Wickham’s smile shifted, just slightly. Polished, still. But with a glint now—measured. Knowing. And just a bit anxious.
“Well,” Elizabeth said lightly, “how fortunate. Mr. Darcy, we were just meeting a new friend. I do not believe you are acquainted with Mr. Wickham.”
Darcy’s jaw flexed. “We are… known to one another.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Are you? Well. I must confess, Mr. Darcy—I am surprised. I had not thought you the type to collect amiable acquaintances. Apart from Mr. Bingley, of course.”
That earned her a very flat look. “I make rare exceptions,” Darcy said, “often to my regret.”
Beside her, Wickham only emitted an inarticulate grunt of laughter. But he was watching. Closely.
“I shall take that as a warning.”
“I meant it as one.”
Lydia let out a muffled giggle. Kitty elbowed her sharply and tried to look serious.
Mr. Bingley leaned forward on his saddle. “Miss Bennet, you must forgive my friend. He rarely means half of what he says.”
“Only the regrettable half,” Elizabeth said sweetly.
Wickham chuckled, and the sound drew every eye for a moment.
“Well,” he said, glancing from one gentleman to the other, “I do hope I shall see you all again. Some other time, perhaps.”
Bingley smiled. “No doubt you will.”
Darcy gave a short nod. No “Good day,” or “A pleasure to see you again, old friend.” Just a nod.
The horses moved on. Elizabeth watched them disappear around the bend, then let out a long breath.
“Well,” said Wickham, after a pause, “that was… instructive.”
Elizabeth raised a brow. “Bracing, I believe, was the word you wanted.”
“Bracing, then.” He smiled again, but it did not quite reach his eyes.
He was still watching the corner where the riders had vanished.
He had not spokenon the ride back.
Bingley had tried, of course. There had been something about French gloves and Miss Bennet’s fondness for lemon bonbons, and Darcy had nodded once—or perhaps not at all—but had given no encouragement. At some point, Bingley had wisely given up.
The fields blurred past. The reins bit into his gloves. And thatimagewould not leave him.
Wickham. Standing in the street like a man welcome anywhere.
Wickham, with his head tilted and his smile turned slightly to the side—like he knew the glimmer of it. Like he always did.
And Elizabeth—Miss Elizabeth Bennet—smiling back.
Not as a girl in danger. Not as a woman alarmed.
But as someone…interested.
Darcy exhaled, sharply. The drawing room at Netherfield was uncomfortably warm, though no one else seemed to notice. Caroline Bingley was fluttering over garland placements. Louisa Hurst had begun rehearsing ballads on the pianoforte. A footman brought in tea, and Bingley was already rambling about card tables and syllabub.
And Darcy stood by the window, too still, too silent, as the voices swirled around him.
