Darcy’s hand closed around the edge of his glass.
This was what she had chosen.
A man who wore his self-satisfaction like braid. A man who believed a handful of prize money and a well-timed proposal made him worthy of her.
He looked away, but too late. The floor had already gone unsteady. The air felt thin. His coat too warm.
Miss Ashford touched his arm. “Shall we move toward the punch?”
“Yes,” he said. He had to clear his throat. “Yes. Of course.”
He offered her his arm.
And watched Elizabeth walk further into the room on the arm of her captain—smiling, radiant, and infinitely far away.
He had done the right thing. The responsible thing. The rational thing.
So why did it feel like losing something he had not even been allowed to claim?
“Not too warm?” CaptainMarlowe asked, adjusting the edge of Elizabeth’s shawl for the second time.
“It was perfectly warm the first time,” she replied.
Marlowe hesitated, then let the fabric fall. He straightened, adjusting his cuffs with a casual flick, then smoothed the front of his coat with both hands. A glance toward the gathering crowd, a breath that deepened his stance—he was ready to be seen. And she, apparently, was his.
Jane glanced over with a soft look—gentle, affectionate, full of encouragement. Elizabeth returned half a smile. Encouragement felt a lot like pity, when offered from across a battlefield.
She had angled herself away from the hearth on purpose. The warmth pressed against her back now, threading down her spine in slow pulses that made her neck itch. She could not shift without drawing attention. She could not turn without seeinghim.
The room swelled around her—voices overlapping, laughter peaking and falling like a tide she had forgotten how to ride. Mr. Bingley stood beside Jane, hands loosely clasped, his head tilted slightly as though listening for something no one else could hear. He looked content. Quietly dazzled. As though he hadalready arrived at the thing he wanted most and now was simply admiring it from every angle.
Elizabeth caught the word “pamphlet” from somewhere to her left. Another voice—gentleman, older—mentioned satire. Then a burst of laughter from a pair of ladies near the pianoforte. One held a folded broadsheet in her hand, her gloved finger tapping at the page with dramatic relish.
“Oh no,” Elizabeth murmured. “We are about to be joined.”
Captain Marlowe chuckled. “Are you referring to the pamphlet?”
She stilled. The blood behind her eyes pulsed once—hard.
He had heard. Of course he had.
“I saw three copies on the sideboard at breakfast,” he said. “My manservant thought it amusing to read aloud before I had even sat down.”
Elizabeth managed a polite smile. “Cheerful start to the day.”
“I knew at once it must have come from a woman. You can always tell.” Marlowe leaned in slightly. “Far too much cleverness to be accidental.”
Jane hesitated. “It seems a strange thing, to admire anonymous insults.”
“Not insults,” Bingley said cheerfully. “Observations. There is quite a difference. And besides—no one was named.”
Elizabeth gave a small laugh. “A mercy.” If it were not for the blessed anonymity, she might have to commit a minor crime before supper.
Her ears burned. She could feel it—could feel the heat climbing up her throat and along the sides of her face like ink in water. She sipped her punch too quickly and blinked to keep her expression from slipping. Next time, she would simply pour it down her dress. Less obvious than flinching at every clever phrase she had written herself.
“Oh, the bit about the bishop and the gaming house nearly sent me into a fit,” said Marlowe. “What was it? Something about his passion for collecting relics—of every vice known to man?”
Bingley laughed. “Or the line about Lady P’s banquets being ‘a remarkable imitation of food.’ That nearly made me spill my wine.”
