Simple. No embellishment.
“And what about extended family?” she asked, tone light.
He hesitated. Then said, “an aunt. Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
Elizabeth raised a brow. “Lady?”
“She lived in the UK for two decades. People called her ‘Lady’ there, and when she moved back, we just... kept going with it. Nobody wanted the fight.”
She smiled despite herself. “And?”
“An uncle. Lives in Vermont. Keeps bees. Keeps to himself.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She noticed it before he even opened his mouth—the way Darcy shifted in his seat, his eyes briefly scanning her face like a final read-through before pressing send. His demeanour had changed. Gone was the cool professionalism, the calm restraint.
Now, there was something closer to intent.
“I know the app expects three dates,” he began, his voice low. “That was the deal.”
Elizabeth stayed still, not even blinking.
He continued, slowly. “But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want more. From this. From you.”
There it was.
She felt her breath catch—not in surprise, but in calculation. He was serious. Clear-eyed. The sincerity wasn’t the problem.
The timing was.
“I’d like us to see where this goes,” he added. “Beyond the algorithm. Beyond the app.”
His gaze didn’t waver. Hers did.
Because she’d seen this kind of moment before—framed differently, yes, packaged better, but always arriving when the stakes were high. A pivot. A deflection. An offer made not from vulnerability, but strategy.
And so she asked, careful and firm:
“What about Wickham?”
Darcy didn’t flinch, but the silence came immediately.
“George Wickham?” Elizabeth pressed.
He swallowed hard. “What about him?”
“I have a source,” she said, watching him closely. “Someone who claims he was like a brother to you. And yet I hear you erased him. Shut him out after your father died.”
Still nothing.
“No comment?” she asked. “Not even a denial?”
Darcy’s expression remained unreadable. “It’s not a conversation I’m having in a café.”
Elizabeth exhaled sharply and leaned back.
