Elizabeth’s stomach tightened. He had meant it as praise. That was the worst part. He was still smiling, still proud to stand beside her. He did not know. He could not see it.
Miss Bingley’s smile curved like ribbon. “Exactly so. Whoever she is, she does not miss a single fault. A pity she writes instead of saying things aloud. Then again—one doubts she would be half as bold without a mask.”
Elizabeth sipped her wine. Her hand did not tremble, but only because she made it so. Every word in the air felt aimed just above her heart, like a duelist who could not quite bring herself to draw blood. And still, no one stepped in.
Captain Marlowe laughed again, oblivious. So terribly pleased to be amused. Like a dog proud of catching a ball someone else had already thrown. “If she did say them aloud, she would not last an hour at Almack’s. Unless, of course, she were as charming as she is vicious. In that case, I imagine she would be quite popular.”
She stared into her glass. The rim gleamed smooth and thin and useless. Just as useless as Marlowe was, apparently.
Darcy would have known.He would not have smiled. He would have said nothing—but it would have meant something. And she would have heard it like thunder. He would have caught the curl of Miss Bingley’s phrasing, the careful cut of her compliment. He would not have stood silent, blinking and amused and then rise to the occasion of flattering himself. He would have said something to agree withher. Or if he could not—if circumstance forbade it—he would have looked at her. Seen her.
Marlowe did none of that.
Elizabeth turned her head slightly and let her gaze drift, just for a moment, past the edge of their little circle. Darcy stood near the pianoforte, nodding politely at something Mrs. Ashford had said. His expression gave nothing away. He did not look over.
And why should he? He had done his part. He had kept his distance. She glanced at Darcy again. Still nothing. No flicker of recognition. Without her pen, the urge to speak felt like a splinter under her skin. However, her pen had never answered back—but he did. Dryly, reluctantly, as if dragged into amusement against his will. And she had never missed it more than now, when the only person worth speaking to was busy nodding at someone else.
Elizabeth smiled back at the round of gossipers. “Well, if itwasonly one person, then I hope she was at least paid double for the effort.”
A few chuckles followed. The circle relaxed. The barb was gone, the mask was back in place. And no one noticed she was gripping her fan hard enough to crease the ivory.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
26 December
He should not havecome.
Or rather, he should not have brought Georgiana.
Christmas Day had been miserable—Lady Catherine casting aspersions on Miss Ashford's lineage with every arched brow, the dowager’s barbs hidden behind compliments, and Darcy seated at the head of his own table like a statue, unable to pacify either camp.
He had meant for today to be better. He had promised himself Georgiana would enjoy it.
So here they were, standing in the narrow front hall of the Ashfords' leased townhouse, where ivy and holly draped every lintel and the scent of oranges steeped in clove filled the air.
Georgiana’s gloved hand rested lightly on his sleeve.
“You promised this would be quiet,” she whispered.
“It will be,” Darcy murmured. “Relatively.”
The butler opened the door to the drawing room, and warmth poured out—voices and light and the unmistakable laughter of people who had never sat across from Lady Catherine de Bourgh on Christmas Day.
Mr. Ashford rose to greet them, one hand already extended.
“Darcy! And Miss Darcy—what a pleasure. Come in, come in, we have just poured the punch.”
Mrs. Ashford stood, regal in burgundy silk, and took Georgiana’s hand. “My dear, I have saved you a chair beside me. I shall tell you all about Miss Susan’s disastrous pudding.”
Miss Susan, nearby, made a face. “It was not a disaster. It was… unconventional.”
“We were warned,” said her sister.
Darcy took a glass of punch from Mr. Ashford and allowed himself a glance around the room. A modest party, all family. No debutantes in sight. No patronesses. No politics.
Just… cheer.
Georgiana had already been drawn into conversation. She was smiling.
