Too late.
Darcy stood at the top of the steps, hand flexing at his side, and watched the coach roll into motion with the low jingle of harness. The lamps on either side flickered in the December wind, and the glass of the windows caught the last of the afternoon light.
She had not looked back.
He flexed his fingers once, then tugged his cuff straighter—as if restoring order to his sleeve might restore it elsewhere. Whatever had unsettled her had started the moment Caroline Bingley appeared—not that Elizabeth flinched, or frowned, or stormed. She had simply begun to smile too often and say too little. Her laugh rang slightly off-key.
And then she had blamed him for it. Somehow.
They would have done better to keep to their original plan. She might have saved him a deal of trouble, and he might have… well, it did not look as though she fared any better than he had.
She had spoken to three men—eligible, attentive, and increasingly baffled—and emerged from each exchange with the look of someone walking away from a negotiation gone wrong. He knew the expression. He had earned it himself, more than once.
The gestures were there: the nods, the courtesies, the tilt of the head. But none of it had the rhythm of sincerity or the ring of victory.
She had not been charming.
She had been—performing.
Out of what? Obligation?
Desperation?
Darcy narrowed his eyes. He had seen Elizabeth Bennet play at wit, at superiority, at indifference—but never at interest. Never this careful mimicry of a woman who wanted to be chosen.
He knew what she looked like when she was pleased, at her ease. This was not that.
“What brings you out here, Mr. Darcy?” came the voice from behind him, sending a skittering of impulses down his spine that had nothing to do with his present musings. He stiffened and did not turn to face the speaker—no matter, for Caroline Bingley never lacked for courage.
“I confess, I did not expect to see you still here,” she continued. “I thought you would have vanished after Miss Eliza—”
Darcy turned, slowly. “What about Miss Bennet?”
Caroline Bingley stood just inside the doors, one gloved hand resting on the banister, her expression a perfect blend of inquiry and amusement. “Oh—well,” she continued, “after she made her retreat. You are such particular friends, I thought you mighthave…” She lifted her shoulders with an exaggerated little laugh. “Vanished with her.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “My engagement calendar is not in any way connected to her schedule.”
“Of course not,” she said smoothly. “Still, it was rather sudden. Though I suppose the day proved a bit more challenging than she expected. One gentleman asked her about music and, from what I overheard, received a rather spirited opinion on... animal husbandry? Or perhaps I was mistaken and she only protested ignorance.”
Darcy’s expression flattened.
Her smile did not falter. “No shame in it. Some girls simply find these gatherings fatiguing. One can only shine for so long before the effort begins to show.”
“She was not fatigued,” Darcy muttered.
“Oh?” Miss Bingley tilted her head. “Then what was it? Nerves? Disappointment? Perhaps she found the field less forgiving than she expected—and has gone into retreat to soothe her vanity. I fancy it shan’t take long, as I presume there is very little to soothe.”
Darcy only turned away.
Miss Bingley waited another moment, clearly expecting a confession or correction—or at least a flicker of amusement. When none came, she sighed theatrically and gave a small, elegant shiver.
“I have not seen my brother since our arrival. I am quite certain he has been absorbed into one of the sculptures. Marble, possibly. Or he has taken root in the refreshments room and is now part of the décor.” She fluttered her hand toward the corridor. “Either way, I am rather weary.”
Darcy did not offer her his arm. He glanced toward the inner rooms. “Then I shall go find him.”
Her smile tightened at the corners. “Of course.”
He turned without further reply and stepped back into the gallery, already scanning the crowd.
