Page 46

The Countess, elegant and composed, surveyed their party with a serene expression. With the faintest inclination of her head, she said, "Will you do us the honour of presenting your companions, Mr. Bingley?"

"With pleasure," he replied, smiling.

He began with the eldest in their group. "Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner of Gracechurch Street."

Then, with a fond glance toward Jane: "Miss Bennet."

He turned next to Elizabeth. "Miss Elizabeth Bennet, her sister."

And finally, with his usual brisk charm: "My sister, Miss Bingley."

Lady Matlock’s gaze passed lightly over each in turn— but lingered, just a heartbeat longer, on Elizabeth.

There was a flicker of something there—curiosity, perhaps— swiftly concealed beneath the veil of polite civility.

"Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth," she said smoothly. "How very glad we are to make your acquaintance."

The Earl inclined his head, his voice genial but measured. "We have heard your names. My sister, Lady Catherine, wrote of her time in Kent. And my niece—Georgiana—has spoken of you as well, I believe. "

Elizabeth, practiced in composure, felt a subtle tightening in her chest. To be mentioned among the Darcys—and their relations—was no small thing.

She dipped into a graceful curtsey, her voice calm and clear.

"Your ladyship does me much honour. I hope Lady Catherine found Hunsford to her liking this season."

Lady Matlock's lips curved faintly. "Lady Catherine is rarely without strong opinions—and her letters are rarely short."

At this, Colonel Fitzwilliam gave a quiet, quickly stifled laugh. The corner of his mouth twitched—amused, but not unkind—and for a moment, Elizabeth felt her heart lighten.

But when his gaze found hers—sharp, assessing, touched with something unreadable— a faint shiver passed through her.

A look of calculation. Or was it recollection?

She met his eyes without faltering, her chin lifting ever so slightly. Whatever he had discerned—or suspected—she would not flinch.

Mr. Darcy had remained silent through the introductions.

He stood a half-step behind his aunt and uncle, his posture immaculate, his expression composed.

But his eyes—

His eyes never left her.

Once, that silence might have wounded her.

Now, it steadied her.

She knew him too well to mistake it for indifference.

It was not anger. It was not reserve.

It was something far more dangerous.

It was remembrance.

The knowledge pulsed between them—unspoken, undeniable .

Every rule of society bade him look away, speak, perform his part.

He did none of it.

He looked at her. Only her.

And in that gaze, Elizabeth read all she needed to know:

She had never left his thoughts— just as he had never left hers.

Miss Bingley stood silent, her expression arranged into polite indifference— but her gaze flicked sharply between Elizabeth and the Matlocks, the strain of displeasure plain beneath her composure.

The exchange of pleasantries was necessarily brief, as decorum required.

The Gardiners, ever graceful, offered their parting courtesies with quiet ease.

Mr. Bingley, full of cheerful bustle and blissfully unaware of the charged air around him, soon guided their party on to their seats.

It was only once they were settled that Elizabeth allowed herself to exhale.

Her pulse still raced— a quiet, relentless rhythm that echoed the truth she had read in his eyes.

It was only once they were settled that Elizabeth allowed herself to exhale, her heart still pounding in her ears.

That Lady Catherine had written of her was no surprise. But that Georgiana had spoken of her— that she had read aloud letters which mentioned their time in Hertfordshire— that gave Elizabeth pause.

In her other life, she had known from both Darcy and Georgiana that he had written of her freely.

But this time... this time was different.

He had grown suspicious of her at Netherfield, when she had foolishly let slip something she should not have known. She had seen the change in him then—had feared he believed her somehow entangled with Wickham, or worse .

And so she had not expected— had not dared to hope— that he would speak of her to his sister again.

But he had.

Even in his uncertainty, even when he must have questioned her very nature, he had still trusted Georgiana with her name.

The realization warmed her more than she liked to admit.

It was not the grand hope of romance. It was smaller, sturdier— the quiet belief that, even in doubt, he had not let her go entirely.

The realization warmed her more than she liked to admit.

It was not the grand hope of romance. It was smaller, sturdier— the quiet belief that, even in doubt, he had not let her go entirely.

She had only just begun to steady herself when she caught Colonel Fitzwilliam watching her.

At Lady Matlock’s last remark, he had laughed—softly, quickly stifled. The corner of his mouth still twitched with amusement, but his eyes...

His eyes were sharper than his smile.

They met hers briefly— and something passed between them that unsettled them both.

He remembered. Not a shared conversation, but her knowledge of one that had never occurred.

She had spoken of a love he had never named aloud. A memory she should not have had. A truth too personal to be guessed, too guarded to be overheard.

Had she read it in a letter? No—he had always been too careful. Too private.

And yet she had known .

Elizabeth saw it in his gaze: not disbelief, but wary understanding. He had not decided what she was— but he had not forgotten what she had revealed.

Nor had he stopped fearing what more she might know.

Whatever he suspected, whatever shadow of possibility lingered in him— his caution was not for himself.

It was for Darcy.

She met his gaze with quiet resolve, her chin lifting almost imperceptibly.

Let him wonder. Let them all.

She turned to follow the others, feeling the heavy stir of fabric and the murmur of greetings as they passed through the narrow corridors of the theatre.

And as she moved away, she felt it— his gaze, still steady on her back.

Unspoken. Unyielding.

A tether, invisible but unbroken.