“The grounds here are beautiful,” she said, because she had to say something. “I had not walked this path before.”
“Bingley speaks highly of it. He says the view from the ridge is worth the climb.”
“Do you enjoy walking, Mr. Darcy?”
“I do. Though I confess I often walk to escape rather than to admire.” He glanced at her sideways. “Present company excepted.”
Elizabeth's cheeks warmed. “You flatter me.”
“I speak only the truth.”
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It was full—weighted with things unspoken, possibilities unexplored. Elizabeth found herself wishing the moment could stretch indefinitely, that the rest of the world would simply fade away and leave them here among the winter trees.
“Lizzy!” Lydia's voice shattered the quiet, shrill and carrying. “Lizzy, where are you? Mama says we are turning back!”
Elizabeth started, suddenly aware of how long they had been standing alone together. “I should?—”
“Of course.” Mr. Darcy stepped back, his expression shuttering. “We should rejoin the others.”
They walked back to the group in silence, but it was a different silence now—charged with awareness, heavy with things neither of them had said.
The return to Netherfield was a blur of warmth and noise. Servants appeared with hot punch. Cloaks and gloves were shed. Cheeks flushed from cold gradually warmed by firelight.
Mrs. Bennet dominated the conversation, recounting Jane's tumble beneath the arch with embellishments that grew more dramatic with each telling—and, to Elizabeth's mortification, the “romantic little kiss” Mr. Darcy had bestowed upon hersecond daughter. Mr. Bingley hovered near Jane, solicitous and adoring. Miss Bingley had retreated to a corner, her expression suggesting she was composing a mental list of ways to ensure Elizabeth Bennet never crossed paths with Mr. Darcy again.
And Mr. Wickham had somehow remained with the party.
He stood near the fireplace, charming Lydia and Kitty with easy wit, his smile as bright as ever. But Elizabeth noticed that his gaze kept drifting—not to Mr. Darcy, as she might have expected, but to her. Assessing. Calculating. As though he were solving a puzzle and did not like the answer he was finding.
When his eyes met hers, something shifted in their depths. Something cold.
Then the charming mask slipped back into place, and he laughed at something Lydia said as though nothing had happened.
Elizabeth felt a chill that had nothing to do with the December air.
There was a history between these two men. Painful history. And she suspected she had placed herself squarely in the middle of it.
Over the next few minutes, Mr. Wickham maneuvered himself to her side, his smile warm and familiar. Elizabeth could see the edges of it now, the places where the warmth did not quite reach.
“Miss Elizabeth. You have been very quiet since our walk.” His voice dropped, becoming intimate. “I noticed you and Mr. Darcy were absent from the group for some time. I hope he did not... importune you in any way.”
The implication was clear. And ugly.
“Mr. Darcy behaved as a perfect gentleman,” Elizabeth said coolly. “As I would expect of any man of honor.”
Something shifted in Mr. Wickham's expression—surprise, perhaps, at her defense of a man she had once been so willing to criticize. He recovered quickly.
“Of course. Forgive me. I meant no offence. I merely worry for you, Miss Elizabeth. Darcy can be... persuasive when he wishes. I should hate to see you deceived as I was.”
“Your concern is noted.” Elizabeth kept her voice pleasant, but she did not soften. “Though I find I am quite capable of forming my own judgments.”
Mr. Wickham's smile tightened. “Indeed. Well. I hope those judgments do not lead you astray.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice held an edge she had never heard before. “Darcy has a talent for making people believe what he wishes them to believe. But the truth always emerges.”
He bowed and withdrew before Elizabeth could respond.
She watched him go, her unease deepening. She found a quiet corner near the window and stood watching the frost creep across the glass, her thoughts in turmoil.
Mr. Darcy was not the man she had believed him to be. The proud, dismissive gentleman of the assembly had revealed depths she had not expected: kindness, humor, and tenderness.
