“One of them, yes. The dowager. Her late husband was a cousin of my uncle’s, distantly. She remembered me, or at least pretended to, and she asked whoyouwere.” She nodded toward Elizabeth, eyes alight. “She said you had the look of someone likely to cause trouble. In a good way.”
Elizabeth arched a brow. “Trouble? I shall have to be very careful, then. If I cause too much, she might try to marry me to one of her relatives.”
Mrs. Gardiner laughed—truly laughed, the kind that drew glances from the neighboring guests—and patted her arm. “She is quite fond of sharp young ladies. I would not be surprised if she summoned you for conversation before the afternoon ends.”
Jane looked pleased. Mary looked like she wished for her copy of Plutarch. Elizabeth, however, felt the familiar spark of something dangerous and thrilling: attention. From someone important. Who might even understand her.
“Do not tease her too much,” Jane murmured later, as they walked past a row of painted parasols.
“Would I do such a thing?”
“You have already invented three nicknames for Lady Biddlesby’s bonnet.”
Elizabeth smiled, but the notebook stayed tucked away. Some things were too good to write down in the moment.
And then—the air shifted.
Not literally. But there was a change, a pull, as if something colder had entered the warmth. The ladies near the table turned as one. One of the footmen straightened. Jane followed the movement, her eyes widening.
Elizabeth turned.
A gentleman had just arrived. He wore black. Not a fashionable black, but a grave one—coat, waistcoat, gloves. Even his cravat looked severe.
He was tall, and still, and looked at the crowd as if he had already counted their sins.
Elizabeth’s breath caught—not for his face, which was certainly fine, if one appreciated the brooding type—but for the way he stood. As though he was waiting to be disappointed. As though he already had been.
“Who is that?” she asked Jane softly.
“I do not know.”
“Whoever he is,” Elizabeth said, “he is dressed for a funeral and wishing it were ours.”
But she did not look away.
Darcy had already decidednot to speak.
It was easier that way. One could not be drawn into foolishness or flirtation if one declined to open one’s mouth. He could nod. He could bow. He could offer a single, glacial “Madam” when absolutely required. But he had no intention of saying anything more than that.
It was a policy that had served him well on the ride to Matlock, where Major Fitzwilliam had spent an astonishing portion of the journey speculating about tarts. Not the edible sort.
Now they stood together near the edge of the lawn, the sun striking Fitzwilliam’s polished boots while Darcy remained half-shadowed beneath the eaves of a tent. It was large, garish, and flapping a little at the corners like it might take off if enough nonsense were said beneath it.
“Well,” said Fitzwilliam, surveying the crowd, “they’ve laid out quite a battlefield. Which sector would you like to die in?”
Darcy only narrowed his eyes.
“Do not look like that,” his cousin added. “You are not being led to the scaffold. You are simply standing among cakes and widows.”
Darcy adjusted his gloves. “They do not seem to be mourning.”
“Of course not. That would require sincerity. Now smile like you were trained to and pretend you are not counting the minutes until it is over.”
Darcy did not smile.
A cluster of ladies passed nearby, their eyes flicking toward him like moths to a candle. Darcy kept his expression fixed and his shoulders squared. He had no intention of being approached. He had only agreed to come because Fitzwilliam had threatened to recite Pope aloud until they reached Pemberley’s stables.
“Darcy!”
