The moment held, suspended like frost clinging to glass. A lantern swayed above the walk. Hooves clattered somewhere near the corner. But Elizabeth stood rooted.
Then came the worst realization of all.
She wanted to speak to him. She wanted it so badly it felt like hunger. The words formed behind her teeth—scathing, witty, sorrowful, desperate. But her throat clenched, and the moment choked on the silence.
He stepped forward.
And she did not flee.
Elizabeth was the first to draw breath, as if nothing at all had happened.
“Well,” she said, lifting her chin, “this is awkward.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Miss Bennet.”
She turned slightly to face him, the wind teasing a lock of hair across her temple. “We are both out without our handlers. Shall we pretend it is coincidence?”
“I should hope we can still claim coincidence without blushing,” he said. “Unless you believe I orchestrated my grandmother’s gout for the pleasure of meeting you mid-pavement.”
She lifted one brow. “And I suppose you will tell me her gout sent you in search of a new cravat?”
“It did, in fact.”
She blinked.
He looked vaguely pained. “She has taken against the brown one. Said it made me look jaundiced.”
A pause.
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “You left the house because of a cravat.”
“I left the house,” he said, “because my grandmother declared, with great solemnity and some theatrical wheezing, that unless I replaced the offending cravat immediately, she would inform Lady Catherine that I had grown slovenly and might be unfit to marry at all.”
Elizabeth bit her lip.
He looked heavenward. “I did not argue. She had a cane.”
“Ah. Then I applaud your courage. Few men can stand up to the sartorial whims of the dowager Countess.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
And just like that, her lungs hurt. Not from grief. From the stupid, ridiculous joy of watching him nearly laugh at her again.God help her, she had missed that face. That almost.
She folded her arms against the wind as though it could brace her insides. Across from her, Darcy did not move. His gloves remained in his hand, fingers curled tight around the leather, but there was no tension in his shoulders. Just stillness. As if he had frozen sometime in the last minute, afraid anything more would crack the ice they stood upon.
She did not mean to speak. But her mouth betrayed her.
“I suppose your wedding is this week.”
A beat passed before he answered. “Tuesday.”
Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.Tuesday.It sounded like a guillotine appointment.
She tried to say anything else—How is your sister, did your tailor faint from grief, are you eating enough—but all that emerged was:“Mine is Thursday.”
He stiffened and his glove bent in half in his hand. “I see.”
