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The two ladies retired to dress at five o’clock, and at half-past six, Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. She had known this evening would come, known precisely how it would unfold, and so she resolved not to alter much of what had already been.

Upon taking her seat, she was immediately subject to the civil inquiries of the assembled company, though it was only Mr. Bingley’s solicitude that struck her as genuinely felt.

His concern for Jane was unmistakable, and Elizabeth, keenly aware of how much rested on this night, considered her response with care.

She could not be too forward, nor seem too eager to impart what she knew of Jane’s regard; yet she found herself wanting him to understand—without understanding too well—that Jane’s presence here had been no design of her own.

A carefully placed word, a fleeting glance, and she hoped Bingley might discern something of Jane’s true sentiments without the interference of his sisters.

As Elizabeth observed Miss Bingley’s attentions to Mr. Darcy, she thought, with some amusement, how very ardent an admirer Caroline Bingley was—an admirer whose advances were met with nothing more than courteous indifference.

If she did not already know the depth of Fitzwilliam’s love, she might have found it insufferable.

As it was, she told herself she had no reason to mind it at all, and yet—it did trouble her, ever so slightly.

Not because she doubted him, but because he was not yet hers.

Not truly. Not as she longed for him to be.

She had often reflected that Fitzwilliam had always desired a love match, and even had he not, Miss Bingley would never have succeeded.

For all her wealth, she lacked the connections that might have made her a worthy match for him, and her dowry—though respectable—was hardly enough to tempt a man of his standing without affection.

That he should love Elizabeth, despite her own lack of fortune, despite her impertinence and tendency toward wit at the expense of propriety, was a wonder she could not quite believe in, even now.

Yet love him she did, and she knew with certainty that he loved her in return.

It was an impossible thing, and yet it was theirs.

She forced herself into quietude, taking care not to engage too freely, not to alter the night beyond what was necessary.

Soon enough, she would be called to Jane’s side, and she had no desire to linger.

She knew well what conversation would come, what barbs Miss Bingley would cast, what restraint Darcy would exert in the face of such provocation.

Her presence here was already too much an anomaly; she could not afford to be the cause of more.

And so, she left them to their conversation, rising with a murmured excuse and slipping away before she could allow herself to look back.

The moment Elizabeth quitted the room, Miss Bingley wasted no time in offering her critique.

With a delicate sigh of affected concern, she declared Elizabeth’s manners to be insupportable, her appearance wild, her conversation wholly without style or grace.

Mrs. Hurst, ever ready to echo her sister’s sentiments, agreed heartily, adding that Miss Bennet’s only recommendation was her aptitude for walking—though, in her opinion, even that was executed with an unbecoming want of decorum.

Darcy made no reply, though he found himself uncharacteristically distracted.

His mind, against all reason, had already strayed from Miss Bingley’s sharp voice to an image far more compelling.

Elizabeth, her cheeks flushed from exertion, her eyes alight with something he could not name.

He ought to have been appalled by her unkempt state that morning—the untidy curls, the hem of her gown dark with mud—but instead, he had been…

affected. He scarcely understood himself.

He, who prided himself on sense and propriety, had been unable to tear his gaze away from her.

Miss Bingley, catching his abstraction, turned her teasing upon him. “I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” she purred, lowering her voice to a half-whisper, “that this morning’s adventure has rather lessened your admiration of Miss Elizabeth’s fine eyes.”

Darcy started, but his response was swift. “Not at all,” he said, his voice even. “They were brightened by the exercise.”

He regretted the admission at once. Miss Bingley’s brows lifted ever so slightly, and she exchanged a knowing glance with her sister, as though she had uncovered something to her advantage.

He was saved from further inquiry only by Mrs. Hurst’s renewed lamentation on the Bennet family’s lack of connections, which, in their minds, rendered Jane’s prospects hopeless.

Yet Darcy heard little of it. His own thoughts betrayed him, returning to that evening at Lucas Lodge.

He had not meant to watch Elizabeth at the pianoforte, and yet, when she had struck the first chords, he had been unable to look away.

The melody had been achingly familiar—his favorite piece, rendered with a skill and expression that unsettled him.

It was almost as if she had played it for him alone.

Then, their dance… Had he truly imagined it?

The effortless harmony of their steps, the way her gaze had met his, steady and knowing.

It had been folly to ask her. Worse than folly—dangerous.

He had never felt such a sensation before, as though she had understood him in a way no other ever had.

And now, this morning. That near-imperceptible smirk—had she truly seen through him? Had she known that, instead of disapproval, he had felt something far less proper, far more disturbing? It was impossible. And yet…

“Do you not agree, Mr. Darcy?”

Miss Bingley’s voice cut through his reverie, and he realized, with no small irritation, that he had lost the thread of conversation.

He could feel her sharp eyes upon him, waiting for some proof of his continued indifference to Elizabeth Bennet.

And he must give it to her. For if Miss Bingley had seen even a hint of his distraction, she would not rest until she had ferreted out its cause.

He forced himself to speak, though he barely knew what he assented to, and Miss Bingley smiled in triumph, her eyes glinting with satisfaction.

But as she turned away, seemingly content in the belief that she had drawn his attention back to more suitable concerns, he found himself again recalling Elizabeth’s gaze.

And, against all sense, he wondered if she was thinking of him as well .

Elizabeth had forgotten how truly ill Jane was, or perhaps, in her selfish joy, she had allowed herself to forget.

A small part of her felt guilty for it now, though she knew there was little she could have done to prevent it.

When at last Jane settled into sleep, Elizabeth resolved to return downstairs.

She tried to recall that first night—the way it had unfolded, the way she had stood in this very house before, oblivious to all that would come.

She remembered Caroline Bingley’s catty remarks, though now they seemed even sharper than she had once thought.

Bingley was Bingley, all warmth and kindness, as he inquired after Jane with genuine concern.

Elizabeth had thanked him then, and now, knowing all that lay ahead, she deliberately added, “Any person lucky enough to be in Jane’s presence would do no less.

” Perhaps another hint, another nudge, would help him see what was already in his heart.

She knew she was supposed to pick up a book, to play her part as she had before.

As she moved toward the table, her eyes skimmed over the volumes without seeing them, for the conversation had turned to Pemberley and its great library.

The mention of it sent a warmth over her, a memory best left untouched.

It was, after all, their second favorite room to enjoy each other in.

She ought not to think of such things in mixed company, and certainly not in this company—but oh, how she missed him.

This had been a mistake, to be so close and yet so far, to sit near a man she loved while knowing he had not yet grown into the one she would marry.

Georgiana! A pang of guilt struck her. She had been so caught up in missing Fitzwilliam and James that she had scarcely thought of Georgiana.

Her dear, sweet little sister—though not so little now.

She was to be married in August. Well, August of 1814.

She was leaving them, and Darcy had been so melancholy about it, though he was overjoyed that she too had found a love match.

The conversation carried on despite her reflections, and she forced herself to attend to it just as Mr. Darcy began listing the qualities of an accomplished woman.

He stumbled slightly over the words, and Elizabeth’s lips twitched despite herself.

He had told her later that he considered her among that number, despite her family, despite her wealth—or lack thereof.

The first time he had said it, she had taken it as an insult, but knowing him as she did now, she recognized the dry humor in his tone, the subtle tease in his words, the way he had led Miss Bingley into contradicting herself.

One moment she had agreed there were only six truly accomplished women in the world, the next she claimed to know many.

Elizabeth nearly laughed aloud at the memory, but she caught herself just in time.

Miss Bingley’s eyes were on Darcy, sharp with jealousy, and Elizabeth braced herself for whatever barb would come next. But before she could speak, Elizabeth glanced at Darcy. His gaze had drifted again, distant, thoughtful.

And, against all sense, she wondered if he was thinking of her as well.