And there he was.
She had only taken three steps into the entry hall—barely enough to shake off the cold—when the sound of laughter pulled her gaze across the threshold and into the drawing room.
Fitzwilliam Darcy stood near the hearth, tall and composed, dressed in black that caught the candlelight in sharp lines. Of course he looked good in mourning tones. Elizabeth imagined he would look devastating in sackcloth and ashes—provided the collar fit well. His posture was effortless, almost regal, and for a moment Elizabeth could not breathe for the sight of him.
He did not see her.
His attention was fixed on Miss Ashford, who stood beside him in a gown of ivory satin that shimmered like snowfall under the chandeliers. The cut flattered her figure precisely;the silver trim caught the blue of her eyes. She was smiling—laughing, even—as she accepted his arm with a kind of studied intimacy, her fingers resting just at the bend of his sleeve as though they had always belonged there. Her hand on his arm said everything:Mine now, thank you.Elizabeth’s fingers curled around her reticule, suddenly regretting the lack of sharp implements inside.
He inclined his head to her, the motion smooth, assured, almost gentle.
Elizabeth felt the ache bloom behind her ribs before she could name it. Not jealousy—not quite—but the awful, ringing sense of having walked into a room where she was no longer needed.
She had told him to choose someone like Miss Ashford.If I had it to do over again,she told herself,I would recommend someone with a limp and a nervous cough. Perhaps a tendency to faint.
And now here it was, perfectly executed. Perfectly arranged. And perfectly intolerable.
Elizabeth did not stumble. She did not freeze. She did not do any of the things her heart suggested in its frantic, badly timed improvisation.
Instead, she smiled.
It was a crisp, pleasant smile. The sort one might wear when presented with a tolerably interesting footstool. The same mile she had worn for days—bright, polished, unassailable. It did not tremble at the corners. It did not crack. It was a perfectly serviceable expression for accepting congratulations or tea or a dagger in the chest.
“Oh, how very elegant she looks,” Elizabeth murmured to Jane, who had not noticed a thing.
Jane, beside her, beamed. “Does she not? And look—Captain Marlowe is by the pianoforte. He looks positively anxious to greet you.”
Of course he was. She was the prize goose tonight. Plump, polished, and ready for display.
Elizabeth’s stomach turned. “How decisive of him.”
Then she stepped into the drawing room and let herself be congratulated—by strangers, by acquaintances, by a man she almost chose.
“Iam quite certainI read your name in the betting book at White’s,” said Mr. Montague, slapping Darcy on the shoulder with a grin. “Engaged by Christmas! You have cost me five pounds, sir.”
“I am delighted to have disappointed you,” Darcy replied without smiling.
Montague laughed and moved off to find another drink. Darcy’s jaw flexed once before he forced it still.
Miss Ashford, her features composed pleasantly, glanced up at him from her place at his side. “Are all your friends so energetic, Mr. Darcy, or is it the season that excites them?”
“I cannot say. I avoid most of my friends in December.”
She smiled at that—warm, graceful, unbothered. She looked beautiful tonight. She always looked beautiful. Her gown was pale green, trimmed in cream lace, her hair arranged in a tasteful coronet. She did everything right, and she did it calmly. Without demands. Without expectations.
“I hope I am not included in that list,” she teased gently.
“Certainly not,” he assured her. “You are an exception.”
A perfectly delivered line. He even managed to make eye contact as he said it.
She turned to greet an approaching couple, and Darcy allowed himself a glance across the room. Bingley was still hovering near Miss Bennet like a man newly converted to religion—hangingon her every word, smiling at nothing, forgetting to blink. They spoke softly, and Bingley’s expression was so unguarded it made Darcy look away. That was how it ought to feel—foolish and joyful and entirely unedited. Not calculated. Not clenched.
But not far.
Just beyond them, Elizabeth stood on the arm of Captain Marlowe.
The captain was laughing at something she had said, leaning in slightly as if he could not help himself. His posture was casual but assured—too assured—and Elizabeth, blast her, looked entirely at ease beside him.
