They emerged from the maze just as the music swelled again, the world rushing back to meet them. Almost at once, Viscount Winslow approached, bowing with polished ease.
“Miss de Bourgh,” he said, “might I claim your company for a turn about the gardens?”
Elizabeth felt the moment slip, the thread gently drawn taut.
She looked at Darcy. He inclined his head, gracious and composed.
“Of course,” she said to Winslow. “I would be pleased.”
As she stepped away, Elizabeth felt the quiet weight of parting—not loss, but postponement. She glanced back once, catchingDarcy’s eye. He smiled, not possessively, not expectantly—but with something like understanding.
Mayhap,she thought as she walked on,this is how things begin.
Darcy found Bingley alone in the study, the door ajar to admit the last of the afternoon light. His friend stood near the writing desk, turning a paper over and over in his hands as though the motion itself might steady his thoughts.
“Charles,” Darcy said earnestly.
Bingley looked up at once. “Darcy! You’re back already. I thought you meant to stay at the garden party longer.”
“I had something to tell you,” Darcy replied. He closed the door behind him with deliberate care. “And it ought not to wait.”
Bingley’s expression shifted. “You look serious.”
“I am.” Darcy hesitated only a moment. “Miss Bennet is in Town.”
Bingley stared. “Jane?”
“Yes. And her cousin.”
Darcy did not name Elizabeth immediately. He watched the reaction unfold—confusion first, then hope, then caution.
“Miss Elizabeth?” Bingley ventured.
“Yes,” Darcy said. “Miss Elizabeth de Bourgh.”
The name seemed to land with quiet force.
“De Bourgh?” Bingley repeated. “But that—Darcy, that is—”
“I know,” Darcy said. “And it is no error.”
Bingley sank into the chair opposite the desk, his breath leaving him in a rush. “Why did no one tell me?”
“I believe,” Darcy said gently, “you were not meant to know. They are staying under Lady Hertford’s protection. Miss de Bourgh resides within Carlton House itself. Miss Bennet stays with her.”
Bingley shook his head slowly. “This makes no sense. Jane never spoke of such things.”
“She would not,” Darcy said. “Nor did she speak of her feelings.”
Bingley looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”
Darcy drew a breath. “I was wrong, Charles. About her. About all of it.” He met his friend’s gaze squarely. “Miss Bennet loved you.”
Bingley’s face drained of color. “Loved me?”
“Yes.” Darcy did not soften the truth. “I see it clearly now. I did not then.”
“You told me—” Bingley stopped, swallowing. “You told me she was indifferent.”
