“So you lied.”
“I told him a version of the truth.”
An uncomfortable silence followed.
“Come on, Jane, my job lets me frame things a certain way in pursuit of facts.”
“That’s an excuse.”
Elizabeth groaned. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Excuse me, sir, I joined your app to gather data and dismantle the premise of your life’s work’? No journalist would get anywhere with that approach. All you’ll get is a wall of no-comments and a cease-and-desist letter.”
Jane let that hang for a second. “So what now?”
Elizabeth traced the rim of her glass. “One more date.”
“Just one?”
“We agreed to two. I’ve done one. One more, and the TrueNorth trial is over. I get my article. He gets... whatever he was after.” She paused, then added, “Can you believe he actually said he joined to find love?”
“I told you,” Jane said. “Didn’t I?”
“I still don’t buy it,” Elizabeth sighed. “I let him think I believed it, but honestly, it’s none of my business. Whatever his reason, I just want to get through the next date and be done. Then we can go back to pretending we don’t exist in each other’s worlds.”
“That sounds incredibly mature of you.”
“It’s strategy, not maturity. If I ghost him now, he wins. If I finish what I started and get the truth I came for, I win.”
Jane hummed. “You sure you’re not a little curious?”
“No,” Elizabeth said too quickly. Then, after another sip: “Maybe. But only about the data.”
“Of course.”
“Just one more date,” Elizabeth repeated, more to herself than to Jane.
“Right,” Jane said. “Just one.”
Chapter EIGHT
THE LONGtable was cluttered with polished silverware, three different kinds of salad, roasted duck, soft rolls wrapped in linen, and an array of dishes that suggested the cooks had been working all afternoon. And still, Caroline Bingley hovered like a dissatisfied judge at a culinary competition.
“That glass is for champagne,” she hissed at a server. “Do you want the wine to breathe through confusion?”
The poor staff member flushed, swapped the glass, and moved on.
Darcy sat at the far end of the table, nursing a glass of red he hadn’t tasted. He watched Caroline wave over a dish, frown at the garnish, and then declare the napkins “too aggressively folded.”
Since Bingley had rented the townhouse, Caroline had made herself the unofficial house manager. Darcy had opinions about that—specifically that she had no business managing anything, let alone other people’s property—but he kept those thoughts where they belonged: silent.
Eventually, the meal began. Mr. Hurst said little, as usual, except to grumble when a bottle passed him too slowly. Mrs. Hurst offered a few lukewarm compliments about the duck. And then, halfway through the first course, Caroline struck.
“So, Mr. Darcy,” she said smoothly, setting down her fork, “how is your little experiment going?”
Darcy took a sip of wine before responding. He hoped Bingley wouldn’t open his mouth.
Of course, Bingley opened his mouth. “Oh, you’ll love this. In a twist no one saw coming, Darcy matched with Elizabeth Bennet.”
It was as if the temperature at the table dropped several degrees at once. Caroline froze mid-bite, fork suspended in the air, while Mrs. Hurst turned slowly, alert and intent, like a cat that had just heard glass break.
