He would not have flinched from her sharpness. He would have argued, provoked, deflected. He would have made her defend it, sharpen it, smile in spite of herself.
And he would have known she was not fine.
Elizabeth’s chest ached. Not from heartbreak—there was none of that here. Just a slow, gnawing ache from the knowledge that she had done this to herself. That the only people still speaking to her were either too kind or too oblivious to stop.
She heard them beforeshe saw them.
The low hum of new arrivals—the shuffle of greetings, the rising pitch of Miss Bingley’s laugh. Elizabeth turned slowly, already bracing.
Darcy stood just inside the threshold, his frame unmistakable even in a room of well-tailored men. His shoulders were drawn tight beneath his coat, eyes already scanning the crowd as if he might locate a source of danger by sight alone.
Beside him floated Miss Ashford in silver satin, her curls arranged in airy spirals, cheeks flushed with uncomplicated cheer. She waved to someone near the card tables with the untroubled joy of a woman who had not read a newspaper in a week.
Elizabeth studied her face, hunting for a sign—tension, unease, even a flicker of discomfort. Nothing. No shadow passed behind those wide, pleased eyes. The girl was a portrait of perfect ignorance.
Or perhaps—worse—she had heard, but chosen not to understand.
Darcy’s gaze landed on her. Sharp. Steady.
Elizabeth looked away at once. Too fast. Her glass nearly tipped in her hand.
“Too warm?” Captain Marlowe’s voice was low at her ear.
“Perhaps.” She lifted her chin, made herself smile. “I cannot decide if it is the fire or the scrutiny. Either way, I may melt.”
He did not laugh.
She resisted the urge to whisper something to the air between them—some dark little line she would have scribbled two months ago.Betrothed to a ghost and partnered with a sieve. One cannot say I lack variety.But the words only circled in her mind now, homeless.
She sipped her wine, eyes on the rim. She did not look back across the room.
She should not haveworn blue.
It was not even a particularly bright shade—something between cornflower and forget-me-not—but it caught every beam of candlelight like a signal flare. She might as well have embroidered “AUTHORESS” across her bodice in gold thread.
Captain Marlowe had been summoned—some friend from the 33rd, ruddy-cheeked and full of port—and Elizabeth, never more grateful for military punctuality, had seized her chance to drift away.
Not too fast. That would look like retreat.
Just slow enough to suggest curiosity. A vase of lilies. The gilt frame of a hunting print. The ivy above a marble column. Fascinating. She examined it all with the studied intensity of someone desperate not to be approached.
A pair of ladies passed behind her, voices lowered.
“…she walked in like nothing at all…”
“…as if we cannot read…”
“…and with that officer, no less—”
“Aye, the poor fellow! Do you suppose he has not heard?”
Elizabeth studied the ivy harder. One of the tendrils looked suspiciously like a spider. She resisted the urge to lean closer and let it bite her.
A man’s voice from her left: “I say, if she truly wrote those lines, she ought to write speeches for Parliament.”
A dry reply: “Parliament at least signs its authors.”
She shifted her weight, careful not to wince. Her shoes pinched. Her stays were tight. Every part of her was squeezed into place, and still it felt as if she were unraveling thread by thread.
