"Cheapside!" Robert exclaimed. "Excellent. I have always said the air is better in the City. Less pretentious." He grinned at Darcy. "Come, Fitzwilliam. Say goodbye to the ladies. Stop clutching that parcel like it contains the crown jewels."
Darcy bowed. It was stiff, formal, and agonizing. "Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth. Mrs Gardiner."
He did not look at Elizabeth. He couldn't.
"Mr Darcy," Elizabeth returned, her voice cool.
She took Jane's arm, and with a nod to the Viscount and Miss Darcy, she steered her party towards the door of the bookshop.
As the bell chimed above them, Elizabeth glanced back.
They were still standing on the pavement. The Viscount was fixed at Jane's retreating back. Georgiana was watching the door with a wistful expression.
And Fitzwilliam Darcy was standing perfectly still, staring at the closed door of the shop, looking for all the world like a man who had just realized that his heart was not, in fact, dead—it was merely beating for a woman who despised him.
"Well," Mrs Gardiner said as the warmth of the shop enveloped them. "That was illuminating."
"He is a monster," Elizabeth hissed, shaking snow from her cloak.
"Which one?" Jane asked, looking dazed. "The Viscount seemed very pleasant."
"Mr Darcy! Did you see him? Arrogant, rude, stiff—"
"And," Mrs Gardiner added thoughtfully, picking up a copy ofThe Lady of the Lake, "looking as if he had seen a ghost. Curious."
Elizabeth frowned. "What?"
"Nothing," Mrs Gardiner smiled. "Let us look for books, Lizzy. I have a feeling this Christmas is going to be far more interesting than we anticipated."
Chapter Three: The Council of War
Darcy's dressing room in Grosvenor Square was usually a place of calm, smelling faintly of sandalwood and absolute order. It was the one place in London where he could be assured that no one would ask him about his feelings, his estate, or why he was currently clutching a copy ofCeciliaas if it were the Holy Grail.
Fletcher, his valet—a man of indeterminate age and infinite patience—was currently attempting to pry the book from Darcy's hand so he could assist his master into a fresh shirt.
"Sir," Fletcher said, his voice neutral, "while I appreciate your newfound dedication to literature, it will be difficult to tie your cravat if you do not relinquish the volume."
"It is a very engaging book, Fletcher," Darcy muttered, finally placing it on the vanity table. He stared at his reflection. He looked haunted. He looked like a man who had seen a ghost on Piccadilly—a ghost with dark eyes and a pelisse that had done strange things to his equilibrium.
"If you say so, Sir. The blue waistcoattonight?"
"Black. I am in mourning."
"For whom, Sir?"
"My sanity. It died this afternoon outside a bookshop."
Fletcher didn't blink. "Very good, Sir. The black waistcoat."
Darcy sighed, rubbing his chest. The physical ache was back. He had spent the last two hours pacing his library, trying to convince himself that the encounter had been a hallucination. But it hadn't been. Elizabeth Bennet was in London. She was staying with her aunt and uncle. InCheapside.
And she hated him. The look she had given him—cold, hard, and utterly dismissive—had struck deeper than a facer from Gentleman Jackson himself.
Just as Fletcher began the intricate work of the cravat, the door to the dressing room banged open. Darcys did not bang doors. Their servants did not bang doors. There was only one category of person who banged doors in Darcy House.
"I have retrieved him!" Robert announced, striding into the room gingerly. He was still in his day clothes, looking infuriatingly fresh. Behind him trailed Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, Darcy's other cousin, who looked confused but cheerful, shaking snow from his red military coat.
"Retrieved whom?" Darcy asked, flinching as Fletcher's hand slipped. "Richard? Why are you here? I did not expect to see you until dinner."
