They stopped near a half-curtained alcove that smelled faintly of lemon tarts and old upholstery. A painted screen offered half-privacy, enough to lower voices without raising alarms. Darcy pulled her around the plaster column before he turned to her. “You might have let me speak for myself.”
She shifted just enough to meet his gaze. “I thoughtyousaid quite enough for both of us.”
“No,youhad. That was the problem. That isalwaysthe problem! You know very well I hate needlework and empty poetry and moralism.”
“I know very well you hate being helped.”
“That was not help!”
“No?” She folded her arms. “Because it looked remarkably like assistance. I saw you struggling, and I thought: how might I rescue this fine conversation?”
“Rescue? You sabotaged it. Deliberately!”
Elizabeth scoffed. “I did no such thing.”
He took one step closer, not enough to be improper, but enough to make her nerves snap taut. “You seemed rathercomfortable earlier,” he said. “With your naval companion. I imagine he finds everything agreeable.”
“I find himattentive. And I appreciate a conversation that does not collapse under its own disdain.”
“You laughed at everything he said. Even the things that were patently ridiculous, which was proof enough that you were faking it.”
“Some men are easy to laugh with. Others insist on being laughed at only when they mean to be.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed.
“You can hardly afford to criticize me,” she continued, “for you looked positivelyentrancedwhen Miss Ashford began categorizing poets by cause of death. Does she place Keats in the romantic consumption section? I warrant that is the highest honor she can bestow.”
His jaw hardened. “That shows how much you know. Keats is still very much alive.”
“Alas, poor fellow.” She buffed her nails on her sleeve and surveyed them casually. “The greatest tragedy of a poet’s life is to live long enough to hear his verse quoted poorly in salons by simpering girls who cannot understand their meaning.”
Darcy’s lip curled. “At least she has the benefit of good breeding and a decent upbringing.”
Elizabeth’s ire flared. Was that… did he just insult her family?Oh, no, no no…She balled her fists. “She has the benefit of not knowingyou!”
Darcy scoffed. “She is civil and well-mannered. Unlike others in the room.”
“She is an embroidered cushion!” Elizabeth snapped. “Soft, decorative, and entirely unburdened by original thought.”
Darcy inhaled once. That landed. For a moment neither spoke. Then Darcy growled, “I thought we were supposed to be allies. Yet, you seem to delight in making me ridiculous.”
“You do not require my help for that.”
He leaned in, voice quiet and pointed. “Then perhaps we might return to honesty. What is it, precisely, that has put you so off your stride since the ball?”
Elizabeth laughed bitterly. “Aside from Caroline Bingley appearing in London without warning? Aside from learning that Charles Bingley has been here for days—camewithyou, and never once saw fit to speak to my sister, whose hopes he has deliberately raised?”
Darcy did not reply. His silence felt practiced.
She shook her head. “I see. You will retreat into mute obstinacy again. How very convenient.”
“And you?” His voice cut, not raised, but sharpened. “You ask me to be honest while playing coy about things you know very well I have seen—thingseveryonehas seen and heard by now.”
“What things?”
Darcy’s gaze did not flicker. “You know what I refer to.”
Her heart lurched. She forced a breath. “Upon my word, I do not.”
