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D arcy had always prided himself on avoiding scandal. He had mastered the art of strategy—measured words, deliberate choices, and unwavering propriety.

And yet, here he stood, alone in the garden with an unchaperoned young lady, her incriminating slipper in his hand.

He had noticed her at once when Abernathy had introduced them.

It had been impossible not to. In a sea of glittering Aphrodites, Miss Bennet had chosen the mask of Athena, a goddess more dignified than seductive.

No, Athena was intelligent and independent.

An unusual choice for a Twelfth Night ball.

She drew his attention more than he liked, and trying to determine why, he told himself, was the reason he had been watching her.

Casually, intermittently. Simply to be sure she was safe, as Abernathy had mentioned it was her first ball.

And that was how he came to see Miss Bennet lingering behind her party and then being swept through the side doors into the garden, with Ellington close behind.

Lord Ellington and his companions had already vanished back into the house, eager to spread their tale.

Darcy knew full well that by the time he and Miss Bennet re-entered, half the ballroom would believe he had seduced her beneath the stars, stolen a secret tryst in the shadows, or even, if the whispers grew particularly inventive, been caught in the midst of some disgrace.

A gentlewoman did not remove her shoes in the presence of a gentleman, and he certainly should not have been holding such an intimate article.

Even at a ball such as this, where indiscretions were allowed, even encouraged, his own reputation for not dallying with ladies and Miss Bennet’s status as a maiden would make such a rumour too delicious to resist.

The actual truth, that he had been trying to assist a maiden in avoiding Ellington and leading her back to her friends, and that he had stumbled across her abandoned slipper in the performance of that duty, was neither dramatic nor entertaining enough for society’s purposes.

“Give me my shoe.”

The voice was sharp, edged with impatience.

He looked up. Miss Bennet had removed her mask, and he noticed that she had a very pretty face to go along with her light, pleasing figure.

He swallowed.

Miss Bennet stood before him with her hand outstretched, fingers flexing slightly like a woman debating whether she ought to wait to be handed her slipper or rip it from his hand.

He considered for a moment, then glanced deliberately down at the shoe. “It is rather damp.”

“That will happen when silk is left in the grass.”

He lifted a brow. “But the path is gravel.”

“It flew off my foot into the grass, Mr. Darcy. I was moving rather quickly, and the grass is inches away.”

“And there you left it.”

“Yes, I believe we can presume so much. And also that you picked it up,” she countered.

Darcy huffed a quiet breath that might have been amusement, though how he could find anything humorous in their predicament was beyond him. This unusual conversation had temporarily distracted him. He held out the slipper.

Miss Bennet snatched it from his grasp and slipped it on with brisk efficiency. “There. A truly momentous occasion. We have restored order to England.”

He stifled a surprised laugh.

She straightened. “And now, if you will do me the courtesy of sending the Abernathys to the front of the house, I shall await them there. I see no reason to return inside.”

“No.”

Miss Bennet blinked. “No?”

“No,” he repeated.

She folded her arms. “You are neither my father nor my guardian. I do not have to obey you.”

“Nevertheless, I cannot allow it, Miss Bennet.”

“Allow it? Shall I request permission to breathe next?”

He did not dignify her pique with a response. “If you remain outside, it will only make matters worse.”

“For whom? I have no great reputation in town to guard.”

He glanced at the house. “Neither do I, now. That is rather the point.”

She gave a small, unamused laugh. “Then I see no problem.”

Her response was not what he had expected.

“It is a Twelfth Night ball,” he said, keeping his voice even. “It is possible no one will care.”

Miss Bennet considered this. “Do you believe that?”

Darcy hesitated. “You are a maiden. I believe it is unlikely.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Unlikely?”

He exhaled, adjusting his stance. “Yes. Lord Ellington and his obsequious idiots are rather adept at spinning a tale. If you do not return to the ballroom and show by your appearance that you have not been ravished, the speculation will only grow worse.”

“I fail to see how,” she said coolly.

“If you remain absent,” he explained, “the gossips will create and disseminate the most scandalous version of events. A young woman disappearing into the garden, only to be followed by a gentleman, and then not returning at all? If you do not reappear, they will assume the worst—that you are no longer fit to be seen. If we enter together looking precisely as we did when we stepped out, it will at least take a bit of the heat out of any slander they may have invented.”

Miss Bennet’s lips parted slightly, her brows drawing together as the weight of his words settled. “So, you would have me stroll back into the ballroom on your arm and pretend nothing has happened?”

“That is precisely what I would have you do.”

She studied him. “And if I refuse?”

His mouth tightened. “Then you will endure weeks or even months of sordid speculation.”

She let out a slow breath, eyes flickering towards the house. “And you will escape any recrimination at all.”

“I will undoubtedly suffer less, but my reputation will still be tarnished.”

Miss Bennet crossed her arms over her chest. “I do not care what they say of me.”

Darcy almost smiled. He could not understand why her stubbornness pleased him.

“Perhaps not,” he allowed. “But I do not imagine you wish to endure the consequences of their talk. It might be well enough for you, but we must think of the Abernathys and your own family. Do you have any sisters still at home, Miss Bennet?”

She did not respond, but the quick press of her lips suggested he had struck his mark.

He lifted a brow. “Shall I escort you inside?”

Her glare could have felled a lesser man.

Luckily for her, he was not a lesser man.

“Very well,” she muttered at last. “But if anyone so much as raises an eyebrow, I will inform them that you lured me outside with poetic declarations and a promise to elope.”

His dry amusement flickered. “That should do wonders for our reputations.”

She sighed, adjusting her gloves with unnecessary force. “If they are hopelessly damaged anyway, I might as well enjoy it.” She shot him a resigned glance. “At least the story would be romantic.”

What a peculiar thing to say. He glanced at her. “Would it?”

She studied him for a long moment, then sighed. “Very well. I shall return with you. But I fully expect to regret it.”

Despite Lord Ellington’s accusation, Darcy was an honest man. He could do nothing but tell her the truth. “You probably will.”

She tipped her head to one side as she assessed him for a moment before securing her mask in place and stepping forward.

He offered her his arm, and she took it.

They strode to the threshold of the ballroom, but neither of them moved forward. The doorway yawned before them, the light of hundreds of candles spilling over the polished floor, the swell of voices rising and falling like the tide.

Darcy felt Miss Bennet’s fingers tighten ever so slightly on his arm, and though she wore her Athena’s mask with confidence, there was no mistaking the tension in the way she held herself, as though bracing for impact.

He understood.

She was proud. She would enter the ballroom with her chin high and behave as though she was entirely untroubled, even though she already knew they would become a spectacle the moment they stepped inside. Titters and leers would greet them. Eyes and whispers would follow.

Darcy glanced down at the slight woman at his side, taking in the determined lift of her chin, the flicker of apprehension in her gaze before she forced it away.

He had seen the same look before, typically on gentlemen at the gaming table when the stakes were high and ruin imminent.

But they had been to blame for their own misfortune.

Miss Bennet, in attempting to avoid ruin, had stumbled into it.

Even he owned more fault than she for their predicament, for had he returned her shoe to her at once rather than using it to instigate a conversation, they might have avoided the worst of Lord Ellington’s insinuations.

“Courage, Miss Bennet.”

She turned her head, her dark eyes meeting his.

There was a question there. A flicker of doubt.

But then, quite suddenly, her mouth curved, just a little, just enough to turn her wariness into something else.

Darcy recognised it for what it was—defiance.

He inclined his head in the barest fraction of approval, then turned forward once more.

Together, they stepped into the ballroom.

The crowd was like a shifting sea of colour and motion.

Candlelight reflected off silks and satins, the flickering light twisting masked figures into something almost otherworldly.

Laughter and music swelled together, rising to the gilded ceiling, but beneath the revelry lay something darker.

It was the unmistakable hum of gossip, slipping through the air like a draft through the space between a window and its frame.

The masks made it all worse. There was no way to tell friend from foe, no way to know whose whispering lips were shaping a scandal and whose were employed in their defence. Fans lifted as he and Miss Bennet passed, concealing knowing smiles, heads bent together in swift, eager exchanges.