Of course it was empty. No journal. No pencil. No outlet for the line curling inside her like steam behind glass.
And then—“Oh, Captain!” came a voice like brittle toffee dipped in disdain. Caroline Bingley, draped in green satin, oozed forward on the arm of a foppish baron. She released his arm with a dip of her head, and he seemed none the poorer for it as he ambled off in search of better delights.
Miss Bingley swept closer, touching her glove to the captain’s arm. “What a pleasure to see you again. I had no idea naval uniforms were so flattering off deck.”
Marlowe bowed with a murmured pleasantry.
“Oh, and Miss Eliza, I do hope you are enjoying the evening. You seem to have so many admirers these days.”
Elizabeth returned the smile with careful brilliance. “As do you, Miss Bingley. I cannot imagine how you keep your dance card straight.”
“Oh, I manage,” she said, fanning herself. “One only has to be a little organized. I even keep a journal of my conversations—though I am told that is dangerous now. One never knows what may end up in print.”
Marlowe coughed softly. His eyes flicked to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth did not flinch. “Indeed. Some things are better forgot.”
“Or mislaid,” Miss Bingley said sweetly.
Elizabeth’s lips curved into something dangerous. “You must be very practiced at both.”
Miss Bingley laughed lightly. “How droll. Captain, you must let me introduce you to Lady Renshaw’s niece. She has a fondness for naval poetry.”
“I was just—”
“Oh, there is a pretty thing! A gallant captain, reluctant to share his talents with an eager listener? I insist. Come along.” She swept him away with a practiced pivot, leaving only a faint trail of rosewater perfume and unspoken threat.
Elizabeth stood motionless, hand clenched around her empty teacup. She had lasted four minutes. Four. And once again, she was alone.
She slipped through a cluster of chattering ladies near the punch, pulse ticking in her ears like a metronome set too fast. Her focus had narrowed to one, infuriating point: escape. Just a little air. Just a moment to collect herself, regroup, pretend she had not been spectacularly derailed by a woman who weaponized manners like bayonets.
And then she collided with a wall of starched linen and heat.
Elizabeth staggered back, already forming her apology, but a hand closed lightly around her elbow—steady, certain, familiar.
“Apologies—” she began, but stopped at once.Him.
Mr. Darcy.
He did not smile. That would break character, after all. He only looked at her the way he always did—like he was deciphering a particularly stubborn passage in one of his Latin grammars.
“She will not say anything tonight,” he murmured, as if he already knew precisely what had set her in motion across the room. “Miss Bingley is still enjoying the guessing game too much.”
Elizabeth bristled. “I was not—”
“You were.” His gaze was steady, the great coxcomb. “You are terrified.”
“I amnotafraid of her,” she hissed.
“Nother, perhaps. But you are afraid of losing. Rightly so, for the consequences do not bear thinking of.”
The words landed in her chest with quiet accuracy. She closed her eyes and wondered how difficult it would be to join a convent. If she converted… moved to France…
Darcy did not gloat. He could have—could have lorded her ruin over her, reminded her she had only herself to blame. Instead, he just stood beside her, casually surveying the room. A moment later, he said, as if offering weather, “Captain Marlowe is speaking with Miss Langley.”
Elizabeth followed his gaze, reluctantly. There they were: Miss Langley, all porcelain and practiced giggles, her fan half-hiding a smile. Captain Marlowe leaned slightly toward her, expression hidden behind some sort of potted plant. Deliberately, probably.
She turned her eyes back to Darcy. “Ihadnearly made up for past insults. We were getting on famously enough until Miss Bingley came by.”
