He had not even dismounted properly. The horse had barely stopped before he had tossed the reins at a groom and stalked inside, ignoring Bingley’s cheerful murmur: “You are in a mood.”
Mood.
Yes, he supposed he was.
Darcy flexed his jaw, hard enough to ache. Wickham should have been penniless. Disgraced. Vanished into the anonymous rot of distant regiments. But instead—
Instead, he had sauntered up to Elizabeth Bennet as though the world owed him a warm welcome and a pretty girl on his arm.
As though hebelonged.
As though nothing had ever happened.
Darcy’s hands curled against the windowsill. The room behind him rippled with warmth and chatter, but the glass beneath his fingers was cool, almost sharp, and that suited him better.
He had not seen Georgiana’s face the day she arrived at Ramsgate. He had only read the note left on the bed. Only heard Mrs. Younge’s excuses. Only pieced together the rest from the few letters he had been lucky—lucky—to intercept in time.
If he had been one day later—
He swallowed hard.
And now Elizabeth, so bright, so unflinching, had stood beside that man andlaughed.
What had Wickham told her? What polished lies had he spun between fluttering lashes and practiced ease?
Had she noticed how his eyes darted just once toward Darcy before he spoke?
Had she cared?
No.
Of course not. Why should she? She knew nothing. She had no reason to suspect the danger. She had only seen two men who clearly disliked each other.
And Mercy help him, Darcy had played right into Wickham’s hand.
“We are… known to one another.” The words had come too slowly. Too stiff. A dead giveaway to someone who could pick out the pit of his thoughts with one flick of her eyebrow. Someone who would now write out all her puckish delight in that blasted journal.
He closed his eyes. The fire popped behind him. Someone laughed—Caroline Bingley, perhaps. Bingley said something about musical chairs and who might play the flute this year.
Darcy could not move.
The image was a brand in his memory now: Elizabeth’s lashes low, her expression amused, her body angled toward Wickham ever so slightly, like she was curious. Like she wanted to hear more.
Like shetrustedhim.
And why would she not? Wickham had the advantage. He always had. Charm, warmth, an instinct for saying the exact right thing with the exact right smile.
Darcy had none of that.
What he had was knowledge—and no way to share it.
Because if he did—if he told her the truth, or even a piece of it—then Georgiana’s name would be dragged into it. Her letters.Her trust. Her heartbreak. All laid bare in a drawing room for the sake of warning a girl who had already made up her mind.
Darcy could not do it.
He could not even tell Bingley.
Bingley, who was currently muttering something about apple tarts and candied walnuts, and whose only worry was whether they should rearrange the ballroom seating.
