"Indeed."
Silence. The sound of Robert making Jane laugh drifted over from the window. The sound of Richard telling a story about a goat filled the other corner.
Darcy looked at the lemon biscuits on the tray. He should offer her one. He should say,I remembered.But the words stuck in his throat. It felt too intimate. Too vulnerable.
Instead, he took a step closer, invading her space just enough to be heard over the others, but not enough to be improper.
"Miss Elizabeth," he said.
"Mr Darcy."
The air between them crackled. It was the same tension that had been there at the Netherfield ball, the same tension from the bookshop. It was the friction of two flint stones striking together.
He took a breath. He had to speak. He had to prove he was not the monster shethought him.
"I trust your family is well?" he asked.
As soon as the words left his mouth, he winced. He had asked that yesterday. It was the dullest, most rote question in the English language.
Miss Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. The corner of her mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but not a scowl either. "My family continues to be well, Mr Darcy, since yesterday. My father is still sarcastic, my mother is still enthusiastic, and my sisters remain unmodified."
"I... good. That is good." He struggled. He looked at her eyes. They were dark, intelligent, and currently dissecting him. "And the... the rest of the family?"
"The rest?" She looked amused. "My cousins? My aunt? The servants? The horses? The chickens at Longbourn? Yes, Mr Darcy. All are thriving. The chickens, in particular, are having a banner year."
Darcy felt his ears burning. "I am clumsy. I apologize. I am not... I do not have the talent for effortless conversation that my cousin possesses." He gestured vaguely towards Robert, who was currently amazing Jane with animated hand gestures.
"Few do," Miss Elizabeth conceded. "Lord Keathley seems to have enough charm for three men."
"He does. It is exhausting."
"And yet," she said, her voice dropping slightly, "you seem to tolerate him. You brought him to Cheapside."
"He brought me," Darcy corrected. "Robert is a force of nature. One does not lead him. One survives him."
She laughed. It was a short, surprised sound, but it settled comfortably in Darcy's chest. He stared at her. He couldn't help it. The way her eyes crinkled, the way her posture relaxed justa fraction. She was so alive. In this room of stiff furniture and ancient portraits, she was the only thing that felt real.
He stared. And stared.
Elizabeth stopped laughing. She tilted her head. "Mr Darcy?"
He didn't answer. He was busy memorizing the exact shade of brown in her iris.
"Mr Darcy," she repeated, a little louder. "You are staring."
He blinked, snapping back to reality. "I beg your pardon?"
"You are staring at me," she said, her tone a mix of amusement and challenge. "Do I have something on my face? A smudge of soot? A piece of lint?" She raised a hand to her cheek.
Darcy flushed a deep, humiliating crimson. "No. No, nothing. You are perfectly..."Perfect."You are perfectly fine."
"Fine," she repeated. "High praise indeed."
"I meant—" He stopped. He was digging a hole. He needed to pivot. He needed to be honest, or at least as honest as he dared. He took a breath, steeling himself.
"I am to meet Bingley this evening," he blurted out.
Miss Elizabeth went still. The playful light vanished from her eyes, replaced by a sudden wariness. "Mr Bingley?"
