He pulled on his coat.
Bingley was elsewhere—out delivering invitations, or listening to Caroline Bingley debate drapery colors for the third time that week. Darcy left a note, called for his horse, and took the longway into town. Partly for the quiet, partly to delay what he had already decided to do.
He would make…socialcalls today.
Without Bingley to protect him.
The very thought made his stomach turn flips.
He had already drawn up a mental list—Charlotte Lucas, Miss King, those twin nieces of Mrs. Goulding who giggled in tandem like chickens. Ordinarily, he would not give any of them more than a bow in passing. But he was running out of time.
London was not yet in season. Most of society’s daughters still lingered at their family estates, like overripe pears on a too-still branch. By the time the best options began to reappear in Mayfair, it would be January. And he could not wait until January.
So he would try.
Make the calls. Show his face. If nothing came of it, he would go to London next month, make the rounds, and if need be—return to Hertfordshire to pick from the ashes.
He hated the thought.
He was halfway to the bookseller’s when he saw them.
Elizabeth. And Wickham.
She was laughing at something—truly laughing, head tilted, eyes lit, and not the polite sort she used in drawing rooms. Wickham had said something that pleased her. And worse—helooked pleased byher.
Darcy slowed.
They had not seen him yet. The lane curved gently ahead, framing them as if the entire town were a stage for this single scene.
He did not move. He told himself he was merely deciding whether to cross the street. But his feet remained planted, and his pulse had already begun to quicken.
Wickham leaned in slightly. Not too close—but enough.
Elizabeth said something in return—something teasing. He knew the tone.
Darcy felt it like a dagger behind the ribs.
He watched until they turned down the next street and vanished from view.
Then—without meaning to—he followed.
He told himself it was for Georgiana’s sake. Wickham was a liar. A practiced one. And Elizabeth had always been sharp—but even sharp women could be charmed.
The two of them stepped into the sweet shop. Darcy crossed the lane and paused beside the milliner’s window.
He saw nothing inappropriate. No touches, no whispers. But the ease between them… that was worse.
Darcy stood there longer than he should have. He stood there until he sensed himself the object of curious stares and an obstacle dodged by at least two men on horseback.
He sighed. Wickham or no Wickham, he might as well get this over with.
The Misses Hartfields wereprettier than he remembered. Or perhaps not. It was difficult to tell through the haze of excruciating small talk and the sheer volume of wallpaper in the drawing room.
They were nieces of Mrs. Goulding, returned from a brief visit to Cheltenham and now “enjoying the rural air,” which, based on their tones, they considered only slightly preferable to the plague. Their names, Eugenie and Lavinia, suggested a childhood full of pianoforte lessons, too many sugar lumps in their tea, and cats. And their voices sounded exactly like young women who readThe Mysteries of Udolphoand practiced fainting poses in the mirror.
Miss Eugenie Hartfield—the elder by a year, or possibly just better at pretending she was—sat stiffly near the window, hands folded so tightly her knuckles were white. Miss Lavinia, the younger, had twice adjusted her hair while speaking and once dropped her fan on the hearth rug.
Mrs. Goulding was delighted to receive him. He could tell by how many times she said so. “Such a surprise! Such a treat! You must forgive us, we were not expecting company today—well, notthissort of company!”
