But her hand clenched faintly around the pencil, and the ache behind her pride had a familiar shape to it: fury, not at being corrected, but at being misunderstood—and made to look petty when she had only meant to be sharp. When she had only meant to stay… composed.
She had spent most of her life dressing her feelings in wit and ink. It was safer that way. Easier to hold. But now it felt as if he had reached past the ink to press something raw.
When the salon broke for wine, she did not rise immediately.
But she felt his presence behind her still—like the echo of a song that refused to leave the air.
Darcy had not forgivenhis grandmother.
It had, after all, been her doing. Her devilish sense of intrigue that had prompted her to fund his humiliation last July.
He had intended to. There had been time. Eight months since the garden fête, during which he had firmly catalogued Miss Elizabeth Bennet as a momentary aberration—irreverent, impulsive, and very nearly forgettable.
And then he saw her again. Not across a lawn, not flinging ribbons and laughter with sisters in tow, but seated just ahead of him in a narrow chair with a notebook tucked cunningly beneath her shawl. Her bonnet was different. Her posture the same. And her wit—if anything—sharper.
It was absurd.
He had come to this salon reluctantly. At his grandmother’s urging, naturally. For the sake of appearances and “to be among people who can read for once.”
He had not expected a girl with seven pounds’ worth of ribbon history and a laugh like a dropped teacup to appear in the row ahead of him, scrawling insults about metaphor into the margins of her program.
And now, as the room broke apart for refreshments, he found himself drifting—not deliberately—toward the sideboard.
She was there, already in conversation with a woman whose vocabulary had been almost entirely adjectives during the reading.
Darcy intended to retreat.
But then Miss Elizabeth turned slightly, reached for a glass, and saw him.
She did not blink.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said. “We meet again.”
He bowed, stiffly. “Miss Bennet.”
“You look terribly cornered. Have you been ambushed by pastry?”
“I am only reconnoitering the punch.”
“Ah. And if it proves hostile?”
“I shall negotiate terms.”
She offered him a glass, filled neatly to the rim. “Your courage is an inspiration.”
He took it, though he did not smile. She was watching him too closely for that.
“Tell me,” she said, “have you begun dressing for literary engagements in mourning as well? Or is this merely a consistent aesthetic?”
He lifted his brow. “Must I wear white to be deemed cheerful?”
“I think you could wear saffron and still look like a thundercloud.”
“I shall make a note.”
“Oh no,” she said, drawing out her notebook with theatrical flair, “I make the notes. That is how this works.”
Darcy glanced at the little volume.
