He passed, not pausing, not looking. Every word a match on dry paper.
She should not have been left to face this alone. He should have spoken. Taken her arm. Faced them all.
But that would confirm it. Confirmher, and make matters worse by making her look like his… well,thatdid not bear repeating.
And still, he wanted to.
A voice behind him—two men, laughing too softly.
“…she bit the hand that fed her…”
“…you mean the one about virtue?”
“…he still asked for her hand, though. Makes you wonder.”
He stopped walking. So, the rumor mill had found her out—discovered that her engagement to Captain Marlowe was little more than a thin veil. Darcy glanced at the captain, across the room—smiling just a little too widely, his eyes fixed on the person he was speaking with a little too glaringly. To the man’s credit, he had not disavowed Elizabeth… yet. But neither was he by her side, where he belonged.
He was still burning with it—every glance Elizabeth endured, every half-smile aimed like a dart. He could see it all. The tightening of shoulders. The tilt of fans. The subtle recoil of genteel conversation.
He was ready to speak. To call them out, if need be. If they wanted a villain, let them have him. He would rather be hated than let her stand alone.
He turned—half a step toward the card room, or the stairs, or anywhere he could find her.
And then he heard his own name.
“…Darcy…”
Not addressed. Not called. Pried open.
He slowed.
“Yes, I am surprised he is not at the Matlocks’ this New Year’s…”
“…unthinkable, with his standing…”
“…they say he has made himself unwelcome.”
His stomach turned.
An instant later, he caught another voice, lower, nearer.
“…well, you heard about the will…”
“…a clause, something about turning thirty—”
“Oh, yes, hehadto marry in a hurry, that is the whole of it.”
He felt the heat rise up his neck. Not from wine. Not from the crowd.
From the sensation of being dissected.
“…and the sister, did you not know? Something happened, a quiet little disaster… patched over quickly, but not well…”
Laughter, gentle at first, then sharper. Each word carved space around Elizabeth. Aroundhim.
“…this match is all of a piece. The whole thing reeks of desperation.”
Darcy’s teeth set behind closed lips. His hands curled, slowly, into fists at his sides. Every breath had to be forced.
