Darcy had not cometo the market for oranges.
He told himself he had business—something about locating ribbons for Georgiana’s gift boxes or inspecting the quality of the pine garlands that Lady Matlock insisted on—but that was not why he had allowed himself to be led out of the house and into the glittering swirl of holly and violinists and ribbons that passed for London festivity.
The dowager had suggested it. Suggested it pointedly, with a certain glance over her teacup and a cheerful mention that she had heard that many “eligible young ladies” enjoyed the “simplicity” of market stalls.
Darcy had said nothing, which she had taken as obedience.
Now, standing under a tent strung with red paper stars, he was scanning the crowd with more agitation than reason. He had nearly turned back—twice—when a woman at a nearby stall dropped her parcels, and a ripple of motion broke his view.
And there she was.
Elizabeth Bennet, rounding the corner with two paper-wrapped bundles tucked neatly against her side. Her walk was brisk, her chin tilted just slightly upward—as if daring the day to behave. Her bonnet was trimmed in pale ribbon, modest but unmistakable. Her expression, though composed, bore the tension of someone holding too many thoughts and not enough forgiveness.
He stepped out from under the canopy and she nearly collided with him.
He saw the exact moment she registered him—the faint widening of her eyes, the slight catch in her breath—and then her chin lifted.
He did not greet her. She nearly walked past, but her steps faltered when she saw his face—set, rigid, and colder than the weather.
“Miss Bennet.”
She bobbed only as a matter of course and matched his tone. “Mr. Darcy.”
He glanced at the bundles in her arms, then back at her face. “Enjoying the festivities?”
“I find them... enlightening.”
That earned the barest flickering of his cheek muscles.
She adjusted one parcel in her arms. “There are so many clever authors in London these days. Anonymous, of course. It seems no one wishes to sign their name.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Yes. It is remarkable how anonymous voices know precisely what to say.”
She nodded once. “And how well they mimic others.”
He gestured to the side, where a stall offered dried oranges and bundles of cinnamon tied with twine. “Perhaps we should avoid the poets and inspect the produce.”
They stepped aside, out of the flow of shoppers, close enough to speak but shielded by the scented clutter.
Darcy studied her a moment longer, then said quietly, “You have read it, then.”
Her shoulders lifted slightly. “I have.”
“And itisyour voice.”
She inhaled. “It is my phrasing. My rhythm. My observations.”
“But not your hand?”
Her chin tipped. “Not for publication!”
“Indeed. So, you did not publish them yourself for a quick profit?”
Elizabeth’s eyes flashed and she nearly dropped her parcel. “How dare you even suggest—”
“I dare because I warned you against writing them in the first place, if you recall,” he gritted between his teeth. “Did you think no one would ever read them? That lines so carefully barbed would remain forever tucked away, harming no one?”
“They werenotbarbed. Heavens, you speak like I was deliberately cruel!”
