“You are not a ghost.”
He looked at her. “I am trying not to be.”
She nodded, then rose and crossed the room to him. When she reached up, it was not to kiss his cheek, but to smooth his cravat with small, uncertain fingers—an echo of what their mother used to do when neither of them was old enough to refuse comfort.
He did not flinch. But he did not look at her, either.
She said softly, “Wear the grey. It makes you look less like you are going to duel someone.”
He exhaled. “No promises.”
She smiled, faintly, and went to the door closing it behind her.
Darcy stayed where he was. The fire popped once. A draft touched the back of his neck. The letter was still in his hand.
Eventually, he slipped it into his coat and straightened the line of his sleeve.
The problem could not be buried. It could only be disarmed. And there was only one path left to do it.
He did not like the plan. But if dignity could not be reclaimed, it could at least be traded. Quietly. Deliberately. And on his terms.
And it would begin with appearing in public. Again.
This time, with his spine intact.
December 9
The pamphlet was hideous.
Not in content—though the essay on Greco-Roman landscapes was hardly thrilling—but in presentation. The type was uneven, the binding too tight, and the margin illustrations appeared to have been drawn by someone with a blunt nib and a grudge against symmetry.
Elizabeth turned it over and began scribbling in the blank back corner.
The hills may be imaginary, but the pomp is real. No one has ever spent so many words saying “I liked the rocks.”
“Lizzy,” her aunt called gently from across the room, “are you planning to offend the entire Society for the Preservation of Roman Aesthetics before luncheon, or after?”
“Depends how long they insist on praising columns as metaphors for moral fortitude,” Elizabeth muttered, tucking the pamphlet into her bag with a final, pointed flourish.
Mrs. Gardiner smiled indulgently. “Today’s gathering is meant to be more intimate. No lectures, I promise. Only a few artistsand a handful of thinkers. It should make for thoughtful conversation.”
Elizabeth lifted her brows. “Lately, all conversation has been either slippery or staged. I begin to suspect we are all just taking turns performing civility in a badly lit theatre.”
“Then at least wear something that will catch the spotlight.” Her aunt patted the sleeve of her dress approvingly. “That shade suits you.”
It was a deep plum—a choice Elizabeth had made less for fashion than for armor. It felt grounded, difficult to stain, and slightly too rich for her mood.
Jane entered just then, tying the ribbons of her bonnet with slow, deliberate fingers. Her face held that particular stillness Elizabeth had learned to recognize as both grace and grief.
“You are certain you wish to come?” Elizabeth asked softly.
Jane nodded. “It is better than staying in. I need the air.”
Elizabeth did not press. She only reached for her gloves and said, “Then let us be clever and charming and no trouble at all.”
As she picked up her reticule, her fingers brushed the lining.
Still empty.
