“Excellent,” Bingley said. “Perhaps Darcy and I should take notes. You seem to have the knack for these things.”
Darcy allowed himself the barest tilt of an eyebrow at the comment. His gaze shifted to Elizabeth at the tea tray, her focus fixed on the task as though she were conducting a delicate experiment. She poured with precision, never glancing up, but the tightness in her shoulders gave her away.
Miss Bennet’s subtle maneuvering wasn’t lost on him. It struck him, not for the first time, that while Elizabeth’s wit was razor-sharp, her sister’s quieter approach could be just as effective—and often, more disarming.
Darcy’s gaze snapped back to Elizabeth as she stepped back from the tea tray, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “Mama, I am afraid I must excuse myself,” she said, her voice low but firm. “I have a headache.”
“A headache?” Mrs. Bennet cried. “But Lizzy, Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam—”
“I beg you will excuse me, Mama. I really am feeling quite unwell,” Elizabeth said, cutting her off. She glanced once at her elder sister before she started toward the door.
Darcy watched her retreat, unease settling deep in his chest. Elizabeth Bennet, usually so sharp and vibrant, had been distant all evening. The change was undeniable, and it left him searching for answers.
Across the room, Fitzwilliam met his gaze with a subtle but pointed nod, as if urging him to persevere. Bingley, lingering nearby, caught Darcy’s eye and gave a fleeting smile before returning to Miss Bennet’s side, his posture unusually attentive.
But it was Mr. Bennet who held his attention. The older man was watching him with quiet amusement, his sharp gaze seeming to take the measure of him. Darcy forced a polite smile and moved closer, attempting to engage him in conversation about the party preparations. That was all he could manage tonight.
“Mary, youmustwear the pink sash!” Lydia declared. “It is festive. It is charming. It is… the only thing that will make you look tolerable at the party.”
Elizabeth, seated by the window, kept her gaze on the embroidery in her lap, though her needle hovered motionless above the cloth. She wasn’t stitching daisies anymore—she was simply stabbing at the same spot over and over.
“I shall not degrade myself with frivolity,” Mary retorted, straightening with an air of self-righteousness. “Or did you forget the very point of this party? A sensible gown and a modest demeanor will suffice.”
“You’ll look like a governess!” Lydia groaned, flopping onto the floor beside Kitty, who burst into giggles.
Elizabeth’s lips twitched despite herself, but her amusement faded as quickly as it had come. Her sisters’ chatter about the party only deepened the knot in her chest. Every mention of Netherfield, every speculation about its hosts, brought the evening’s dinner to the forefront of her mind. And with it, a pair of dark, questioning eyes.
“Lizzy, do you not agree?” Kitty asked, glancing up from her pile of ribbons. “Mary must at least try to look agreeable. What do you think?”
Elizabeth blinked, dragged from her thoughts. “I think,” she said slowly, “that Mary has every right to wear what pleases her.”
“Oh, bother, youwouldsay that,” Lydia huffed, tossing a ribbon over her shoulder. “You are no fun at all today.”
Elizabeth’s smile was tight. “Am I not?”
“No, you are not,” Lydia declared. “You sit there poking holes in that poor daisy as if it has personally offended you. Whatever is the matter, Lizzy? Are you still sulking over the weather?”
Kitty chimed in with a mischievous grin. “Or perhaps it is something—or someone—else?”
Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed, but her expression did not falter. “You are imagining things, Kitty.”
“Oh, she’s definitely imagining things,” Lydia said with a knowing smirk. “And so are we all, but la, it is all true, is it not? Tell me, Lizzy, what does Mr. Darcy think of daisies?”
The room burst into laughter, and Elizabeth, unwilling to grant her sisters the satisfaction of a reaction, kept on sewing… or pretending to, at least.
Mary gave them both a glare before turning her attention to Elizabeth. “Lizzy, do tell them that a lady’s true worth is found in her intellect and character, not in fripperies.”
Elizabeth blinked. “I believe both intellect and character are better demonstrated by allowing others to wear what they please without censure.”
Lydia snorted. “That is Lizzy’s way of saying she agrees with me.”
Elizabeth forced a small smile before glancing back out the window. The branches of the trees swayed in the wind, casting restless shadows across the lawn. She wished her own thoughts were so easily swept away.
The events of the previous evening had settled heavily in her chest. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s words had been an unwelcome revelation. For all Mr. Darcy’s grand speeches and evident generosity, Elizabeth now wondered if they had all been carefully calculated. His cousin had all but said so, and Darcy’s exceedingly odd questions to her after dinner had confirmed it. This entire effort at Netherfield was meant to be used as a political platform.
Elizabeth stabbed her needle into the fabric, her jaw tightening.
“Lizzy!” Kitty exclaimed, leaning over to peer at her embroidery. “You have made a terrible knot!”
