“Only when you leave me such tempting gaps to fill.”
Another pause followed, but this time it felt less strained. Darcy’s posture relaxed slightly, though his guarded demeanor remained intact.
“It is my sister,” he said at last, the admission emerging slowly, as though each word required deliberate effort. “She is… still very unhappy.”
Elizabeth flicked her gaze back to his face. “I am sorry to hear it. Has something changed since we last spoke of her?”
“She remains in Lincolnshire with acquaintances. They are well-meaning, good people. But I have come to believe they are ill-suited to her temperament.” His voice was steady, almost careless, but Elizabeth detected a hint of something beneath it—concern, perhaps, or frustration.
She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Then why not bring her here? To Netherfield, I mean. Surely she would find the company more agreeable.”
Darcy’s reaction was swift, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly before he quickly masked whatever had unsettled him. “That would not be possible.”
Elizabeth arched a brow, intrigued by his sudden defensiveness. “Not possible, or not preferable?”
He hesitated, clearly weighing how much to reveal. “It is simply not an option.”
“Then perhaps you might return to London yourself and bring her to stay with you there. Or if that is also impractical, could you not take her back to Pemberley?”
Darcy regarded her with an odd expression, as though her suggestion were both unexpected and strangely disconcerting. “You would encourage me to leave Hertfordshire?”
She shrugged, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Why not? It is not as though anyone here expected you to stay. Besides, the people of Meryton are hardly inclined to miss a poet.”
A flicker of conscious embarrassment crossed his face at the mention of poetry, and Elizabeth’s lips curved into a mischievous smile. “What, Mr. Darcy? Have you so soon forgot your newfound literary talents?”
Darcy’s mouth tightened, though whether from amusement or irritation, she could not tell. “I see you continue to enjoy your sport at my expense.”
“And you continue to provide ample material. Perhaps it is you who should be blamed for your predicament.”
They stood there for a moment, the view stretching out before them, but Elizabeth’s focus remained on Darcy. He appeared pensive, as though weighing her words with greater care than she had intended.
At last, he straightened, his composure firmly in place. “Thank you for your suggestions, Miss Bennet. They have… given me something to consider.”
She inclined her head. “I do hope you find a solution that brings her some measure of happiness.”
Darcy nodded, his expression unreadable once more. “Good day, Miss Bennet.”
“Good day, Mr. Darcy.”
As he turned to leave, Elizabeth watched him for a moment, her thoughts swirling with the oddness of the encounter. He was still as frustratingly reserved as ever, yet beneath that impenetrable exterior, there was something more—something she could not yet name but found herself wanting to understand.
Elizabeth Bennet had… surprisedhim.
He had gone to Oakham Mount that morning seeking solitude, only to find her already there. It should have been an inconvenience, another moment of forced politeness in a town where civility was more exhausting than the expectations of London society. And yet, somehow, it had not felt like that at all.
Her suggestion had caught him off guard. She had not pleaded for his company, had not hinted at wanting him to remain longer in Hertfordshire—far from it. She had coolly suggested he might leave, even teased him about being missed by no one. He frowned slightly, remembering her parting words: “Poetsmay not be appreciated here, Mr. Darcy, but perhaps your sister would fare better with you elsewhere.”
It was unexpected. He had assumed, like so many others, that she might be angling to keep him near, driven by the same mercenary motives he had grown so accustomed to guarding against. And yet she had practically encouraged him to go, as though his presence were inconsequential to her.
Darcy leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He found himself reconsidering everything he had assumed about her. It was disconcerting—irritating, even—that she continued to evade every expectation he set.
Elizabeth Bennet was a woman of contradictions. Her cleverness was undeniable, her conversation lively and engaging enough that shecouldlay any snare she liked, and yet there was no apparent calculation in her manner. If she sought to trap him in the web of marriage—like so many before her—she was going about it in the strangest way possible. In fact, she seemed intent on doing the opposite, treating him with a degree of irreverence that was both infuriating and oddly… refreshing.
His lips tightened as he picked up the pen again. Georgiana’s unhappiness gnawed at him, but for the first time, he allowed himself to consider Elizabeth’s suggestion. It had been flippant, no doubt meant in jest, but perhaps there was wisdom in it. Georgiana had always fared better in familiar company—among those who truly cared for her, rather than those who viewed her merely as an heiress to be entertained.
He stared down at the unfinished letter. Break off his stay in Hertfordshire and return to Pemberley? It was a tempting thought, though complicated by timing. He could hardly leave Hertfordshire now without raising questions. Besides, Bingley would never let him hear the end of it if he disappeared just before the ball.
And yet the idea lingered.
