He shifted. “It was only a suggestion.”
“And I am grateful,” she said sweetly. “In fact, in the spirit of reciprocity, I shall introduce you to Miss Cressida Ogilvy.”
“I do not believe I know her.”
“Oh, you would remember. Elbows like bayonets. Thinks all conversation should begin with ‘Do you hunt?’ Her family breeds mastiffs.”
Darcy looked pained. “That cannot be true.”
“It is. Her last suitor required stitches.”
He gave her a long, level look. “You are not serious.”
She smiled brightly. “Perfectly. Unless, of course, you have a better gentleman in mind for me. One without a treasonous history or multiple chins.”
“I am beginning to suspect I have walked into a trap.”
“Oh, Mr. Darcy.” She turned back to the bust, letting her voice drop just a touch. “You made the trap. I only added ribbons.”
He did not reply at once. Perhaps he was searching for a retort sharp enough to cut through her smile. Or perhaps—and she rather hoped this was the case—he was trying not to smile himself.
“You are in rare form today,” he said at last.
“I consider it a public service,” she replied. “Besides, someone must keep you sharp. You would grow blunt with disuse, like an old letter opener.”
Darcy lifted one brow. “Do you insult everyone who tries to help you?”
“Only those who try with such a look of martyrdom.”
“I do not look—”
“Oh, you do. Like a saint about to be canonized for enduring social luncheons and matchmaking attempts.” She glanced sideways. “Unless, of course, that is your true aim. Martyrdom by tea cake?”
He gave a quiet snort. “If so, you have already ruined it. No saint would tolerate you for long.”
She smiled. “That is rather a poor reflection onyou, I should think.”
He opened his mouth to reply—but before the words could form, a familiar voice cut in, low and falsely sweet.
“Mr. Darcy! There you are. Charles said you would be here but I had nearly despaired of finding you.”
Elizabeth’s spine went rigid. She turned at the voice and stopped breathing.
Caroline Bingley.
Not a ghost, not a trick of the light—here.
Miss Bingley stood just behind them, a picture of calculated ease. She was dressed in sage green trimmed in gold, her hat wide enough to qualify as architecture, and her smile so composed it might have been lacquered into place. She swept into the gallery as if the room had been laid out in her honor and was only just meeting her expectations.
Elizabeth’s eyes flew to Darcy instinctively. Her expression said everything she could not speak aloud:You knew she was here?
He did not look at her. Not at first. He only bowed with a stately, “Miss Bingley.”
“Oh, and I see you have found someone you know. Miss Eliza, what a surprise to see you in London,” she added, with a nod that might have passed for a courtesy in poor lighting.
Elizabeth snapped her attention back just as Caroline offered her one of those soft, glass-edged smiles—half courtesy, half performance. She managed a nod that came several beats too late. Her mouth moved before her brain could supply anything useful. “Miss Bingley.”
The name tasted bitter.
