“I am pleased to have your continued regard,” Elizabeth said, the words too careful, too practiced. “And I am grateful for your honesty.”
He looked relieved. “Then we are in accord.”
She managed a smile, the sort meant for drawing rooms and reverends, not partners. “Entirely.”
He stood and offered a brief, neat bow. “I shall call again on Thursday, if it suits.”
Elizabeth nodded.
And then he was gone.
The clock ticked twice. She rose only once the front door closed and paced to the window. She watched him pass under the streetlamp, his figure square, coat immaculate, not a hair disturbed. He walked like a man pleased to have fulfilled a duty.
He did not love her. And he did not pretend to.
She pressed her hand to the cold pane of the glass, lips twisting into a hollow smile. She had wanted to be seen. And now she was visible only as a possibility—sensible, tolerably clever, unlikely to embarrass him in public.
But she did not want to be admired from across the room.
She wanted to be watched. Fought with. Laughed at.
She wanted someone who would call her difficult and mean it as a compliment.
Darcy would have said nothing at all—and she would have known exactly what it meant.
Behind her, the hearth crackled. Elizabeth stayed at the window long after he vanished from sight.
13 January
Darcy had not steppedfive paces into Dyer’s office before he regretted the delay.
The stench of stale pipe smoke clung to the drapes, mingled with the sharper scent of scorched ink. It bit at the edge of his restraint. He had come directly from an endless meetingat the bank, where nothing could be decided and everything was urgent. His coat was still damp from the morning fog, and beneath it, every bone in his body ached from the weight of holding everything together. The last thing he wanted was to conduct this business surrounded by the oily hush of legal clerks and the muffled creak of dusty ledgers.
But he had insisted upon it—insisted the meeting be held here, not in his own home. Wickham did not belong at Darcy House. Not on his threshold. Not within sight of Georgiana.
Wickham, of course, had arrived early.
He was seated by the hearth, of course. Chair drawn slightly askew—enough to claim the space but not so much as to make a scene. Legs crossed, head tilted at a contemplative angle, a book held lightly in one hand. As if he had not been dodging correspondence for a fortnight.
As if the past ten days of Darcy’s life had not been spent fending off disaster with a penknife while Wickham toyed with the matchbox.
The gloves stayed on. If he removed them, he was not entirely sure his hands would be steady.
“You kept me waiting,” he said.
Wickham looked up with the air of a man being interrupted at leisure. His smile arrived half a moment too late. “You did say today.”
“I said last week.”
A shrug. “I only received leave yesterday. The colonel is not easily swayed, even by your fine signature.”
Darcy’s breath stilled. The anger was not hot now—it had cooled, hardened. It was heavier this way. Measured. Lethal.
“You delayed on purpose.”
“Come now.” Wickham set down the book with a lazy hand. “Even I cannot manufacture army leave.”
“You have manufactured plenty else.”
