She did not wait for another attempt. She turned, found Jane, and walked away with purpose she did not feel.
The statue beside them seemed to smirk behind its missing nose.
Chapter Twenty-One
The air had growntoo warm.
Or perhaps he had simply been standing too long in the same spot, watching Elizabeth walk away and trying not to feel it.
Darcy tugged once at his cuffs, then smoothed them again, an unnecessary motion that did nothing to settle the thrum in his chest. The conversation with her—if it could be called that—looped back in fragments.
Do not—please.
She had not shouted. She had not flinched. But she had looked at him as though he had crossed some invisible line and could not be trusted on the other side of it.
Which was absurd.
He had invited Bingley as a courtesy. He had notinvitedthe sister, and he could hardly be held accountable for that lady’s plans. If Elizabeth had truly wished to avoid her, she might have said so.
Unless she had assumed he would already know.
Darcy frowned and turned from the sculpture, beginning a slow, deliberate circuit of the room. The gallery was more crowded now than it had been, filled with the sort of genteel milling that passed for conversation in such settings: three women and a parson discussing ceiling heights, a pair of naval officers eyeing the lemonade as if it had secrets, Lady Frances bemoaning the decline of real landscape painting to anyone within earshot.
Elizabeth stood near the far wall, speaking with a tall gentleman of fair coloring and broad frame. She laughed at something he said. Lightly. Easily. As though the afternoon were pleasant and unremarkable.
Darcy’s stride slowed.
The gentleman—he thought his name was Harcourt or Hartford, something vaguely pastoral—was nodding with interest, arms crossed loosely. Elizabeth tilted her head and said something further, and he actually leaned in.
Darcy narrowed his eyes.
He did not care. Not truly. Just enough to notice the way the man leaned in. Just enough to wonder whether he should have interrupted. But certainly not enough to feel anything approaching jealousy.
But if the whole point of this exercise had been efficiency, then perhaps it was time he resumed the business of finding a wife who did not stare at him like he had driven his carriage over her dog.
He turned toward the corner near the music trio and spotted a likely candidate. Miss Eugenia Partridge.
Darcy recalled only a few details—wealthy family, decent education, a recent tour of Italy. He had seen her at the musicale, but for some reason, Elizabeth had declined to introduce him to her, even after a murmured request. So another friend hadperformed the office, but there had been little time for him to learn more of her on that occasion.
He could not see anything particularly amiss about the lady—her posture was elegant, her gown understated, and she was not presently engaged in conversation with anyone who looked actively unpleasant.
He approached with a bow. “Miss Partridge.”
She turned with a smile that had clearly been practiced in a mirror and dropped a curtsy just a shade too deep. “Mr. Darcy. What a surprise.”
“I hope I am not interrupting.”
“Oh no. I was just… looking at the paintings. They are very well done.” She nodded firmly at a portrait of a goose.
Darcy followed her gaze. “That one is a Flemish still life.”
“Oh,” she said. “Yes. I knew that.”
A pause followed. Not tense, but somehow effortful.
“You have recently returned from Italy, I believe?”
“Yes,” she said, drawing out the word. “We saw some very old buildings.”
