Darcy muttered something uncharitable under his breath.
The dowager only laughed. “At least pretend to enjoy yourself, darling. It will confuse the debutantes.”
5 December
The Harringtons’ drawing roomwas precisely the kind of fashionable trap Darcy had hoped to avoid.
The chandelier was overtrimmed, the air over-scented, and the assembled company already well into the reception hour’s ritual of casual bloodletting—soft voices, sharp glances, the faint scent of judgment masked in lavender water and over-brewed tea. Candles flared at every surface, casting flickering light across damask walls in a shade of green that reminded him of illness.
Darcy stood just inside the threshold, jaw tight, scanning the room with the wary posture of a man weighing exits against obligations.
He spotted her at once.
Elizabeth Bennet.
Not flirting. Not simpering. Navigating the crowd with that quicksilver grace that made every move look accidental and deliberate at once. She paused at each group with easy brightness, drawing laughter from matrons and ingenues alike, and Darcy—despite himself—felt his pulse trip.
She was gathering intelligence.
His stomach squirmed with dread. This was the plan, after all: she would help him, and he would help her. They would make introductions. They would be wise. Dispassionate. Sensible.
He adjusted his cravat—probably mussing his valet’s careful folds—and moved away from the door before his grandmother could catch him loitering.
Lady Matlock sat near the musicians with a sherry glass and the contented expression of a woman who had orchestrated five weddings, three broken engagements, and one spectacularly foiled scandal—all in one social season.
Darcy did not intend to provide her with another.
There—a familiar figure near the mantel. James Devonport. Eton man. Mild as milk.
Darcy crossed to him with the grim determination of a man performing civic duty.
“Devonport.”
“Darcy!” Devonport turned with cheerful surprise. “Heavens, I had not expected to see you at this sort of gathering.”
“I am circulating,” Darcy said, almost grimly.
“Is it catching?” Devonport grinned. “Because I’ve just become engaged, and I must warn you, it appears to be fatal to peace of mind.”
Darcy stared. “Engaged?”
“Miss Weatherby,” Devonport said with relish. “Not much fortune, but a divine wit and ankles like Botticelli’s angels. You would like her, though you would probably not admit it.”
“Indeed,” Darcy muttered, and excused himself with all the grace of a man retreating from a duel.
Every woman in the room seemed to present some obstacle. Married. Engaged. Unavailable. One of Richard’s former amours.
He was beginning to suspect that his only path to marriage would involve bribery, exile, or complete surrender of his standards.
He turned back toward the crowd—and stopped.
Elizabeth.
She was approaching with a smile so bright it might have been weaponized. Beside her stood a blonde vision in white gauze, all golden curls and guileless dimples.
Darcy’s sense of foreboding was immediate and profound.
“Mr. Darcy!” Elizabeth’s voice was warm and clear, perfectly calculated to draw every nearby ear. “How unexpected!”
