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Chapter Forty-One

T he room had taken on the light buzz of festivity, the kind that followed a second glass of punch and the promise of mild scandal. Guests huddled near the fire or drifted past the writing table where slips of cream paper lay beside freshly trimmed quills.

A maid circulated with a tray of tarts; someone in the corner had begun to sing something Scottish and tuneless.

Footmen wove expertly through the crowd with trays of spiced wine and syllabub, their passage trailing laughter and cinnamon.

Elizabeth edged along the far wall, ducking between floral arrangements and palms too ornamental to offer real concealment.

She could still see him.

Just the top of his head. Those unmistakable eyebrows, drawn in mild amusement as he bent to murmur something to the woman beside him—a woman whose only visible feature was the towering purple turban affixed to her head like a battlement.

Of course, it was his wife.

Why would he come otherwise?

He had married. And she was here—again—poking her scorched reputation into his corner of the world like a stubborn weed.

Lady Chiswell’s voice cut across her thoughts, bright as ever. “Well! What an array of offerings we have collected! Some of these entries positively reek of self-satisfaction—I shall have to air them by the fire. If wit were wine, this room would be under the table already.”

Laughter rippled through the room. Elizabeth took a step toward the doorway—then ducked swiftly behind a footman bearing a tray of glasses.

One of the glasses tipped precariously. Elizabeth reached out to steady it—too late. The tray tilted. The glasses clinked, one toppled. The footman caught it with the reflexes of a man who had been through far worse.

A sharp clatter. A ripple of laughter.

“Steady on, miss!” someone called.

Elizabeth managed a mortified curtsy, her cheeks prickling with heat. She dared a glance toward Darcy.

He was not looking at her. He was watching Lady Chiswell with the kind of intensity normally reserved for duels and disputed inheritance.

She pivoted at once, retreating behind a ficus with all the grace of a guilty child caught in a parlor she ought not to have entered.

Lady Chiswell cleared her throat. “Let us begin.”

A flurry of hushes passed through the room. A few guests adjusted their gloves in anticipation.

“ ‘To the gentleman who insisted last week that women ought never to play chess: I should be delighted to let you win. Provided you learn to spell bishop without assistance.’ ”

There was general laughter. A red-faced gentleman near the sideboard gave a theatrical bow, muttering, “Touché.”

“Miss Grey,” someone guessed.

“No, no, that sounds like Mrs. Eldridge!”

Lady Chiswell waved them off. “No guessing until the end.”

She unfolded the next.

“ ‘Lady Feathering’s wig should be knighted for its service in the face of gravity.’ ”

A collective gasp.

Lady Feathering blinked thrice, then sniffed. “Well, I never—”

“Oh, but you have,” her companion whispered too loudly.

“Lord, these are ghastly,” Elizabeth muttered, ducking deeper behind the ficus.

“They are not yours,” Mrs. Gardiner whispered, suddenly appearing at her side with an exasperated smile. “Why are you skulking like a barmaid caught stealing sugar cubes?”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “I am protecting the dignity of ficus plants everywhere.”

Her aunt gave her a look. “Your dignity could do with less crouching.”

The room tittered as Lady Chiswell picked up another.

“ ‘A lady in red should be wary near candlelight. Flames are easily offended by competition.’ ”

Polite laughter. Two women immediately stopped fanning themselves and glanced toward the fireplace.

“Mrs. Hartley!” someone called.

“I wish I were that bold,” she said cheerfully.

“Another,” Lady Chiswell said, already reaching. “This one was unsigned—but no handwriting shall be revealed, I promise.”

Elizabeth gripped the edge of the plant stand.

Mrs. Gardiner patted her elbow. “Breathe.”

“ Memo: On the precise ways one might vanish entirely without alarming one's relatives, alerting the neighbors, or attracting further satire. Possibly: fake death via sleigh accident, flee to Scotland, become governess. Optional: eye patch. ”

Elizabeth’s heart thudded to a stop.

The room erupted in laughter. A smatter of applause. Chuckles behind handkerchiefs. Someone near the pianoforte choked on their syllabub.

Lady Chiswell, laughing herself now, pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, splendid! Listen to this—there is more!”

“ ‘To Whom It May Concern (which is no one, and let us not pretend otherwise): I have escaped London with all the elegance of a clumsy footnote. The satire has grown teeth, the gossip a pension. I am now more infamous than fashionable and less amusing than convenient. I plan to marry a snowdrift. It is cool, silent, and unlikely to demand explanations. Kindly forward any inquiries to the hedge on the west lawn. He listens, but never interrupts. ’”

This time, the laughter surged louder. Actual applause. Several guests turned to each other in delighted confusion.

“I say, who wrote that?”

“No one in our parish is that clever.”

“It must be Lady Theale—she fancies herself an authoress.”

“Nonsense! That sounds like a woman who has lived.”

Elizabeth’s legs locked in place.

And then— A familiar voice, amused and calm, from the rear corner:

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

The air snapped.

Laughter faded. Fans paused mid-flutter. Heads turned like sunflowers to the west. “Who?” seemed to be the question on everyone’s tongue, followed immediately by, “It is Darcy! Darcy said that!”

Even Lady Chiswell straightened with interest. “Mr. Darcy! I had no idea you were here. Come forward, sir.”

A rustle of surprise swept the room as people pivoted to glimpse the man who had spoken.

Elizabeth ducked behind the ficus and, for one wild second, sincerely considered diving beneath the nearest tablecloth.

Too late.

Too many eyes had turned. Too many mouths whispered. Her name now hung in the air like perfume—recognized, repeated, rippling through the room.

There was no retreat.

And worst of all, she knew— knew —Darcy had been smiling when he said it.

D arcy wove through the milling crowd, his pulse hammering with each step.

The soft buzz of conversation dimmed around him—he could only hear the steady clap of Lady Chiswell’s announcement.

He twisted, searching every face for one set of eyes.

Behind him, Richard nudged the dowager and grinned, loud enough for Darcy to hear.

“That was glorious. You absolutely left them speechless, cousin.”

Darcy had scarcely spoken the words when Lady Chiswell gave a delighted little gasp.

“Oh, splendid!” she crowed, waving the cream slip above her head like a prize ribbon. “And here I thought the author would remain a mystery—but it seems Mr. Darcy is not merely decorative. He has guessed correctly!”

Heads turned. A wave of whispers rippled through the gathering like wind through tall grass.

Elizabeth slipped out from behind the ficus.

Slowly. With the stiff grace of someone rising to face an execution—or perhaps just the aunt who brought her into the world and still wielded moral disappointment like a sabre. Her chin lifted. Her expression gave nothing away, save for the faint flush blooming along her cheekbones.

Lady Chiswell beamed at her. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, everyone! The only guest here with the gall to insult both firelight and scandal in a single stroke.”

Laughter broke, scattered and bright.

Darcy did not hear it. He was already moving.

His path bent around startled guests, around a toppled chair and a maid with a tray of tarts. The crowd had parted slightly, a natural deference to drama—or perhaps just to him—and she stood in its center, ringed by curiosity and candlelight.

He did not hesitate. He reached her.

She stared up at him, pulse visible at her throat, eyes wide and brimming with everything she had tried so hard to press down.

“You were smiling,” she said, bewildered. “You smiled when you said my name.”

“I was right.”

“And that pleased you?”

“It saved me.”

She blinked rapidly. Her gaze darted—once, twice—past his shoulder, scanning the crowd behind him. “But you…” Her voice caught. “I saw you. You walked in with someone. A woman.”

Darcy followed her glance, briefly confused. And then—understanding dawned. “My grandmother,” he said gently. “She refuses to be left behind when there is drama afoot.”

Elizabeth stared at him, as if waiting for the other shoe—or wife—to drop. “The turbaned one?”

“Yes.”

“Oh… I see her now.”

“Not a very romantic silhouette,” he added mildly, “but she does have excellent posture.”

Her breath stuttered, half-laugh, half-sob. She pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief.

“There is no one else,” he said again, gently. “I did not marry.”

Elizabeth stared at him, struggling to process it. “Then—Miss Ashford?”

He exhaled. “Her father withdrew her hand. Said it would not do to be associated with scandal. My saving grace, really, because the truth is—I ought to have done it myself. Long before that. I certainly wanted to.”

“You?” Her brows shot up. “Give up a contract?”

“It would have been the honorable thing,” he said. “I did not want her. I only wanted… not to lose everything. Blasted dull-witted way I had of going about it, but I got round to the point eventually.”

“ You? ” she repeated, folding her arms. “You admitted an error and changed course? Mr. ‘I once made a man refund a shilling for faulty marking ribbon in my book’ Darcy?”

“I am evolving,” he said flatly.

“You are too stubborn to evolve,” she retorted. “Even when it is in your own best interest.”

“Especially then,” he muttered.

She narrowed her eyes, some color returning to her cheeks. Then her expression changed entirely, as if someone had just handed her a very unfortunate receipt. “Wait… Your birthday… It is the twelfth.”

His eyes met hers. “Yes.”

She drew a breath, her mind already tallying numbers and dates. “But today is—”

“The thirty-first.”

Her brows knit as the realization gathered. “That means… the banns cannot be called.”

“No.”

She blinked at him, stunned. “But the wedding—your wedding—was meant for the twenty-first! You had enough time once Ashford cried off. If you had found someone by the twenty-fourth, even the twenty-fifth, you might have still done it. Surely—” Her voice broke into a baffled laugh.

“You are Mr. Darcy of Pemberley with ten thousand pounds! You could have found someone. ”

“I did find someone.”

She looked up, startled.

“Someone who once promised to marry me in a pinch,” he continued, tilting his head. “If I ever grew desperate.”

Her mouth parted, but no sound came.

“And I was desperate, make no mistake,” he added dryly. “And I came to call in that promise. But I could not wring an agreement out of her in time.”

She drew back half a step, as if the truth had knocked something loose in her spine.

Her mouth opened. Closed. The color in her cheeks deepened—not from embarrassment this time, but from something weightier, something breathless and furious and real.

Darcy watched her eyes widen, her chin tilt, that clever composure stutter for one glorious, unmistakable second.

And he smiled. Just slightly. Just enough.

“You left London,” she said. “You idiot! All those balls, parties, the debutantes and drawing rooms… You left your best chance behind!”

“I did.”

“But… but why? ”

“You know why,” he said simply. “Because you were in Derbyshire. Or… well, I thought you were, and it was the best guess I had.”

“ Me? You are a fool.” Her shoulders dropped, a visible collapse of hope and dread tangled together.

“It is too late. I would have…” She shook her head.

“But that is silly! Nothing we can do now can change anything, so why are you still here? Are you planning more scandal? A midnight dash to Scotland? I hope you brought a strong horse and a falsified vicar, Mr. Darcy, because I am not eloping in my second-best petticoat.”

Darcy looked down at her as if the question itself were absurd.

“Because even if I cannot marry you by the twelfth, I still want to marry you, Elizabeth Bennet, and none other. Because I have spent the last week looking for you and realizing that nothing—no clause, no calendar, no title—is worth more to me than you. Because I would rather lose everything with you than win it without you.”

She started to shake her head, her eyes round. “No, I…”

But he tugged at her shoulders and pulled her closer.

His voice was low, urgent, fierce. “Do you not realize that I cannot breathe without you, you reckless minx? I am not myself without forever crashing against you. And because I do not care about the will, the property, or the damned clause. I care about you .”

The crowd was silent now. Watching. No one pretended to sip their wine or admire the harp. They simply waited.

Elizabeth stepped forward. “You are certain?”

He smiled, and it was like the sun finding its way through storm-clouds. “Elizabeth Bennet,” he said, voice unshaking. “I have never been more certain of anything in my life.”

She exhaled, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Then collect your prize, Mr. Darcy.”

He did.