He beamed again, delighted. “You have nothing to fear. Everyone here is charmed already.”
Yes, charmed. Or at least entertained.
They stepped into the crush. Conversation rolled over them in waves—easy, elegant, and perfectly choreographed. She heard her name rise and vanish, like a skipped note in a melody. Heard it again—softer this time, almost swallowed. The weight of eyes was constant, though they kept themselves turned discreetly aside.
A cluster of young men near the fireplace glanced her way, then turned to their glasses, murmuring low. A lady on the settee stopped mid-sentence to track Elizabeth’s progress across the room, then resumed with a smile too broad to be real. Another adjusted her gloves three times in ten seconds, eyes darting between Elizabeth and her companion.
“Everyone is in excellent spirits,” said Captain Marlowe.
“Excessively excellent,” she muttered. “I am overwhelmed.”
“I should have called for you. I intended to.” He guided her toward a small alcove as if shielding her from something—though not very effectively. “But your uncle mentioned you might not be receiving callers.”
“Ah. That was very diplomatic of him.”
“I only mean—if I have presumed—”
“You have not.” She smiled without showing her teeth. “And even if you had, presumption is rather fashionable at present.”
His brow furrowed, just for a second. He did not get the joke. Or he chose not to.
“A bit warmer in here than the frost outside,” he tried.
“Ah, but the frost lingers near the punch bowl.”
He chuckled—two notes—and went quiet again.
She could feel the attention still hovering, like fog that refused to lift. A woman near the pianoforte narrowed her eyes just enough to suggest she was solving a riddle. Another, in blue satin, whispered to a gentleman in velvet—then both looked down at their cards too quickly to be natural.
Captain Marlowe turned to ask if she would like punch. She said yes, mostly to be left alone for a moment. He promised to return immediately, then hesitated, straightened his cuffs, and told her she looked quite well again.
“I shall endeavor not to fall apart before you return,” she said.
He did not quite laugh that time. Perhaps he did not hear her.
Or was it restraint?
He had been at the Gardiners’ when the last pamphlet had arrived. He had seen Jane’s face go pale. Had watched Mrs. Gardiner retreat with the folded sheet like it might detonate. Mr. Gardiner had read only a line before folding it back in half and setting it, carefully, on the mantel—as if the fireplace might consume it on principle.
Captain Marlowe had not asked. But he had noticed.
And then he had sent her flowers the next morning. White camellias and a note that read simply: “I hope the frost thaws.”
She had not known whether to laugh or cry. She had done neither. She had stared at the note until the ink blurred, then buried it in the drawer beneath her gloves.
She stole a glance at him now. His posture was easy. His face pleasant. His conversation mild.
As if he did not know.
Or as if he had decided to pretend.
It was the pretending that hollowed her out. The polite fictions. The way he took her arm like a man rehearsing for a future that no longer fit.
She missed her journal. Bitterly. Violently. It had always been a faithful audience—silent, absorbing, uncensoring. It had never looked at her like this. Never needed a performance.
But worse still—
She would have traded every quip she ever penned for five unguarded minutes with Darcy.
