He had not expectedherto be there.
And yet—there she was. Another of his grandmother’s notions of a joke.
Elizabeth Bennet, that same old notebook tucked like a weapon beneath her sleeve, eyes bright with the kind of delight that always made him feel slightly winded. He had crossed the room before he quite realized it, drawn by the sheer inevitability of her.
And then—surprise of surprises—they had not argued.
They had spoken like people. Teased, even. She had smiled at him, not in mockery, but in recognition. The brittle wire that always sang between them had not disappeared, but it had warmed. There was a moment—brief, reckless—when he imagined that knowing her might not be a noose after all.
And then Caroline Bingley arrived.
Like a trumpet blast in a chapel.
She had appeared beside him with the timing of a feral cat, grasped his arm as if it were a bannister, and proceeded to speakat him with the velocity of a falling chandelier. Something about vowels. Something about Italian. He had nodded out of instinct, not agreement.
By the time he had extricated himself, Elizabeth was gone.
He turned sharply, searching the room. No sign of her.
He resisted the urge to swear.
Instead, he moved toward the back salon, where coats had been laid on low chairs and the house cat had claimed a shawl as its personal kingdom. He meant only to collect his gloves and retreat.
That was when he saw it.
A small, leather-bound book. Tucked just beneath a folded cloak. Familiar.
He hesitated.
Then, carefully, he opened it.
Not to snoop. Not truly.
Just to confirm.
The handwriting was unmistakable. Slanted, quick, with the kind of rhythm that suggested the author did not stop to second-guess her own wit.
He flipped to the most recent page.
Some men command rooms. Others are furniture—polished, handsome, and rearranged by those with louder voices.
He read it twice.
The line sat there, unrepentant. Amused.
He closed the book with deliberate care.
So. That was what she thought of him.
Never mind that he had notwantedto speak to Caroline Bingley. Never mind that he had been enjoying Elizabeth’s company more than he had enjoyed anything in months. Never mind the truce.
She still saw him as decorative.
As he turned to return it to the settee, a single loose page slipped out—tucked behind the back cover. He caught it before it could fall. Just one line. A scrap, unsigned. Something about smiles and eclipses…
Darcy stared at it for a long moment.
Then, without thinking, he folded it once, twice, and slid it into his coat pocket and slipped the book gently back into place.
