My first thought was to make a run for it. Surely, I could bolt past her, pretend I’d seen some disaster in the street, and come back later.
Too late. She spotted me, and I felt my spine stiffen as if Ewan himself had just prodded it with that rusty Highland dirk he liked to poke me with.
“Mr. Darcy,” she greeted me, her voice filled with what I could only describe as cautious politeness. The kind one might use on a wounded animal that could still bite.
“Miss Bennet,” I managed, nodding stiffly. My brain scrambled for something more intelligent to say. Nothing came.
She regarded me curiously. Her eyes darted to the stack of books on the counter, then back to me. “You’re here for… a purchase?”
What else would I be doing there? “Unfortunately, what I came to purchase is unavailable.”
Her eyebrow lifted, and I could tell she was already suspicious. The woman could smell evasion like a hound on the hunt. But just as quickly, she brightened and turned to Mr. Stone. “My father asked me to collect the book he ordered last week. I trust it is here?”
Mr. Stone beamed and reached under the counter. “But of course, Miss Elizabeth. I sent the order express myself, and it arrived only this morning.”
I narrowed my eyes. So, Mr. Bennet got his order in a week, but I offer enough gold to gild the entire shop, and I must be kept waiting? Either my order was harder to obtain than I had imagined, or the shopkeepers in Meryton were starting to decline to do business with me. I wasn’t sure I wished to know which one it was.
Elizabeth thanked Mr. Stone for the book he handed to her, then turned back to me. “Are you in search of anything in particular, sir?”
I could practically hear Ewan’s mocking voice in the back of my head.Aye, tell her, lad. Tell her yer lookin’ for a book on how tae get rid o’ yer drunken, dead Scotsman.
I cleared my throat. “Just some reading material. Nothing... of importance.”
Elizabeth studied me for a moment, then glanced at the old bookseller, who was watching our exchange with all the subtlety of a hawk.
“You’ve been in Meryton much more frequently of late,” she observed, her tone casual, but her eyes sharp. “I thought you did not care for our town.”
She was not wrong, but I wasn’t about to confess that the only reason I was in Meryton was to avoid the fact that my current residence, Netherfield, was a haunted prison.
I glanced back at Mr. Stone, who had taken it upon himself to study the fine details of his bookshelves, giving us the illusion of privacy. “I’ve had business here,” I said. Technically, that was true. If by “business” I meant trying not to lose my mind.
Her gaze didn’t waver, and I could feel her assessing me as if she were looking for cracks in my façade. “You seem... troubled again today, Mr. Darcy.”
Was it that obvious? I thought I’d done a remarkable job hiding the fact that I was rapidly unraveling, but perhaps I’d overestimated my skill in masking madness.
“I assure you, Miss Bennet,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “I am quite well.”
That eyebrow of hers arched again. “Are you?”
No. Absolutely not. But I couldn’t say that, could I?
Before I could deflect any further, she glanced at the door and said, “Well, it seems we’re both headed in the same direction. Might I suggest we walk together?”
Walk?Together?She must be joking. I could hardly manage civil conversation with her in controlled situations, let alone on the open road, where my mind would undoubtedly betray me halfway through, and I’d be left muttering about ghosts. And Heaven only knew if Ewan would decide to make an appearance.
“I... suppose,” I said, hating how unsure I sounded.
To my increasing horror, Elizabeth smiled and stood poised as if she expected me to offer her my arm like a regular gentleman. Iusedto be a gentleman. Now… I wasn’t sure what one would call me.
I nodded stiffly and exited the shop, wondering if my legs would suddenly forget how to function properly. To my great relief, they worked. But walking alongside Elizabeth Bennet was no easy feat. I could feel her presence beside me, calm and curious, waiting for me to speak—likely expecting me to, at any moment, blurt out something unintelligible.
For a few blessed seconds, the only sound was the creaking of carriages up the street and distant voices. I might survive this—see her safely on the path to Longbourn, then escape to Netherfield without further incident.
Then she spoke.
“I must admit, Mr. Darcy,” she began, her tone measured, “you are a bit of a mystery.”
There it was. The probing. The gentle pressing for answers that she already half-suspected. I stared straight ahead, determined not to look at her.
