“I hope he proves worthy of her.”
She tilted her head. “I rather thought he already had.”
Darcy’s jaw twitched, just once. “He has, in character. But not in circumstances. His sister made that difficult.”
“She always has.” Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “She gave me a parting shot before she left Gracechurch Street. Called it admiration, but it tasted of poison.”
“She will not do so again.”
She turned toward him, just slightly. “No?”
“Bingley has… made her feel his displeasure.” A pause. “He has cut her allowance. Demanded she leave London after the season. She was not pleased.”
Elizabeth blinked. “I assumed you put him up to it.”
His mouth curved—just slightly. “An interesting assumption.”
“And did you?”
“No,” he said. “I simply made him understand what it looked like when his sister drew blood in his name.”
“And did he flinch?”
“He bled.”
Elizabeth looked away.
He waited, as if hoping she would look him in the eye, before adding, “I believe he means to do right by your sister. Whatever else may come.”
She nodded slowly. “And your family? Have they called off the dogs, or merely given them prettier collars?”
A faint sound escaped him—something between a laugh and a breath. “You know them.”
“I do not.”
“You know enough.”
She gave a half-smile. “Then I suppose I can guess: your aunt still thinks you should marry your cousin, your uncle thinks you should marry no one, and your grandmother thinks you should marry anyone but the girl you want.”
He blinked. “That is… remarkably accurate.”
“Good,” she said. “Then I need not waste my breath asking what they have done to make your life miserable. And Miss Darcy?”
“They are family,” he said dryly. “That is their job.” He drew a slow breath before speaking, as if choosing each word with care. “My sister has indeed taken to better fare,” he said. “She is exchanging melodramas for... texts far more suited to her intellect.”
Elizabeth arched one brow. “Quintilian, perhaps? Or Virgil in full, and you translating it while burning wood for warmth?”
A shadow flickered in his eyes. “Something like that. I offered to read aloud, but Georgiana insists on mastering the language herself.” He paused, for no reason she could detect. “It gives her purpose.”
Elizabeth tucked her hands into her cloak pockets. “From scandal to scholarship. A step in the right direction, one might say.”
He met her gaze then, and his pulse seemed to catch—just enough that she heard the faint beat in his jaw. “And what of you? Any diversion besides wondering if your final dance partner has weighed the mercy of showing up at the vicar’s in a masked slipper?”
Her lips quirked despite herself. “I flirted with the idea of rereading Horace. For company.”
He nodded. “That sounds... manageable.”
She wanted to laugh at the hesitancy behind his tone. He sounded almost—delicate about it. “Yes,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Manageable.”
