He was here. He washere, and she was about to be paraded like a prize goose with ink-stained feathers.
Elizabeth’s pulse stuttered.
He had not seen her. Yet. But he was turning slightly, shifting his weight in the way she remembered—like a man assessing an exit. Or an adversary. And he was escorting someone, a woman shorter than himself, her bonnet tied with a pale ribbon. The angle was poor, the crowd too thick, but Elizabeth’s imagination filled in the rest with terrifying efficiency.
His wife.
Of course. His wife.
She had thought herself safe here. Far from carriages and contracts and curt goodbyes. But she had invaded his world again—unintentionally, absurdly—and now he would be forced to witness her disgrace a second time.
She could almost summon a bit of pity for him. Surely he had no expectation of being set upon in his own home county.
Elizabeth turned so sharply she nearly tripped over the potted ficus behind her. With one great motion, she positioned herself behind it, tugging her shawl over her shoulder as camouflage.
Mrs. Gardiner blinked. “What are you doing?”
“Hiding,” Elizabeth hissed.
“From what?”
“Not what.Whom.”
Her aunt followed her gaze. And then—slowly, wickedly—smiled.
Elizabeth gripped the ficus tighter.
God save her. Or at the very least, let the floor open wide enough to swallow her whole.
The instant Darcy steppedinto the drawing room, his senses reeled. It was not the crush of guests nor the overheated air but the sheerpossibilitythat gripped him. He scanned the room too quickly, breath half-held, seeking the familiar curve of her cheek, the bright gleam of her eyes, anything—anything to anchor the idea that she might truly be here.
Shehadto be here.
Behind him, Richard kept up a steady stream of commentary, clearly enjoying himself far more than was warranted. “I've not seen the lady in five years. Can hardly remember what she looked like save for her eyes. Is it the tall one by the hearth? No—too statuesque. The one in blue, perhaps. Brown hair. Vaguely judgmental.”
“That is Lady Meredith,” said the dowager sharply. “And she is not brunette. She is merely thrifty with the hair powder.”
Richard waved a dismissive hand. “They all begin to blur together after a while. I recall Miss Bennet being petite. Orperhaps that was the ficus. You brought me to an auction, not a salon.”
Darcy scanned the room again, his breath shallow. He could feel the urgency curling tight behind his ribs.
“Too blonde,” muttered Richard, eyeing another possibility. “Too short. That one looks like she would cry if you corrected her embroidery. Not our girl.”
“She is notouranything,” Darcy snapped, still searching.
“True. She is probably someone else’s by now,” Richard mused. “But let us be helpful while we are here. How about the one near the sideboard, with the unfortunate sleeves?”
“She is sixteen,” said the dowager, without looking. “And has a squint.”
“Shame,” Richard said. “Would have been a good match otherwise.”
Darcy pressed forward slightly, trying to see past a pair of gentlemen gesturing with their syllabub glasses. Still nothing. He could feel his pulse thrumming like a signal drum.
“She may not even be here,” he muttered.
“Then stop looming like a butler shooing away the guests,” said the dowager. “And stop dragging me like a sled. We are meant to be mingling, not storming a battlefield.”
“Iammingling,” he replied, tight-voiced.
