As in, people had been looking for her.
She shot Jane a quick glance, but Jane, if she noticed anything amiss, only looked politely concerned.
Elizabeth turned back to Darcy, tilting her head. “I do believe we told Mrs. Bennet of our plans.”
Darcy’s nostrils flared ever so slightly.
Yes, he was livid.
Jane straightened. “We were only taking advantage of the fine weather,” she said gently. “I hope no one was too worried.”
Darcy let out a slow, measured breath. “Of course not.”
Liar.
Elizabeth lifted her chin, watching him. Whatever had happened, it wasnotnothing. She could see it—feel it. Darcy was not merely irritated. He was disturbed. Deeply so.
And she had the distinct feeling that, once Jane was out of earshot, she would not like what he had to say.
Darcyhadworkedhisblood to a froth for the last two hours, scouring Meryton, questioning shopkeepers, housemaids, passersby—anyone who might have seen her. And no one had. She had vanished.
And now she was smiling at him.
Darcy fought the urge to catch her by the elbow and drag her somewhere private where he could properly express his thoughts on the matter. But they were not alone. Jane Bennet was still ahead of them, polite, serene, and entirely unaware of the torrent of rage and relief threatening to undo him.
So instead, he fell into step beside Elizabeth “Bennet,” forcing calm into his expression, restraint into his posture, and absolute control into his voice.
“You did not go to Meryton.”
Elizabeth turned her head toward him with mock surprise. “No.”
“You lied.”
A small smile. Infuriating. “Yes, I did.”
Utterly unrepentant. He ground his teeth. “How do you expect to be protected when Ineverknow where to find you?”
She frowned, arching her brows in thought. “Well, I daresay ifyoucannot find me, those who mean to do me harm are likewise inconvenienced.”
Darcy stopped walking. He opened his mouth to protest… then closed it. Blast if she did not have a point.
Elizabeth continued another two paces before pausing and glancing back, her brow lifted in challenge. “Had you a pleasant ride from London?”
His muscles coiled so tightly he thought he might snap. Had she any idea what she had just put him through? Did she know he had searched every street, questioned every merchant, every resident, before mounting his horse with the sickening certainty that he had been too late?
That she was gone, taken,dead, because he had not acted fast enough?
His voice came out as a snarl—low, brittle, controlled through sheer force of will. “I searched the whole of Meryton. I questioned every shopkeeper, every house, every bloody acquaintance I could find. I probably exposed myself beyond all reason and measure. No one had seen you. No one knew where you had gone.”
She rolled her eyes.Rolled her eyes.“You are making rather a fuss over nothing.”
Nothing.
The rage that boiled in his chest had nowhere to go. He could not bellow at her, could not grasp her arms and shake some sense into her, could not tell her how many times he had relived the moment of arriving in that godforsaken town, asking after her, and hearing nothing but silence in return. And could not wipe from his imagination the image of finding her lifeless body, too late…
So instead, he stepped forward—too close, too sharp, barely lowering his voice to something that would not alarm Jane Bennet.
“Alice is missing.”
