Mary’s expression did not soften. “I hope you will heed it, Lizzy. I would hate to see you humiliated. Your reputation affects us all, as you well know.”
Elizabeth turned back toward her sister, her jaw tightening. “Thank you for your concern, Mary, but I assure you, I am quite capable of managing my own affairs.”
Mary said nothing further, but the look she gave Elizabeth before turning and leaving the room spoke volumes. Elizabeth let out a sigh of frustration as soon as the door closed behind her.
And she began to wonder if she might be in over her head after all.
Darcy placed his wineglasscarefully on the table, watching as the ruby liquid stilled. Across the table, Caroline Bingley prattled on about some friends in London and how she still suffered some delusions of returning to Town before the end of the month. But his attention was elsewhere—fixed on his own thoughts, where Elizabeth Bennet’s voice and laughter had begun to linger with an unsettling permanence.
“…and truly, the lace at Madame Fauchet’s is unmatched. Do you not agree, Mr. Darcy?” Caroline’s voice broke through his reverie, drawing his gaze.
“I beg your pardon?”
Caroline’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, as though she had caught him in some great lapse of manners. “I was merely observing that Madame Fauchet’s lacework is superior. But I see you have weightier matters on your mind.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly, unwilling to engage further. He had long since mastered the art of appearing impassive in theface of Caroline’s attempts to command his attention. Tonight, however, the effort seemed greater.
Beside her, Louisa Hurst reached for her glass, her movements languid. “One can hardly expect Mr. Darcy to occupy his thoughts with mere lace. He is a man of substance, after all.”
“I suppose,” Caroline added with a feigned air of nonchalance, “that he has been rather preoccupied since his little stroll in Meryton this afternoon.”
Darcy’s hand tightened slightly around his fork, but he made no outward sign of displeasure.
“A stroll?” Mr. Hurst asked, glancing up from his plate, his expression one of mild interest.
“Oh, yes,” Caroline continued, her tone light and teasing. “It seems our Mr. Darcy was observed escorting a certain Miss Elizabeth Bennet home from town. Quite gallant, would you not say, Louisa?”
Louisa gave a small smile. “Gallant, indeed.”
Bingley, seated beside Darcy, looked up with a bemused expression. “Is that true, Darcy? You escorted Miss Elizabeth home?”
Darcy maintained his composure, though his mind was already calculating the implications of Caroline’s remark. The last thing he needed was for this to become a subject of speculation—or worse, gossip. “It was hardly worth noting,” he replied evenly. “We merely happened to leave the bookshop at the same time, and there was unsavory company about. I did as any gentleman ought.”
“Indeed,” Caroline said, her smile sharpening. “And yet, for a man who prides himself on avoiding unnecessary entanglements, it does seem a curious deviation from your usual practice.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened, but he forced his voice to remain calm. “I see no cause for such exaggeration, Miss Bingley.”
“Oh, but there is no exaggeration,” she said sweetly. “I merely found it amusing. After all, one does not often see you in the company of young ladies—except under strict social obligation, of course.”
“Come now, Caroline,” Bingley said, his tone mildly reproving. “You are making far too much of a simple courtesy.”
Caroline gave a delicate shrug, unbothered by her brother’s intervention. “Perhaps, but one cannot help but wonder… A man who claims to be guarding himself so carefully, escorting a young lady home? What are the poor townspeople to think?”
Darcy set his fork down with deliberate precision, the metallic clink against the plate louder than he intended. He could feel the tension rising in his chest, a mixture of annoyance and something far more dangerous—guilt. Caroline’s words struck closer to the mark than he cared to admit. He had been careless, not in action, but in thought. Allowing himself to enjoy Elizabeth’s company, even fleetingly, was a perilous indulgence.
“The townspeople may think as they please,” Darcy said, his voice cool and measured. “It is of no consequence to me.”
“Oh, naturally,” Caroline replied with a sly smile. “But I do hope you are not finding Meryton more diverting than you expected. One would hate for you to become entangled in a place likethis.”
Darcy shot her a sharp glance, but before he could respond, Bingley interjected with a good-natured laugh. “Enough, Caroline. You are determined to tease Darcy tonight.”
Caroline’s eyes glittered with triumph, but she relented, turning her attention back to her plate. Darcy, however, found no relief. The conversation had only deepened the conflict within him—a conflict he could not afford to entertain, yet could not seem to ignore.
Later, after the uncomfortabledinner had mercifully ended, Darcy found himself standing beside the fire in Bingley’s study, a glass of brandy in hand. Bingley joined him, sinking into a chair with his usual affable ease, though his expression remained thoughtful.
“I must say, Darcy, Caroline’s remarks at dinner were rather pointed,” Bingley said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “She seemed most intent on provoking you. What have you done to rile her?”
Darcy exhaled slowly. “She is determined to remind me of the wager. I think she is hoping I will lose.”
