“Even if it is a matter of life and death?”
“Especially then.”
Bingley sighed. “You are a cruel friend, Darcy.”
“I have been told as much.”
Bingley only grinned before motioning toward the central gathering of guests. “Come. I shall introduce you to some of the new arrivals.”
Darcy, against his better judgment, followed.
His gaze swept the crowd absently, noting Sir William Lucas in full enthusiasm, bowing deeply to an elderly woman and launching into an elaborate speech about the virtues of country society. Mrs. Bennet was already at work, fluttering and beaming as she boasted to anyone who would listen about her daughters, and Mr. Goulding was arguing about the merits of spring crops.
Darcy listened without listening, his mind too occupied with duty to engage in more of Bingley’s pleasantries. Lady Elizabeth… or, rather,Miss Elizabeth Bennetwas here somewhere. And today, for the first time, he would be expected to “meet” her.
Darcysawherthemoment she stepped out of Sir William’s little maze.
It was impossible not to.
She looked exactly as she should—her gown simple, her hair modestly arranged. She was entirely unremarkable. And yet—he noticed her immediately. Apparently, that was his curse.
She walked beside Jane Bennet, her expression pleasant, her movements comfortable. Not stiff or uncertain, as one might expect of a young lady suddenly deposited into unfamiliar company. No, Elizabeth “Bennet” looked perfectly at ease. As though she had belonged among them her entire life.
That, more than anything, unsettled him.
He had expected… he did not know what. Her usual hauteur? Disgust? A slip, a sign of unease? Instead, she carried herself as though she had never been anything other than the obscure daughter of a distant cousin, welcomed without question into the fold.
The ruse was working. That was all that mattered. He forced his attention elsewhere.
But then, as he was doing his best to admire the daffodils in the garden beds, Mr. Bennet approached. “Mr. Darcy,” he said, as if the entire exchange were some fine joke, “I do not believe you have been introduced to my cousin, Miss Elizabeth Bennet from Shropshire.”
Darcy turned.
She stood beside Mr. Bennet, the very picture of politeness and composure.
She curtsied. Smooth, graceful. The performance of a young lady who had been executing such movements since infancy.
“Mr. Darcy,” she murmured. “A pleasure.”
He bowed… unfortunately rather stiffly. “Miss Bennet.”
When she straightened, she met his gaze—too directly, too knowingly.
Darcy narrowed his eyes. She wasenjoyingthis. As bad as Mr. Bennet, she was. That tiny flicker of amusement, the barely-there quirk at the corner of her mouth—he knew a challenge when he saw one.
“I understand you are just returned from London. I hope you are enjoying Hertfordshire,” she said pleasantly.
The words were harmless.
The look in her eyes was not.
Darcy inclined his head. “As much as can be expected.”
Her lashes swept downward. A slow blink, deliberately measured. When she looked at him again, there was no mistaking the satisfaction in her eyes.
“Oh, but surely there is much to appreciate in a country setting,” she said. “The air is fresh, the company lively—”
“Indeed,” he said. “I imagine you have found the company quite… educational.”
