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Chapter Five

I t was snowing.

Not the dramatic kind that made poets sigh and ladies gasp, but the quiet kind that coated London in a slow, muffled scorn. Slush gathered along the stones. Breath curled in the air like smoke. And Fitzwilliam Darcy was already regretting his decision to shop in person.

He had intended to be in and out. Fifteen minutes, at most. The shop on Bond Street had a reputation for rare Latin editions, and Georgiana’s new tutor had left an annotated list of suggestions in illegible ink.

Darcy had deciphered Cicero and Pliny and something that looked like “forbearance,” though it might have said “forgiveness.” Either way, he needed a distraction.

He stepped into the warmth of the shop and shook the snow from his coat. The bells above the door jingled with irritating cheer.

The place was modest but well-kept. Shelves reached up like church spires. A small fire burned at the back. A stack of pamphlets leaned precariously by the counter.

He had just located the classical section when someone rounded the same shelf from the opposite side and collided with him.

Books flew. A shoulder bumped his chest. A familiar scent—a mix of cloves and ink—hit his nose before his eyes caught up.

Oh, bollocks.

He sighed. “Miss Bennet.”

She looked up from the floor, one knee on a dropped volume of Dryden. Her bonnet was askew, her cheeks flushed from the cold.

She blinked. “Mr. Darcy. How unaccountable.”

He bent to retrieve the fallen books. Their fingers brushed on the cover of Tom Jones . She snatched her hand back like she had touched a hot poker, and he almost smiled.

“I suppose this was inevitable,” she said, standing and smoothing her skirts.

“London is large,” he said, handing her the book. “You should have been safe.”

“And yet, Providence obviously lacks imagination.”

They stood in silence for a moment, surrounded by political tracts, Latin grammars, and a copy of The Seasons that had clearly been dropped in the Thames at least once.

Darcy cleared his throat. “Holiday shopping?”

“My uncle fancies himself a connoisseur of Spenserian verse.”

“Most do.”

She raised a brow. “And you? Buying Cicero for amusement?”

“For Georgiana. My sister, if you recall.”

Her expression softened. “She still studies?”

“She reads faster than her tutor. He begged me for something denser. I took pity on him.”

She smiled. Just a flicker. It made the air feel warmer.

Darcy turned back to the shelf, trying to remember what he had been looking for before she arrived, and scattered his thoughts like loose pages.

Elizabeth was already scanning the bindings. “You know, Tom Jones is rather too pleased with itself.”

“And Pamela is not?”

She lifted a book from the shelf and handed it to him. “Here. Read this instead. The Female Quixote . Slightly mad. Deeply satisfying.”

He turned the volume over in his hands. “You would recommend something absurd on principle.”

“And you would recommend something unreadable out of pride.”

Darcy returned the book to the shelf, eyes narrowed in amusement. “I prefer a narrative that does not assault the senses.”

“That explains Cicero.”

“You are very free with your opinions.”

“I am a woman of letters.”

“You are a woman of marginal restraint.”

She grinned. “That is the nicest thing you have ever said to me.”

Darcy almost smiled. “Astonishing.”

“I had rather assumed,” Elizabeth said, almost idly, “that we had reached our yearly quota for awkward encounters.”

He glanced at her. “I make no such calculations.”

“Well,” she said, “you are running short on time.”

He frowned. “Pardon?”

She stiffened. “For the year,” she said lightly. “It ends next week.”

A pause.

He nodded, slowly. “Ah. Yes. Of course.”

She said nothing more, but her eyes lingered on his face a moment too long.

He turned back to the books. She disappeared, mercifully. He picked up a brown volume of sonnets, then changed his mind and went to the counter.

She was already there, placing her volume carefully atop a copy of Pamela.

The shopkeeper looked between them and smiled. “Selecting gifts together?”

“No,” they said in unison.

“Just browsing,” Elizabeth added, too brightly.

“Strangers,” Darcy said under his breath.

The shopkeeper chuckled and wrapped the books, anyway. He handed each a small parcel, tied with the same blue ribbon.

Darcy stepped into the snow again without waiting.

He was halfway down the block when he realized he was not, in fact, carrying Fielding.

He stopped. Turned. She was already behind him, marching after him like a determined governess.

“You have my Cicero,” she said.

“And you have… rather more than you bargained for.”

The snow was falling harder now, softening the world around them, blurring the lamplight and muffling footsteps. Even the sounds of the street had dimmed to a hush, as if London itself were holding its breath.

Darcy extended the book. She took it, her gloved fingers brushing his again—just a graze, just a pulse. He accepted his own parcel in return, fingers tightening reflexively around the twine.

Neither moved to go.

“You still remember it,” she said suddenly.

He blinked. “Remember what?”

“Our little agreement, if you can call it that.”

The word hung between them like frost on glass.

He had hoped she had forgot. But she had not.

Of course she had not.Some part of him suspected she remembered everything—names, phrases, quiet insults dressed as compliments.

And not just remembered. Recorded.Not because she was vain or bored or just too pleased with her own cleverness.Because she needed to, for some reason. And he was not interested in why.

“The one time we ever ‘agreed’ on anything. I forgot all about it.”

“Indeed. What a relief.”

Darcy’s jaw clenched. “It was only a joke.”

“Of course.”

“Meant to be forgot.”

She met his eyes then. Calm. Testing. “How convenient for me that I can hardly recall what I had for breakfast.”

He gave a half-shrug. “Two more years. I have begun to look round.”

Snow gathered on the brim of her bonnet, dusted the shoulders of his coat.

Elizabeth stepped back a pace. Her expression did not change. “Well,” she said. “Then I suggest you hurry.”

He blinked.

“You are nearly out of time. We would never suit, and I should be very put out if you forced me to keep that ridiculous promise.”

He exhaled slowly. “You need not worry.”

“Oh?”

“I have no intention of it, and I have, as you pointed out, still two years.”

Something flickered across her face—relief, or disappointment, or both, pressed too tightly together to name.

“Well. Let us hope for better luck next year.”

She turned then, the blue ribbon trailing behind her like an afterthought, tied clumsily around the parcel as though the shopkeeper had not known how tightly to bind it.

Darcy remained where he was, watching her vanish into the slow white hush of Bond Street, the ache of something unfinished crawling its way beneath his collar.

Then he turned and followed.

Not after her.

Just… in the same direction.

May, 1810 London

E lizabeth had not meant to enjoy herself.

The invitation had arrived like she supposed all invitations from the dowager Lady Matlock must—decidedly polite, impossibly grand, and suspiciously insistent.

Her aunt had been shocked and delighted.

Her uncle had raised his eyebrows. Elizabeth had stared at the envelope and considered feigning a fever.

And yet here she was, at the musicale, surrounded by gleaming wood floors, candlelight, and enough velvet to reupholster a fleet of carriages.

It was a smaller gathering than she expected. Three dozen guests at most. No crush. No cards. Just music, conversation, and the mild threat of poetry.

She had been nibbling an apricot tart and trying not to judge the soprano when she saw him.

Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Standing near the French doors, coat impeccably fitted, expression slightly less thunderous than usual. He had not seen her yet, and she had a brief, ridiculous instinct to flee to the punch table.

But then he looked up—and something passed between them. Not recognition. Something after that.

It was not cold. It was not mocking.

It was almost… pleased.

He crossed the room without ceremony, stopping just short of what might be considered eager. She inclined her head. He offered no bow, just a smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth like it had been retrieved from storage.

“Miss Bennet.”

“Mr. Darcy.”

His eyes drifted over her person as if he were cataloging her attire. “You are in London again.”

“I am.”

“One begins to wonder whether you ever remain in Hertfordshire.”

Her mouth tipped upward. “More often than you might think, sir.”

“And armed with your usual weapons?”

“Fan, wit, and one hidden notebook. But I am heavily outgunned, I assure you.”

He looked amused. “I have missed that.”

She blinked. “What?”

He cleared his throat. “What you said. I must have missed the artillery lining up at the door.”

“Ah. Why, yes, there they are, by the potted plant. The two ladies with the hairstyles that look to have celestial aspirations. And there, that lady with the orange gown—why she could freeze a tropical sea with that glare, I am sure of it.”

He grunted quietly. “I daresay the size of the canon shot is hardly relevant when a more accurate sniper could take it out with a single quip.”

“Ah! So, you have, indeed, been taking notes, sir.”

“Always.” A servant passed with a silver tray of wine and cordial. Darcy reached out—only just brushing her wrist in the process—and handed her a glass without comment. Their fingers did not quite touch, but the warmth of it lingered stupidly in her palm.

They drifted to a corner near the harpsichord as the music began again—Haydn, she thought. Something nimble. Neither of them sat. The conversation hovered between them like steam from a cup.

“How long are you in town?” he asked.

“Just through the end of the month. I must return before the Meryton scandal mill dries out.”