagination filled in the rest with terrifying efficiency.

His wife.

Of course. His wife.

She had thought herself safe here. Far from carriages and contracts and curt goodbyes. But she had invaded his world again—unintentionally, absurdly—and now he would be forced to witness her disgrace a second time.

She could almost summon a bit of pity for him. Surely he had no expectation of being set upon in his own home county.

Elizabeth turned so sharply she nearly tripped over the potted ficus behind her. With one great motion, she positioned herself behind it, tugging her shawl over her shoulder as camouflage.

Mrs. Gardiner blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Hiding,” Elizabeth hissed.

“From what?”

“Not what. Whom .”

Her aunt followed her gaze. And then—slowly, wickedly—smiled.

Elizabeth gripped the ficus tighter.

God save her. Or at the very least, let the floor open wide enough to swallow her whole.

T he instant Darcy stepped into the drawing room, his senses reeled.

It was not the crush of guests nor the overheated air but the sheer possibility that gripped him.

He scanned the room too quickly, breath half-held, seeking the familiar curve of her cheek, the bright gleam of her eyes, anything—anything to anchor the idea that she might truly be here.

She had to be here.

Behind him, Richard kept up a steady stream of commentary, clearly enjoying himself far more than was warranted.

“I've not seen the lady in five years. Can hardly remember what she looked like save for her eyes. Is it the tall one by the hearth? No—too statuesque. The one in blue, perhaps. Brown hair. Vaguely judgmental.”

“That is Lady Meredith,” said the dowager sharply. “And she is not brunette. She is merely thrifty with the hair powder.”

Richard waved a dismissive hand. “They all begin to blur together after a while. I recall Miss Bennet being petite. Or perhaps that was the ficus. You brought me to an auction, not a salon.”

Darcy scanned the room again, his breath shallow. He could feel the urgency curling tight behind his ribs.

“Too blonde,” muttered Richard, eyeing another possibility. “Too short. That one looks like she would cry if you corrected her embroidery. Not our girl.”

“She is not our anything,” Darcy snapped, still searching.

“True. She is probably someone else’s by now,” Richard mused. “But let us be helpful while we are here. How about the one near the sideboard, with the unfortunate sleeves?”

“She is sixteen,” said the dowager, without looking. “And has a squint.”

“Shame,” Richard said. “Would have been a good match otherwise.”

Darcy pressed forward slightly, trying to see past a pair of gentlemen gesturing with their syllabub glasses. Still nothing. He could feel his pulse thrumming like a signal drum.

“She may not even be here,” he muttered.

“Then stop looming like a butler shooing away the guests,” said the dowager. “And stop dragging me like a sled. We are meant to be mingling, not storming a battlefield.”

“I am mingling,” he replied, tight-voiced.

“Your version of mingling resembles pursuit,” she sniffed. “At least pretend to greet someone before you flatten them with your gaze.”

“Over by the pianoforte,” Richard murmured suddenly. “Two brunettes, both showing a little teeth. Could be flirtation. Could be nerves. Thoughts?”

Darcy swerved slightly to look—only to exhale in frustration. Neither matched. Wrong posture. Wrong energy. No spark.

“They are from Suffolk,” said the dowager. “Their mother tried to set them on your brother the viscount last year. He had to fake a fever to escape.”

“I envy him,” Darcy muttered.

“You should. He got out before the games began.”

He did not answer. His heart struck hard within his chest, as though attempting to shake loose some hidden truth. Perhaps she was not here. Perhaps the trail had gone cold again.

Richard craned his neck in mock helpfulness. “We ought to ring a bell and shout ‘witty, elusive brunette—last seen fleeing a ballroom.’ That might speed the matter.”

Darcy’s teeth clenched. “Must you be a blackguard at every threshold?”

“Only the significant ones,” Richard replied cheerfully.

Then, above the rustle of fans and the gentle clink of glass against silver, came the bright and unmistakable voice of Lady Chiswell.

“My dears, if I may have your attention!”

Darcy turned toward the sound, nearly missing the last few steps into the centre of the room.

“My dear friends, welcome—belated though this celebration may be!

Illness delayed our Twelfth Night, but the snow has been kind enough to keep the spirit of mischief alive.

Before supper, we shall indulge in a little diversion with a game of Riddles.

You will each find a slip and a quill near the sideboard.

Compose something clever—anonymous, of course—and all entries shall be placed in this basket.

The most amusing shall be read aloud and, naturally, guessed at.

No prize but glory… and perhaps a few suspicions confirmed.

The room laughed and murmured in approval. Quills were already appearing. A footman approached with a basket lined in velvet.

And in the span of a single breath, Darcy froze. It was not fear that struck him—but recognition. This was no ordinary party game.

This was a summoning.

He stood very still, his spine taut, eyes sweeping the room with new precision. A game of riddles. Anonymous wit. Veiled truths.

It was her.

It had to be. The coincidence was too perfect, too pointed. Elizabeth Bennet would never have orchestrated such a thing—not after everything—but Fate? Fate had a sense of humor. Fate wasted no opportunities. And it had chosen to make its point in rhyme.

He began again, scanning each face, each profile, sharper now. Focused. He ignored Richard’s next jest, the dowager’s subtle adjustment of her shawl.

She was here.

She had to be. Heaven could not make more of a mockery of him by letting this moment pass without her.

Somewhere behind the fan-spread crowd. Somewhere behind the ficus, the musicians, the dull gleam of candlelight on brass.

He could feel her presence like a shifting current, tugging at the edges of the room.

Perhaps she had seen him first. Perhaps she was hiding. Perhaps the game itself was her signal.

And perhaps—Heaven help him—it was a dare.

Darcy’s mouth curled, slow and reverent.

The rules had just changed. And if this game would flush her out—then by God, he would play.