He had not slept well. Every time he closed his eyes, Miss Elizabeth's laugh echoed through his thoughts—that bright, surprised sound she had made when he joked about poetry recitations. Her expression when he admitted to judging country society too quickly. The warmth in her eyes before Caroline had swept him away like a silk-clad storm.
He had intended to regain his composure by morning. Instead, he found himself more unsettled than ever, his thoughts circling back to her with the persistence of a dog worrying a bone.
Bingley, in contrast, was incandescent with joy.
“Was it not the most delightful afternoon?” he announced, buttering his toast with the enthusiasm of a man who had discovered the meaning of existence. “Miss Bennet looked particularly well, did she not? That shade of blue suits her admirably. And her conversation! So gentle, so sensible, so perfectly?—”
“We were all present, Charles,” Caroline interrupted, her voice brittle as winter ice. “We observed Miss Bennet's many virtues firsthand.”
Bingley beamed, entirely missing the sarcasm. “Then you agree! She is everything a young lady ought to be.”
Caroline's teacup clattered against its saucer. Mrs. Hurst developed a sudden fascination with her eggs.
Darcy said nothing. He was thinking of Miss Elizabeth standing by the mantelpiece, examining that hideous shepherdess with barely concealed amusement. The gleam in her eyes when she teased him about Lord Ashworth's poetry. The flush on her cheeks when he admitted the company here was more engaging than expected.
He had meant it. That was the troubling part.
He had meant every word, and she had known it, and something had shifted between them in that quiet corner, something he was not prepared to examine too closely.
“And Miss Elizabeth was in fine form,” Caroline continued, her gaze sliding toward Darcy with pointed significance. “Such animation! Such... liveliness. One can hardly imagine such manners in Town.”
Darcy's jaw tightened. “Miss Elizabeth conducted herself with perfect propriety.”
The words came out sharper than intended. Caroline's eyebrows rose. Mrs. Hurst's fork paused halfway to her mouth.
“I meant no criticism,” Caroline said smoothly, though her smile suggested otherwise. “Merely an observation. Country manners can be so... refreshing.”
“They can indeed.” Darcy returned his attention to his plate with deliberate finality.
The silence that followed was thick enough to slice.
Bingley, oblivious as ever, launched into a detailed account of his plans for the holiday entertainment. The guest list was expanding. Musicians had been engaged. He had written to London for additional supplies: candles, ribbons, imported delicacies Caroline had deemed essential.
“And the greenery,” Bingley added, warming to his theme. “We must have greenery everywhere. Holly and ivy and—what was the other one?”
“Mistletoe,” Mrs. Hurst supplied, with the air of a woman who had answered this question several times already.
“Mistletoe! Yes. Very festive.”
Caroline set down her chocolate with exaggerated care. “Speaking of festive traditions, I have written to a friend in London about the newest holiday fashions. There is talk of a new custom—quite modern, very exclusive. I believe it will astonish all Hertfordshire.”
Darcy suppressed a sigh. Caroline's devotion to novelty rarely ended well.
“What custom?” Bingley asked.
Caroline's smile turned mysterious. “You shall see.”
Darcy felt a faint premonition of doom settle over him. Caroline with a secret was never a comfortable prospect.
The breakfast concluded with Bingley still rhapsodizing about Jane Bennet's perfections and Caroline still dropping hintsabout her mysterious London fashion. Darcy escaped to the library the moment courtesy allowed, determined to bury himself in correspondence and forget—at least temporarily—the existence of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
He failed.
The library was quiet with the fire crackling softly, the shelves lined with books he had no interest in reading. He sat at the desk and stared at a blank sheet of paper, his pen idle in his hand.
Miss Elizabeth's face rose unbidden in his mind.
The arch of her brow when she challenged him. The curve of her lips when she tried not to smile. The way she had laughed—really laughed—at his jest about composing features into expressions of rapt attention.
