A crackle of laughter followed—genuine, unrestrained. Even Mr. Barrington gave a sheepish cough.
Darcy fought a smirk. He lost.
And that was when the dowager turned the knife with grandmotherly grace.
“Of course, Darcy’s tastes run to practical generosity. You have been quite charitable since inheriting, have you not, my dear? Especially toward institutions like the Foundling Hospital. I recall a rather memorable picnic…”
Darcy’s spine locked. Ice trickled down his neck.
Elizabeth Bennet turned to him with her brows delicately raised, as if awaiting a favorite song.
“A picnic?” she asked, all innocence.
The dowager sighed with a satisfied smile—rather too content to play along. “There was an auction. Quite a stir, as I recall. Bidding became… spirited.”
Elizabeth sipped her punch. “Was there a winner?”
The dowager smiled sweetly. “Oh yes. One young lady showed real commitment. I remember a broken fan. Possibly a veiled threat.”
Darcy stared straight ahead.
Elizabeth leaned closer. “You fetch a high price for a man who does not smile.”
He looked at her. Fully. Directly. “I am not for sale.”
Her smile widened just enough to be called dangerous. “Oh, I know. That is what made you expensive.”
The group around them broke into knowing laughter.
Darcy did not. But his fingers tightened around his glass.
She was dangerous. Not because she mocked him. Because she meant nothing by it. Because it cost her nothing to say exactly what she thought, and it left him—unaccountably—without a defense.And that notebook—he realized, distantly—was not just for amusement. She was not merely collecting trifles. She was keeping something at bay.
He stood beside her until the room began to thin, until the sherry ran out, and until someone asked if Miss Bennet would be reading her own verses next time.
She declined, demurely.
But Darcy was certain she would write about this later. And—God help him—he almost wanted to read it.
April 1808
Bath
There were worse thingsthan Bath in April.
The air was soft and faintly sweet, the windows left open just enough to tease out the candle smoke, and the musicians—though clearly exhausted—were still playing with just enough conviction to keep the dancers moving.
Elizabeth Bennet was, at present, not dancing.
She stood to the side, punch in hand, watching the swirling gowns and high laughter with the practiced neutrality of someone who had already refused three partners and only mildly regretted it.
She was visiting the Gardiners for a brief spring holiday while Mr. Gardiner negotiated a new silk contract—Mrs. Gardiner had claimed it would be “refreshing.” Elizabeth had not realized that meant damp, perfumed, and brimming with dowagers wielding lorgnettes like weaponry.
Still. There were sweetmeats. The music was pleasant. And if one stood at just the right angle near the pillar, one could write notes without being caught.
Tonight’s assembly: Two-and-a-half handsome men. Three crushed toes. One persistent suitor with a damp glove and tragic ideas about Byron.
She had just tucked her notebook back into her sleeve when a movement across the room caught her eye.
