Elizabeth tried not to notice the way the lamplight caught the edge of his cheekbone, or the fact that she had not quite stepped back since he offered her the wine.
Whatever this was, it was temporary.
Whatever this was, it was dangerous.
But it was warm, and it was funny, and it made her forget—for one thin, gleaming minute—that she had ever been put out with him over that sillySiege of Tyredebate. Or his poor dancing.
She flipped open her notebook again, letting her hand move lightly, automatically. She had learned long ago that if she could name a moment—shape it, pin it to the page—it could not turn on her later.
Darcy happened to glance away for a moment when some gentleman or other caught his attention in greeting. Elizabeth could not resist. She turned to a hidden back page of her notebook and scribbled.
His smiles are like eclipses. Rare. Brief. Everyone stares.
Darcy turned back just in time to notice her writing. Of course he did.
He tilted his head. “That will be in there, will it?”
She did not deny it.
“You should take care,” he said, low and not entirely unkind. “That thing will ruin you.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And you, Mr. Darcy, would ruin me by far more conventional means.”
His mouth twitched. “If I ever see my name in a satirical tract, I will know where to send the summons.”
“And I shall respond with a second edition.”
He gave a soft huff of laughter, and for once it was not guarded. It was real. Easy.
There was a pause—not tense, not weighty. Just a quiet in which neither of them moved to fill the space too quickly.
“How is Georgiana? She must be… fourteen now?” she asked.
The question must have surprised him, because he seemed to grow an inch taller. “Nearly fifteen. She is well, thank you. She has taken to the pianoforte with new seriousness.”
“I hope not the tragic sort of seriousness. I knew a girl who practiced so earnestly she wore through the ivory. And then we all had to listen to her complain about it.”
Darcy shook his head. “No, she is quite content. She prefers to play rather than perform.”
“As do I. But I lack the skill to make it sound noble.”
He looked at her sidelong. “Now I know you merely mean to be contrary. You were never fond of showing off.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Not unless provoked.”
“Then I must have provoked you often.”
“You still do.”
That earned a proper laugh—quiet, low, but unmistakably his. And Elizabeth felt—dangerously—that this could be something like civility. Like sense.
He glanced around them, as if noticing only now that they were still standing at the edge of the reception.
“Are you here with family?”
“My aunt,” she said, nodding toward Mrs. Gardiner, who was speaking with a pair of silver-haired ladies near the mantle. “She seems to be faring rather well without me.”
Darcy looked at the group, then back to Elizabeth. “Might I escort you to your seat?”
