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E lizabeth Bennet was not a woman prone to nerves.

She had, after all, survived her father’s sharp wit, her mother’s anxious enthusiasms, and more than one assembly in Hertfordshire where her sister Lydia’s dog had more manners than half the gentlemen in attendance.

But as she stood in the Abernathys’ drawing room, surrounded by a sea of politely interested faces, she felt an unmistakable twinge of dread when confronted with the towering presence of Mr. Darcy, who was striding directly towards her.

He had no business looking as composed as he did. His coat was perfectly tailored, his hair neatly combed, and his eyes held something dangerously close to determination. That would not do.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, bowing with the precision of a man more used to giving orders than receiving them.

“Mr. Darcy,” she replied, executing her curtsy with the crispness of a soldier reporting for duty. “How good of you to come.”

“As we are engaged, I believe it is expected.”

“Yes,” she said sweetly. “As is enduring it with good humour. Shall we begin?”

He seemed momentarily discomposed by her answer.

Still, he offered his arm, which she took with all the grace she could muster, though she did entertain the fleeting fancy of dragging her heels.

She had promised the Abernathys she would give Mr. Darcy a chance, but that could also include a chance to withdraw, could it not?

The sooner the better, really. It would be kinder for them both.

The dining room was elegant and pleasantly warm. The assembled company—four couples of Abernathy-adjacent respectability—glanced at them with keen interest. Mrs. Abernathy gave her a slight nod of approval.

Mr. Darcy took the seat beside her and had the gall to look pleased about it. She had not expected him to be such an accomplished actor.

The footmen moved silently, placing steaming bowls of soup before the guests as the scent of leeks and herbs drifted through the air. Silver gleamed under candlelight, and crystal glasses clinked as wine was poured and murmured thanks exchanged.

Across the table, Lady Maria leaned forward. “The toll road from Bath was nearly impassable,” she declared, her pearls trembling with the effort. “We nearly lost a wheel just beyond Devizes. I was certain we should end up in a ditch.”

“You would think,” Sir Howard said emphatically, “that with all the money it costs to traverse them they would keep the roads in better order.”

“How dreadful,” murmured Mrs. Langford, dabbing delicately at her mouth with a napkin.

“Even a terrible road is far better than that ghastly new bonnet Lady Wiltshire wore to Lady Honoria’s musical soiree,” Mrs. Framingham said with a titter. “Did you see it? Coquelicot with peacock feathers.”

“What shade is coquelicot again?” Mr. Framingham inquired.

“Peacock feathers in January,” Mr. Langford said with a sniff. “Bold. Or blind.”

Laughter rippled around the table, light and brittle.

Elizabeth sipped her wine and listened, unsure of why peacock feathers were considered seasonal apparel, but offering every sign of rapt interest. Mr. Darcy offered a polite smile, his posture immaculate, his gaze attentive but not animated.

He inclined his head at the appropriate intervals, offered a dry “Indeed” when prompted, and agreed that the road from Bath had long required repair.

His voice was low and even, and not a single line of amusement reached his eyes.

Elizabeth watched him from beneath lowered lashes.

Mr. Darcy was performing perfectly, but there was not one flicker of true enjoyment in his replies.

He was executing the dance of dinner conversation with precision, each step exact but lacking any music.

If these were the tools he intended to use to win her regard, he would have better luck impressing a statue.

Which, she supposed, was rather the point. They were already engaged. He must feel he had no reason to win her regard. But if he believed she would slide silently into a marriage with him as though she wished nothing more than to be his wife, he was absolutely wrong.

She allowed herself the smallest smile and waited for an opening.

Her opportunity arrived with Mrs. Grayson’s affected sigh. “I do wish this season would bring more cheerful tidings. One grows weary of news from the Peninsula. It is always so terribly unpleasant.”

A better opening she could not have devised herself.

Elizabeth set her spoon down. “Unpleasant, perhaps, but also rather important, do you not think?” She kept her tone light, almost conversational, speaking as though she were home, conversing with her father.

“Marshal Masséna’s advance on Lisbon was no minor skirmish.

His army pushed as far as the Lines of Torres Vedras before Lord Wellington forced a retreat, and the entire countryside between Coimbra and Santarém suffered for it.

They say the French lived off the land, and the Portuguese burned their own homes to starve them.

” She paused before adding, “Is it not the least we can do, to speak of and honour their courage while we sit safely here at home?”

The effect was immediate. Conversations faltered. Mr. Langford’s fork froze in midair, and Mrs. Grayson looked as though Elizabeth had just recited the contents of a field surgeon’s diary. Arabella, who was seated across the table, pressed her lips together with what Elizabeth knew was amusement.

Only Mr. Darcy turned towards her, eyes sharpening, the stiffness in his shoulders giving way to something far more alert.

Elizabeth took a measured sip of wine, allowing herself the smallest of smiles. He certainly disapproved.

Mrs. Abernathy pursed her lips and lifted her brows, as if to ask Elizabeth what she was about.

Lady Maria, seated opposite, blanched and blinked as though Elizabeth had said something quite indecent. “My dear Miss Bennet,” she said, laughing tightly, “surely such grim matters are best left to the gentlemen over brandy?”

Elizabeth smiled pleasantly. “Oh, I do beg your pardon, everyone.”

The conversation returned to other, less weighty subjects. Once everyone was distracted with their own discussions, Elizabeth leaned closer to Mr. Darcy.

“I believe such matters are of vital importance to England. Would you not agree, sir?”

His expression had flattened again. “I would, indeed.”

Encouraged by his countenance if not the words, Elizabeth pressed on.

“And yet no one seems to speak of Masséna’s retreat from the Lines of Torres Vedras.

It seems the Portuguese terrain did more to repel the French than our men did.

” She did not believe it, but she expected Mr. Darcy to agree with her anyway. Men rarely took her seriously.

Mr. Darcy’s eyes glittered almost dangerously. “The terrain was masterfully employed. Wellington’s fortification of the lines was a feat of both engineering and foresight.”

Elizabeth blinked. That was just what she thought. “You follow the campaign closely?”

“My cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam served for a time under Lord Wellington. His letters were rather vivid, though he often spent more time describing the food and wine. He is attached to Whitehall now.”

“You must be relieved.”

“I am, though there is always the chance he may be sent back. You seem well-versed in military matters,” Mr. Darcy said, his tone a touch more curious than condescending. “May I ask why?”

“Why not?”

His brows pinched together. “Are you saying that you have given permission for me to ask the question or that gentlewomen should study warfare?”

She supposed her flippant question had been a little unclear.

“At home I must either immerse myself in fashion and feminine accomplishments with my mother or study more consequential matters with my father. And learning about battle strategies can be rather useful when dealing with my youngest two sisters.” She gazed straight into his eyes. “I have four. All unwed.”

Elizabeth had hoped he would react with alarm, or caution, at least. Four unwed sisters would be a burden to him if they were to marry.

Instead, his eyes held hers and he was entirely still for a long moment—until one corner of his mouth turned up. “Your study of military matters is a practical one, then?”

“Clearly,” she replied. “In terms of my youngest sisters, at any rate. My eldest sister Jane is the sweetest woman I have ever met.”

“Not like you, then.”

Elizabeth glared disbelievingly at him, then looked away.

To his credit, Mr. Darcy appeared to understand what he had said only a moment after the words had left his lips. He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. “Miss Bennet, I—"

She swivelled back to him rather sharply, wondering indignantly how he would attempt to dig himself out of this hole, but she moved so suddenly that the footman, who had only just stepped forward to fill Mr. Darcy’s wineglass, startled.

A splash of wine arced through the air and landed, with tragic precision, directly on the front of Mr. Darcy’s trousers.

Mr. Darcy looked down, then back at her with an expression of shock so profound it would have been comedic had it not been for the very real predicament Mr. Darcy now found himself in.

He had a napkin on his lap, of course, but somehow the wine had entirely missed it. Mr. Darcy surreptitiously moved the cloth up to cover the stain and perhaps sop up some of the excess.

Elizabeth stifled the laugh that was fighting to escape and glanced around them. Everyone else was eating or conversing. Probably ignoring her on principle after her remarks about the war. Only the three of them seemed to have noticed the accident.

“It is all right, Simms,” Elizabeth said very quietly to the footman, who stood frozen in horror. “Do not tarry.”

Simms immediately moved on to the next guest.

Mr. Darcy leaned towards her, voice low and seething. “Do you know what this will look like?”