Tall. Dark coat. Stiff posture.
No. Oh, good heavens, no.
Elizabeth blinked. Then looked again.
Itwashim.
Mr. Darcy of Pemberley—brooding, unsmiling, and looking as though he had been dragged to the ball by threat of disinheritance. Or his cousin.
It had been months. Nearly a year, in fact. And yet there he was, as if conjured by some mischievous spirit with a taste for discomfort. He was standing near the edge of the crowd,speaking with no one, his eyes roaming the room like a man seeking the nearest exit.
He looked older. Or perhaps it was the severity of his expression—more guarded than she remembered. And yet—
Hehadseen her.
She knew it before their eyes met. Felt it like a shiver through her spine.
He did not smile. Of course not. But something shifted in his posture. A hesitation. A flicker. His eyes locked onto hers across the room with the force of a thrown gauntlet.
Elizabeth turned sharply back to the refreshment table.
No.
This was not a salon, or a bookstore, or a summer garden with inconvenient auctions and interfering grandmothers. This was Bath. Neutral territory. He would not approach. He would not—
“Another set, if you please!”
The caller’s voice rang out across the room, and Elizabeth barely heard it over the sudden thunder of her own pulse.
She turned, just in time to see Mrs. Hargrave—fluttering, flustered, absurdly delighted—bearing down upon her.
“Ah, Miss Bennet! How fortunate! We need a final pair. Just one more gentleman and—ah! Sir! You there!”
Elizabeth’s stomach dropped.
Mr. Darcy stood not ten feet away. Eyes narrowed. Jaw set.
Mrs. Hargrave beamed. “Miss Bennet, Mr. Darcy—how charming. Please, to the floor.”
Charming.
Elizabeth stared at the woman as though she had just asked her to waltz with a lion.
Darcy spoke first. Of course he did. “If Miss Bennet does not object.”
The words were polite. His tone was flint.
Elizabeth’s lips parted. Closed again. There were a dozen ways to decline, and all of them would mean explaining herself to Mrs. Hargrave. And perhaps to half of Bath.
She met his eyes. “Only if you are quite certain, Mr. Darcy. I should not like to impose.”
His mouth twitched—something between a grimace and a smile. “I believe the imposition may be mutual.”
She handed her punch to a startled onlooker with enough force to slosh it onto his cuff. Then she lifted her chin and took Mr. Darcy’s arm—the one so stiff it could have belonged to a toy soldier.
They took their place at the end of the set.
It was going to be a very long half hour.
