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As they continued their stroll, the colonel regaled them with tales of military misadventures, his animated expressions and lively delivery drawing genuine laughter from both ladies.

Elizabeth participated enthusiastically in the conversation, asking questions and offering witty observations, all while maintaining a pointed distance from Mr. Darcy.

She could not puzzle him out.

For his part, Mr. Darcy had retreated into stoic silence, responding to direct questions with courtesy but otherwise keeping his thoughts to himself.

Occasionally, Elizabeth would think she felt his gaze upon her face, but whenever she glanced his way, he was invariably looking elsewhere—at the path, the water, the distant trees, anywhere but at her.

After they had walked the path along the Serpentine, Arabella suggested they rest for a moment on a bench. Colonel Fitzwilliam immediately offered to procure refreshments from a man selling roasted chestnuts across the way, and Mr. Darcy, after a moment's hesitation, volunteered to accompany him.

As soon as the gentlemen were out of earshot, Arabella turned to Elizabeth with bright eyes. "Well? What do you think of Colonel Fitzwilliam? Is he not the most amiable man?"

"He is indeed," Elizabeth agreed, genuinely pleased for her friend. "And he seems quite taken with you."

Arabella blushed prettily. "Do you recall the letter I sent you about the man I met last season?”

She did, but Arabella had not mentioned him by name and had soon stopped mentioning him at all.

“That was the colonel. We met last season and even danced, but he was required to leave suddenly to tend his duties. Do you truly like him? I find him very charming, so well-spoken, nothing at all like . . ." She stopped herself abruptly.

"Nothing at all like his cousin," Elizabeth finished for her. "You need not tread lightly on my account, Arabella. The contrast is rather difficult to miss. And I give you leave to like him. You seem rather well suited."

"I think so." Arabella said quietly. "But Mr. Darcy is not without his merits. My father speaks highly of him.”

"I am sure Mr. Darcy is an exemplary man," Elizabeth replied with a little sigh. "One can only hope he does not inform all his friends when they appear sickly."

Arabella's lips twitched. "What exactly did he say to you? You seemed rather irritated when we caught up to you."

Elizabeth recounted the exchange with as much objectivity as she could muster, though she could not prevent her voice from rising in indignation as she repeated his assessment of her complexion.

By the end, Arabella was pressing her handkerchief to her mouth to stifle her laughter. "Oh, Elizabeth, he meant it as a compliment! He was trying to say you look beautiful."

"Then he should perhaps consider employing a translator," Elizabeth said tartly. "For he speaks a language entirely unknown to me."

"He is awkward, I grant you, but not unkind," Arabella insisted. "I believe he genuinely admires you."

Elizabeth snorted. "Such praise would turn any lady's head." She paused. “It is no more than I deserve after what happened at your parents’ dinner party, I suppose, but I did that to help him, as you know.”

Before Arabella could respond, the gentlemen returned, bearing paper cones filled with roasted chestnuts, their warm, nutty aroma filling the air.

"For the ladies," he said, presenting one to Arabella with a flourish. "A humble offering, but the man assured me they are of the finest quality. And they are warm.”

"How thoughtful," Arabella said, accepting the offering and wrapping her hands around the cone. "Thank you, Colonel."

Mr. Darcy held out a cone for her, and Elizabeth murmured her thanks. Their fingers brushed briefly during the exchange, and she was irritated to find herself responding to the touch of his hand even through their gloves.

"We were just discussing the merits of town versus country life," Arabella said, smoothly guiding the conversation back to safer waters. "Colonel Fitzwilliam, where do your preferences lie?"

"I am a soldier," he replied with an easy smile. "Home is wherever I happen to be at the moment. Though I must say, London has never looked finer than it does today."

His gaze lingered on Arabella as he spoke, and she lowered her eyes, a becoming blush spreading across her cheeks.

Elizabeth observed their interaction with a mixture of pleasure for her friend and a strange, unwelcome pang that felt uncomfortably like envy.

Not that she desired the colonel's attention. He was charming, to be sure, but in a manner that suggested he deployed his charm rather relentlessly. No, what she envied was the ease between them, the unforced nature of their conversation, the ability to simply enjoy one another’s company without being bound to one another for life before they knew whether that was what they desired.

"Miss Bennet," Mr. Darcy said suddenly, drawing her attention back to him. "I fear I expressed myself poorly earlier. When I spoke of your appearance, I meant only to—"

"Please, Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth interrupted, "let us not revisit the subject. I am quite recovered from the shock of learning I was once so pallid as to cause you concern."

Colonel Fitzwilliam choked on a chestnut. Mr. Darcy's jaw tightened. "You deliberately misinterpret me."

"On the contrary," Elizabeth replied with sweet venom, "I believe I understood you perfectly. You were attempting, in your own inimitable way, to pay me a compliment. The effort is noted, sir."

For a moment, something like frustration, even hurt flashed in Mr. Darcy's eyes, so quickly that Elizabeth thought she might have imagined it. Then his countenance transformed into the impenetrable mask she was accustomed to. It was akin to watching the closing of a shutter as it blocked the light.

"As you say," he replied stiffly.

Elizabeth did not understand why she felt a pang of guilt. It would hurt to have him confirm his evaluation, no matter how well everyone else said he thought of her. Oh, he had not insulted her intentionally, but to learn his true assessment of her appearance had been unaccountably disappointing.

But why was she disappointed? She did not want to marry him, so what did it matter if he was unaffected by her beauty?

An uncomfortable silence fell over the group.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, demonstrating the social adroitness his cousin so conspicuously lacked, promptly launched into an anecdote about a ball in Madrid where the British ambassador had accidentally insulted the Spanish minister's wife by complimenting her gown, which, it transpired, had been borrowed from her least favourite sister-in-law.

By the time he finished the tale, even Mr. Darcy's rigid posture had relaxed somewhat, though he still maintained a careful distance from Elizabeth.

As they prepared to continue their walk, Elizabeth found herself studying Mr. Darcy's profile when he was not looking.

There was something almost tragic about his complete inability to express himself appropriately.

She wondered, not for the first time, why he had agreed to this engagement at all.

Surely a man of his position and fortune could have avoided a forced match with her and married some elegant, accomplished lady who would overlook his social deficiencies in favour of his other, more tangible assets.

As they reached the park gates, Colonel Fitzwilliam suggested they call for the carriage. He offered Arabella his arm, and she took it. As they strolled ahead, Mr. Darcy hung back, clearly intending to have a final word with Elizabeth.

She braced herself for another awkward attempt at conversation, but instead, he simply said, "I apologise, Miss Bennet."

Elizabeth blinked in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

"For offending you," he clarified, his voice low and controlled. "I assure you it was not my intention."

The simple sincerity of the apology caught her off guard. "I was a little sharp in return. I thank you, Mr. Darcy, for the apology, so long as you accept my own."

He nodded once, then offered his arm to escort her to the waiting carriage.

As she placed her hand upon his sleeve, Elizabeth found herself wondering if perhaps she was being too judgemental with him.

Rather than picking holes in his coat, as it were, she ought to be attempting to find something, anything, that might help them avoid marrying where he so obviously did not wish it.

Either way, she was quite certain of one thing as she observed his rigid posture and blank expression: Mr. Darcy did not like her, not really. He might be resigned to marrying her, might even make awkward attempts at civility, but genuine regard? That was clearly not what he felt for her.

The thought should have relieved her. Instead, as she settled into the carriage Elizabeth was surprised to find it troubled her more than it ought.