And that—Heaven help her—that might be worse.
Miss Ashford angled herselftoward the firelight, lifting her skirts just so. Darcy reached for a fresh glass of wine without tasting the last. Across the room, someone laughed—sharp, delighted, too loud for any anecdote that harmless.
Mr. Ashford stepped closer, brushing a bit of invisible lint from his cuff. “A lively house,” he said, his gaze sweeping the chandelier. “I see what you mean about Mr. Bingley. He is very… welcoming.”
Mrs. Ashford adjusted the fall of her sleeve and offered a mild smile. “Your Miss Bingley is quite the hostess. I believe she introduced me to six people in as many minutes.”
Darcy inclined his head, offering nothing more. He would not speak of Miss Bingley tonight. Not while his tongue still threatened to betray him.
“Mr. Bingley has a gift for hospitality,” he said instead. “He is well-liked, and justly so.”
Mrs. Ashford smiled, pleased. “Yes, yes. And how fortunate for us—next year, Susan will be out, and with Penelope already so well-situated, I daresay her dance card will fill itself.”
She said it with the modesty of someone entirely certain she had won. Darcy did not trust himself to answer. He was looking for Bingley.
Darcy had intended to speak earlier—pass a quiet word to Bingley at the matinée, advise him of his sister’s apparent betrayal of her former “friend.” But Caroline Bingley’s smug presence, the guests’ eyes… he had held himself back, believing discretion was protection for the moment.
Miss Ashford glanced up, just for a moment. “Mama—”
“It is a promising new year ahead,” Mrs. Ashford interrupted. “Surely, that is a sentiment we can all echo.”
Darcy offered no reply. What could he say? That protection and position was a mirage? That London’s polite society had the manners of a chessboard and the instincts of a wolf pack?
A violin trilled, bright and insistent, dragging the dancers into another set. He stepped back instinctively as a swirl of skirts passed too close. Miss Ashford leaned toward him—said something light, something about the card tables, perhaps—but the words splintered before they reached him.
He nodded. Or thought he did.
Movement by the stairs caught his eye. Two women, half-shadowed, their heads bent close. They did not glance over, not directly, but their posture changed as he neared. One pressed a hand to her chest in mock surprise. The other’s mouth curled into something that might once have been a smile.
Not laughter.
A whisper sharpened to a point.
He turned his face away—too sharply. His collar itched. His gloves felt damp.
A gentleman brushing past muttered something just loud enough for the syllables to carry—“hasty match”—before the voice was lost to the music.
Darcy’s spine locked. His hand hovered behind Miss Ashford’s back but did not touch her. He did not dare look up, lest his eyes blunder into Elizabeth’s again.
He circled the edge of the room instead, skirting conversation, avoiding Miss Bingley’s gaze with careful precision. Her voice rang out—light, false, unmistakable—but he turned away before it could settle on him. A waiter offered champagne. He declined.
Then—
Her.
She stood apart, near the fireplace. The light gilded the curve of her cheek, the gleam of her hair. She was not watching anyone, yet she saw everything. Unmoving. Unsmiling.
He felt it in his chest like the strike of a match. Because she looked exactly how he felt.
And the whispers were getting louder.
He moved—slowly. Not toward her. Not toward anything. Just away from the scalding ache in his chest.
“…quite the little pamphlet. She must think she is dashingly clever…”
“…ought to be ashamed…”
“…no real breeding…”
