“Miss Elizabeth! I did not—forgive me, I did not realize?—”
“You are not the only one seeking refuge, it seems.”
He paused, uncertainty flickering across his features. “I can leave, if you wish.”
“No.” The word came out too quickly. “That is—you need not leave on my account.”
They stood in awkward silence, the noise of the party muffled by the screen. Elizabeth was acutely aware of how close he stood, how the candlelight caught the sharp lines of his jaw, how his presence seemed to fill the small space entirely.
“I wished to thank you,” she said finally. “For your kindness at Longbourn. With the mistletoe.”
“It was nothing.”
“It was not nothing. You have been... remarkably protective. Of me, and of my family. I confess I do not entirely understand why.”
Something shifted in his expression. The careful neutrality softened into something more vulnerable.
“Do you not?”
Elizabeth's breath caught. “I... am beginning to form a suspicion.”
“And does that suspicion alarm you?”
The question hung between them, weighted with meaning she was not ready to examine.
“No,” she whispered. “I do not think it does.”
Mr. Darcy's eyes darkened. He took a half-step closer—then stopped, visibly restraining himself.
“Miss Elizabeth, there is much I wish to say. Much I cannot say. About—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “About certain persons. Certain situations. I regret that I cannot speak openly, but I hope you will believe me when I tell you that Mr. Wickham is not a man to be trusted.”
“You have said that before.”
“Because it is true. I cannot prove it—not without exposing matters that must remain private—but I beg you to be cautious. He is not what he appears.”
Elizabeth studied his face, searching for deception and finding none. Only earnestness. Only concern. Only a desperate hope that she might believe him.
“I have suspected as much,” she said quietly.
Relief flooded his features. “You have?”
“His stories... shift. His charm feels calculated. And you have given me no reason to doubt your forthrightness, while he has given me several to doubt his.”
“Miss Elizabeth—” His voice broke on her name. He looked at her as though she had given him something precious, something he had not dared to hope for.
The moment stretched between them, warm and fragile and full of possibility.
“Mr. Darcy!” Miss Bingley's voice rang out, sharp with irritation. “There you are! I require your assistance with arranging partners for the next game. Come at once!”
Mr. Darcy closed his eyes briefly—a man summoning patience—before stepping back.
“Duty calls,” Elizabeth murmured.
“Unfortunately.” He held her gaze for one more moment. “We will speak again. Soon.”
“I should like that.”
He bowed and was gone, leaving Elizabeth alone in the alcove with her heart pounding and her thoughts in beautiful disarray.
