Chapter One
Elizabeth Bennet was a rational woman. She read contracts before signing them, checked reviews before trying a new restaurant, and always carried an umbrella in her bag just in case. Rational. Sensible. Balanced.
At least, she had been—until she fell for William Darcy.
Now she was sitting cross-legged on her sofa, three weeks before Christmas, hunched over a half-finished scarf that looked less like a romantic gesture and more like something an elderly cat might cough up.
Her phone buzzed. Darcy’s name lit the screen.
She tucked away the knitting and hit video. There he was, tall, dark, and impossible not to ogle in his suit and tie.
“I’ve got one minute before a meeting,” he said, a little breathless. “But I was just thinking. If the killer knows the dog loves rain, he wouldn’t pick the park. He’d want to avoid the dog.”
Her mind clicked into gear. “So, he stages it indoors. Bedroom or study.”
“Motivation?” he asked.
“Insurance."
“Perfect.”
They shared a quick smile, and then he ended the call to meet his client. Elizabeth jotted notes, not for the book limping toward the finish line, but for the next one that was nipping at its heels. The current draft had stalled at the very end. Nothing she wrote was right, and she was still trying to work out why.
She picked up the scarf. The yarn was a beautiful, moody blue-grey, chosen because it reminded her of his beautiful eyes. She’d spent an hour in John Lewis, running different skeins through her fingers like a textile sommelier, holding up colour after colour to the light, muttering about whether midnight blue was too dramatic or if charcoal grey suggested she thought he was boring.
Unfortunately, her execution was proving to be a bit of a disaster. The whole thing leaned left, as though it were trying to sneak off the needles. What should have been a neat rectangle was beginning to resemble a wonky trapezoid.
Ah, well. Too late to change course now.
Across the room, Waffles sprawled belly-up on his dog bed, snoring so loudly it rattled the picture frames. Every now and then his legs jerked in dream-chasing triumph, likely pursuing the postman through some magnificent canine fantasy. Elizabeth held the scarf up.
“What do you think?” she asked him.
One golden retriever eye cracked open. Then he gave a whine, a gusty sigh, and rolled over with his back to her.
“Right, brilliant. Even the dog’s a critic,” Elizabeth muttered, bringing the knitting needles together with a vicious clack.
Three months, or rather a little more. That’s how long she and Darcy had been officially dating. Just long enough for everything to feel thrilling and terrifying all at once. Just short enough that every little milestone likemeeting friends, holding hands in public, and kissing goodnight on her doorstep still had her heart tripping over itself like a drunk in heels.
And now Christmas. Their first Christmas together. The one that would either cement them as a proper couple or reveal them as two people who’d been caught up in a brief autumn romance.
She could still remember the exact moment she’d fallen for him. It had been at Jane and Charles’s party back in early September. Elizabeth had been standing in their pristine kitchen, nursing a glass of prosecco and listening to some tedious bloke from Charles’s work drone on about cryptocurrency, when Darcy had appeared at her elbow.
“Rescue mission?” he’d murmured, barely loud enough for her to hear.
She’d turned, expecting to find Charles or maybe one of Jane’s university friends, but instead found herself looking up into the most gorgeous eyes she’d ever seen. The man attached to them was tall, dressed in a fitted navy jumper that probably cost more than her monthly rent.
“I’m sorry?” she’d managed, her brain still catching up.
“You look like you’re plotting either an escape route or a murder,” he’d said, the corner of his mouth quirking up in what might generously be called a smile. “I’m happy to provide either alibi or accomplice services, depending on your preference.”
He could not have issued an invitation more appealing to her, and that had been it.Game over.Elizabeth Bennet, a mystery author who’d spent the first half of her twenties swearing off posh boys with trust funds and good jawlines, had been completely and utterly gone.
And hewasposh. He still went by his last name, some weird relic of public school.
Her phone buzzed beside her, flashing a text from Jane.
He’ll love it. Stop stressing.
