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" M iss Bennet?" A silken voice broke into her thoughts. Elizabeth turned to find herself addressed by a woman who was quite literally looking down her nose as she spoke. "We were introduced at the Plimpingtons’ masquerade, before all the . . . unpleasantness. I was in the Aphrodite mask.”

Her smile was reminiscent of Bullock’s crocodile, and Elizabeth fought to maintain her composure. It would not do to laugh. “Lady Yarrow,” she said.

The countess waved at her companions. “Mrs. Nott, Mrs. Fordham, this is Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth offered them all a shallow curtsy while Lady Yarrow’s gaze raked Elizabeth up and down.

“This must all be rather overwhelming for you, poor girl," she said at last.

The way she emphasized the word poor alerted Elizabeth to Lady Yarrow’s opinion of her engagement.

Mrs. Nott ran her eyes over Elizabeth's gown and minimal jewellery with barely concealed disdain.

"How delightfully simple you appear, Miss Bennet," she said, her voice honeyed with false admiration. "One so rarely sees such restraint in adornment these days. Is it the fashion in Hertfordshire to wear so little jewellery?"

“It must be, Mrs. Nott,” tittered Mrs. Fordham. “Lady Matlock would never allow it otherwise.”

Across the room, Mrs. Abernathy's worried gaze flickered between Elizabeth and the trio of fashionable ladies. Lady Matlock paused in her conversation, her attention drawn to the tableau unfolding in the corner.

Mr. Darcy was also watching the interaction, though he was pretending he was not. His eyes briefly flickered up to meet hers, and she read there that he would come to her aid if she wished it.

Something shifted inside her, like a key turning in a lock.

Elizabeth straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and met Mrs. Nott's gaze directly.

"I find excessive ornamentation often speaks more of insecurity than genuine elegance, Mrs. Nott.

" She was careful that her voice remained pleasant, carrying just far enough to be heard by those around them.

"But perhaps customs differ in London circles. "

Lady Yarrow's eyes widened fractionally, while Mrs. Nott's mouth formed a small “o” of surprise. But she recovered quickly. "How charmingly direct. And is your family with you, Miss Bennet?”

“No, I am visiting with the Abernathys.”

“I understand you have several sisters."

"Four," Elizabeth confirmed, waiting for the trap to spring.

"How delightful," purred Mrs. Fordham. "And all, no doubt, as eager to visit London as yourself. How fortuitous that you should have been the one to capture Mr. Darcy's attention."

"I am not sure what you mean, Mrs. Fordham,” Elizabeth replied although of course she did know. “Mr. Darcy and I met through the Abernathys."

"We did hear that you met in a moonlit garden," Lady Yarrow said with feigned innocence. "It is a romantic story, far more interesting that a proper introduction.”

Mrs. Fordham spoke over her friend. “Do you know, I cannot recall ever losing a slipper myself, even when dancing the most vigorous sets, let alone walking through a garden."

Elizabeth smiled. “How very fortunate you have been.”

Lady Yarrow’s smile was thin. She was growing frustrated, and Elizabeth congratulated herself for it.

"One wonders what Mr. Darcy's dear mother would think of her son's choice,” Lady Yarrow said heatedly. “Lady Anne was most particular about maintaining the family's connections."

"While I never had the honour of meeting Lady Anne," Elizabeth responded, "I understand from Mr. Darcy that his mother valued sincerity and deplored artifice. If he sees such qualities in me, who am I to gainsay him?"

Who indeed. Elizabeth knew she was arguing against her own interests, but she could not allow this harridan to get the better of her. It was not in her nature.

A flash of genuine anger crossed Lady Yarrow's face before she masked it. "How bold you are, Miss Bennet. I wonder if such outspokenness will serve you well as Mrs. Darcy."

"Far better, I should think, than the alternative," Elizabeth countered. "For what purpose does a wife serve if not to offer honest counsel? Unless, of course, one views marriage merely as a transaction of property and titles, in which case silence might indeed be preferable."

Mrs. Fordham's mouth dropped open for a moment before she snapped it shut. "Well! I see Mr. Darcy has found himself a veritable bluestocking. How unconventional."

"I prefer to think of it as practical," Elizabeth said sweetly. "After all, one cannot discuss literature or politics with one's accounts at the bank, however impressive they might be."

Lady Yarrow's eyes narrowed. "You speak as though you have already assumed the role of mistress of Pemberley, which I understand is not a foregone conclusion. You have a great deal of confidence for someone whose position is yet precarious."

This was not the insult Lady Yarrow intended it to be.

"It is not an overabundance of confidence, Lady Yarrow. It is merely an understanding that one’s worth is not measured by the length of one's pedigree or the size of one's fortune," Elizabeth said calmly.

"A principle I believe Mr. Darcy shares, despite what others might assume about his character. "

Lady Yarrow stared down her nose at Elizabeth, a new sort of calculation in her gaze. "You defend him with remarkable loyalty for a woman who has known him so briefly."

"I speak only what I have observed," Elizabeth replied. "Mr. Darcy values substance over superficiality. A rare quality, perhaps, but one I have come to appreciate most highly."

A moment of silence followed as the three women exchanged glances, their initial strategy of intimidation clearly failing.

"Well," Lady Yarrow said at last, her tone shifting to one of brittle civility, "how unusual you are, Miss Bennet, to speak with such conviction.

We must not monopolize you further. No doubt others wish to make your acquaintance.

" With a nod that managed to be both gracious and cutting, she led her companions away.

As they departed, Elizabeth felt a both exhilaration and disbelief at her own boldness.

She had not planned those responses; they had simply flowed from her, unaffected and unforced.

In defending Mr. Darcy, she realized she had spoken nothing but the truth.

He did seem to value substance over superficiality, and she had indeed come to appreciate that quality in him.

She looked up to find his gaze fixed upon her from across the room.

The relief in his eyes was unmistakable, but there was something else there too: warmth, even admiration.

For a moment, it seemed as though the crowded room had fallen away, leaving only that silent connection between them, a bridge of understanding that felt surprisingly, disconcertingly right.

"Well done," murmured Lady Matlock, who had materialized at her side. "I begin to understand my nephew's fascination."

Elizabeth had scarcely recovered from that approving statement when Arabella strode over, slipping her arm through Elizabeth's with a conspiratorial smile.

"I saw you vanquish that dreadful trio," Arabella murmured. "Mother is positively glowing with pride.”

"I fear I may have been too forthright," Elizabeth admitted, though she could not entirely suppress the satisfaction she felt at having held her ground.

"Nonsense. They deserved every exquisite barb you delivered." Arabella's smile turned wicked. "Oh dear,” she said, not sounding in the least apprehensive. “Approaching from the left. It is Mrs. White and her formidable entourage. Steady yourself, Lizzy."

Mrs. White was a portly woman with an unfortunate tendency to lean uncomfortably close when speaking.

"Miss Bennet, I have been most curious to meet you.

Lady Worcester says that you are a veritable scholar of artistic style.

Tell me, what is your opinion of the Italian masters?

Surely you must have thoughts on Caravaggio's use of chiaroscuro? "

Elizabeth found herself genuinely interested in the question. "I find Caravaggio’s dramatic contrasts compelling, though I confess I prefer the subtlety of Vermeer's treatment of light." She waited for Mrs. White to offer her own opinion.

"Vermeer!" Mrs. White exclaimed, as though Elizabeth had named a circus artist. "How . . . provincial."

Before Elizabeth could respond, and certainly before Mrs. White had defended her opinion, or indeed even stated it, she and her friends moved on, having gained the opportunity that they sought—to deride her taste.

She knew there would have been no avoiding it, for had she said she preferred the strong, focused light favoured by Caravaggio, Mrs. White would still have affected dismay.

Arabella rolled her eyes where no one but Elizabeth could see, and then they moved towards a display of watercolours. After a few minutes, they were intercepted by Mrs. Nott, who had separated herself from Lady Yarrow and was now accompanied by a thin, sharp-featured woman Elizabeth had not met.

"Mrs. Smith,” Mrs. Nott said, “may I introduce Miss Abernathy and Miss Bennet?”

Once the niceties had been completed and not a second later, Mrs. Smith blinked languidly and addressed them. “I understand you hail from Hertfordshire, Miss Bennet. My late husband had property in that dreadful county. However did you manage to catch Mr. Darcy's attention in such a wilderness?"

There was a royal residence in Hertfordshire, and everyone in London seemed to know that she and Mr. Darcy had met here in town. There was really no point in correcting the woman. "Perhaps," Elizabeth replied mildly, "Mr. Darcy finds the wilderness refreshing after too much civilization."

Mrs. Smith’s laugh was like breaking glass. "How droll you are, Miss Bennet."

“You may not recall, Mrs. Nott,” Arabella said, a dangerous edge to her otherwise composed words, “that my family spent many years in Hertfordshire and found it most congenial.”

Mrs. Nott grimaced, then linked arms with Mrs. Smith and took her leave.

"So, you are the famous Miss Bennet," someone declared from behind her.

Elizabeth turned, ready to defend herself yet again, only to face an elderly woman with kind eyes and an amused expression.

"Forgive me, we have not been introduced. I am Mrs. Thorn, and I knew your Mr. Darcy's mother.” She tipped her head a little to one side as she assessed Elizabeth. “Anne would have liked you, I think. You have both her directness and a similarly disciplined temper."

This was the first genuinely sympathetic comment Elizabeth had received all afternoon. "You are very kind to say so, Mrs. Thorn."

"Kindness has nothing to do with it, child. I simply recognize quality when I see it." She patted Elizabeth's arm. "Pay no mind to these peacocks. They will come around once they realize you are not going anywhere."

With that encouraging word, Mrs. Thorn moved on, leaving Elizabeth feeling slightly reassured about her prospects in London society.

She followed Arabella’s eyes across the room to where Mr. Darcy indeed stood watching them, his expression one she was beginning to recognize as pride. Not in himself. In her.

How very inconvenient.

As she was distracted by the man who was at the root of her problems, Mrs. White and the other ladies swept by grandly, as though they considered themselves royalty. Behind them were a few younger ladies, not much older than she and Arabella.

“Those are Mrs. White’s daughters,” Arabella whispered in Elizabeth’s ear.

One of the young ladies stepped too closely to her sister, causing the other to knock her hip into a narrow pedestal bearing a small bronze sculpture as they walked past.

The pedestal wobbled precariously.

Elizabeth lunged forward, arm outstretched, but another figure reached it a heartbeat faster.

Mr. Darcy.

Their hands collided at the base of the sculpture, her hands over his, steadying the piece just in time. They remained like that for several seconds, faces too near to one another for either comfort or propriety.

“Miss Sophia, this is not a ballroom,” Lady Matlock said somewhat caustically from across the room. “Do take care.”

Elizabeth swallowed and attempted to ignore the fact that her hands were still touching his. “Are art rescues your usual method of courtship, Mr. Darcy?”

Mr. Darcy looked at her sidelong, his voice low and perfectly dry. “Only when the art is in imminent danger, Miss Bennet.”

She slowly withdrew.

Arabella picked up the little card with the description of the bronze from where it had fallen to the floor.

“Shared Symmetry,” she read aloud, and placed it back in its place, smiling rather wickedly at them both.

"The Greeks had a charming word for when art mirrors what unfolds before us. What was it again, Lizzy?”

“Mimesis,” Elizabeth muttered. “As you well know.”

"Yes, that is it," Arabella replied with a knowing smile. "Oh, I believe Colonel Fitzwilliam is desirous of my company. If you will pardon me?"

As Arabella departed, Mr. Darcy took a breath. "Would you care to view the larger sculptures in the Blue Room with me, Miss Bennet?"

Elizabeth nodded, resigned. “Indeed I would, Mr. Darcy.”