It was exhilarating.
It could not happen again.
She had worked too hard to avoid entanglement. Too hard to protect her reputation, her future, her family. She could not afford a man like Mr. Darcy—not with his disapproving aunts and silent moods and eyes like that—
The music reached its final phrases. They turned, stepped, slowed.
They bowed. She curtsied. They stepped back.
A breathless silence stretched between them.
Then he turned—to retreat, perhaps, or escape—but instead collided with a footman carrying a full tray.
The crash was immediate and glorious. Glass scattered. Liquid fanned in every direction. A candied almond went skidding into someone’s shoe.
Elizabeth covered her mouth with one hand.
He straightened slowly, dripping.
He looked at her.
She was already turning pink from the effort of not laughing.
His scowl deepened. “Not a word.”
She curtsied again, lower this time. “Would not dream of it.”
And then she vanished into the crowd before the laughter could catch her.
Chapter Five
December, 1809
London
It was snowing.
Not the dramatic kind that made poets sigh and ladies gasp, but the quiet kind that coated London in a slow, muffled scorn. Slush gathered along the stones. Breath curled in the air like smoke. And Fitzwilliam Darcy was already regretting his decision to shop in person.
He had intended to be in and out. Fifteen minutes, at most. The shop on Bond Street had a reputation for rare Latin editions, and Georgiana’s new tutor had left an annotated list of suggestions in illegible ink. Darcy had deciphered Cicero and Pliny and something that looked like “forbearance,” though it might have said “forgiveness.” Either way, he needed a distraction.
He stepped into the warmth of the shop and shook the snow from his coat. The bells above the door jingled with irritating cheer.
The place was modest but well-kept. Shelves reached up like church spires. A small fire burned at the back. A stack of pamphlets leaned precariously by the counter.
He had just located the classical section when someone rounded the same shelf from the opposite side and collided with him.
Books flew. A shoulder bumped his chest. A familiar scent—a mix of cloves and ink—hit his nose before his eyes caught up.
Oh, bollocks.
He sighed. “Miss Bennet.”
She looked up from the floor, one knee on a dropped volume of Dryden. Her bonnet was askew, her cheeks flushed from the cold.
She blinked. “Mr. Darcy. How unaccountable.”
He bent to retrieve the fallen books. Their fingers brushed on the cover ofTom Jones. She snatched her hand back like she had touched a hot poker, and he almost smiled.
