He had a most unusual proposition to make at Longbourn.
Thealesmelledvile.
Elizabeth eyed the mug before her, nose wrinkling slightly as she lifted it for a tentative sniff. The scent was sharp and yeasty, nothing like the wine and cordials she was accustomed to.
She cast a glance toward the innkeeper, who had delivered it with an odd sort of grin, as if he knew something she did not.
Elizabeth huffed. Typical. Another one of Mr. Darcy’s little tricks, no doubt. She imagined him issuing his tight-lipped instructions before leaving, muttering something about keeping her docile.
As if she could be so easily managed.
She scoffed under her breath and took a sip, fully prepared to hate every drop.
She did not.
It was thicker than she expected—smoother, the flavor settling on her tongue in a way that was almost… pleasant.
She took another sip.
Then a longer one.
After two mugs, she was warm. A bit too warm, but not in a stuffy sort of way. Rather a muzzy, pleasant warmth that came from her belly.
She had stopped clutching her cloak around herself, had even—hesitantly, deliberately—tugged at the curtain, pulling it open slightly. She needed just a breath more of air, and what harm could it do? They were miles from London, along no path where anyone would be looking for her.
She exhaled slowly and settled back, fingers tracing the rim of her mug, eyes drifting toward the small window on the far side of the inn.
The leaded glass was streaked with dust, but she could just make out the view beyond—the narrow side street, the small garden beside the inn, the group of young ladies gathered there.
Elizabeth tilted her head, watching them.
There were four of them, all with the same noses and eyes, but there, the resemblances diverged.
Two were loud, talking over each other in a flurry of animated gestures and shared laughter. The third, a plain, solemn girl, kept attempting to steer the conversation back to something more serious, but the others paid her little mind.
The fourth, however—she was different.
She stood slightly apart, listening more than she spoke, her smile faint but genuine. She was not commanding the conversation, not competing for attention, but her presence was felt, nonetheless.
Elizabeth found herself leaning forward, studying them more intently. Their ease with one another was something unfamiliar, yet oddly compelling.
Something Elizabeth had never quite known for herself.
Before she realized it, she had risen from her seat and moved to another table, closer to the window.
Better view.
Better light.
And if she breathed very, very quietly, she could hear what they were saying.
She had not meant to order another ale, but when the innkeeper passed by, raising a brow toward her nearly empty mug, she had inclined her head without thinking.
And now—well.
The warmth in her limbs had spread, her head light but pleasantly so, her usual restlessness gentling into something looser, more languid. Her cloak had been discarded over the back of the chair. Her posture, normally poised and proper, as it had been schooled to be, was decidedly less rigid.
She should probably stop.
