Elizabeth stepped back a pace. Her expression did not change. “Well,” she said. “Then I suggest you hurry.”
He blinked.
“You are nearly out of time. We would never suit, and I should be very put out if you forced me to keep that ridiculous promise.”
He exhaled slowly. “You need not worry.”
“Oh?”
“I have no intention of it, and I have, as you pointed out, still two years.”
Something flickered across her face—relief, or disappointment, or both, pressed too tightly together to name.
“Well. Let us hope for better luck next year.”
She turned then, the blue ribbon trailing behind her like an afterthought, tied clumsily around the parcel as though the shopkeeper had not known how tightly to bind it.
Darcy remained where he was, watching her vanish into the slow white hush of Bond Street, the ache of something unfinished crawling its way beneath his collar.
Then he turned and followed.
Notafterher.
Just… in the same direction.
May, 1810
London
Elizabeth had not meantto enjoy herself.
The invitation had arrived like she supposed all invitations from the dowager Lady Matlock must—decidedly polite, impossibly grand, and suspiciously insistent. Her aunt had been shocked and delighted. Her uncle had raised his eyebrows. Elizabeth had stared at the envelope and considered feigning a fever.
And yet here she was, at the musicale, surrounded by gleaming wood floors, candlelight, and enough velvet to reupholster a fleet of carriages.
It was a smaller gathering than she expected. Three dozen guests at most. No crush. No cards. Just music, conversation, and the mild threat of poetry.
She had been nibbling an apricot tart and trying not to judge the soprano when she saw him.
Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Standing near the French doors, coat impeccably fitted, expression slightly less thunderous than usual. He had not seen her yet, and she had a brief, ridiculous instinct to flee to the punch table.
But then he looked up—and something passed between them. Not recognition. Something after that.
It was not cold. It was not mocking.
It was almost… pleased.
He crossed the room without ceremony, stopping just short of what might be considered eager. She inclined her head. He offered no bow, just a smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth like it had been retrieved from storage.
“Miss Bennet.”
“Mr. Darcy.”
His eyes drifted over her person as if he were cataloging her attire. “You are in London again.”
“I am.”
