So, this was how it would be. Not just Elizabeth’s name dragged through drawing rooms. His, too. His sister’s.
He did not blink. He did not move. But he saw Miss Bingley across the room, smile fixed and triumphant, as though she had orchestrated the entire spectacle from behind a fan.
And perhaps she had.
Each gaze struck like a match—sharp, searching, stinging.
He stood straight, jaw locked, every muscle drawn taut to hold in what might spill out. Rage. Humiliation. Helplessness.
How had it traveled this far?
The clause in his father’s will—private, legal, buried in dusty parchment—and now laid bare in careless mouths? And Georgiana. They dared to speak her name! Who in London could have…
He swallowed hard. The air itself felt false. Too bright. Too warm.
And then—
Elizabeth. Across the crowd. Not behind Captain Marlowe. Not beside him, where she belonged—the one thing that might have shielded her.
Alone.
Her gaze met his. Raw. Open. No mask left to hold.
A second passed. Then another.
The shame they both wore, stitched in silence. The price of being watched too closely.
He looked away. He could not bear it. Not with her eyes still open like that.
He turned, cutting a path through silks and cravats and laughter, his vision narrowing.
Bingley stood near the archway, in measured conversation, a half-glass of wine in his hand. He saw Darcy coming and straightened—not alarmed. Expectant.
Darcy did not slow. He could no longer stand by. Not now, not after allowing whispers to turn to volleys. Georgiana deserved better. Elizabeth… too.
He squared his shoulders, jaw set. There would be no pause this time.
“Charles. I must speak with you.”
It landed like a command.
Bingley blinked. “Now?”
“Yesterday would not be too soon.”
He glanced once at the room behind them. Then he led the way—past the firelight, beyond the music. Into the hush of the corridor, where the world might finally stop spinning long enough to put it right.
Chapter Thirty-One
The door closed behindthem.
No music here. No candlelight. Just the faint thud of dancers’ heels through the floorboards—every sound felt indecently cheerful. In here, the fire breathed and cracked and said nothing. Shadows leaned long across the carpet.
He had pulled Bingley out like a man dragging someone from a blaze—not for safety, but to reckon with the spark that started it.
Darcy turned, ready. But Bingley shocked him by speaking first. “Darcy… is it true? The rumors?”
No demand. No fury. Just a question trying not to shake.
