Jane tilted her head. “He is rather handsome, though, is he not?”
Elizabeth pulled a face. “Terribly, almost painfully so. A pity he can hardly afford to feed himself, let alone a wife.”
Jane swatted her arm. “Elizabeth!”
“Well, it is true.”
Jane sighed. “He seems… honorable.”
Elizabeth hesitated.
That was… true, was it not? For all his frustrating ways, for all his cold, infuriating arrogance, he was—undeniably—principled.
Steady.
A man of unwavering conviction.
And dreadfully, excruciatingly handsome.
Elizabeth scowled at herself.
Jane watched her curiously. “What are you thinking?”
Elizabeth shook herself from her thoughts. “That we have wasted quite enough breath on Mr. Darcy. Let us find a more pleasant subject, shall we?”
Jane smiled softly. “Like how I am to ensnare Mr. Bingley?”
Elizabeth grinned. “Precisely.”
The laughter between them came easily after that, their worries momentarily forgotten in the golden warmth of the afternoon.
Themiddaysunglareddown over Meryton, though it did little to ease the chill that had settled deep in Darcy’s chest. He was barely aware of his surroundings as his horse pounded over the dirt road, hooves kicking up dust in his desperate haste.
Elizabeth was not in Meryton.
Elizabeth was not with the Bennets.
Elizabeth was not anywhere she was meant to be.
He had been ready to believe she had simply deceived everyone—that she had gone somewhere else entirely, careless as ever—but now… now he was back to believing something far worse.
Had someone got to her first?
The thought sent a bolt of fear through him, sharp and searing. His grip tightened around the reins, knuckles pale.No.It could not be. She was too clever, too blasted independent, too—
Well. If anyone took her, they would return her rather promptly. Of that, he was… at least somewhat confident.
Darcy pulled his horse up sharply beside the coaching inn, barely allowing the beast to settle before swinging himself down. His coat was still dusted from the road, his gloves dirty from the reins, but he barely noticed.
Inside the small post office, two men stood talking. One was the innkeeper, an elderly man with thin gray hair and spectacles perched on the end of his nose. The other was a footman in faded livery, a parcel tucked under his arm.
“…wouldn’t have believed it, but I saw it with my own eyes,” the footman was saying. “Three men, just standing there by the corner, watching. Not speaking. Just… waiting.”
Darcy’s pulse kicked up. “Excuse me, but… who?”
Both men turned, startled by his sudden presence.
The footman hesitated. “Sir?”
