"And she has me," Elizabeth finished bravely. "If she wants me."
"She wants nothing else," Darcy whispered. "And neither do I."
He bought her the essays. He bought her a novel. He bought her a treatise on botany because she mentioned she liked oaks. By the time they left the shop, Robert was laden with poetry, Darcy was carrying a library, and the ghost of the miserable man from the twentieth of December had been thoroughly exorcised.
"Books feed the mind," Robert announced as they emerged from Hatchards into the crowd of Piccadilly, "but they do remarkably little for the stomach. I propose we invade Gunter's. I have a sudden craving for an ice, despite the fact that it is quite freezing."
"You are a child," Darcy said.
"You are a visionary," Jane smiled, taking his arm.
They made their way to Gunter's Tea Shop in Berkeley Square. It was crowded, warm, and filled with the scent of sugar and scandal. They secured two tables near the window—a strategic victory Robert credited to his "aristocratic elbows."
But as they were settling in—Georgiana happily examining the menu with Mrs Gardiner—a hush fell over the entrance.
"Mr Darcy? Lord Keathley?"
The voice was high, shrill, and laced with a desperate sort of hope.
Darcy stiffened. He knew that voice. He turned slowly to see Caroline Bingley standing near the counter, dressed in a shade of orange that was aggressive even for the season. Beside her stood her brother, Charles Bingley.
"Miss Bingley," Darcy said, his voice dropping to absolute zero. "Bingley."
"What a delightful surprise!" Miss Bingley surged forward, ignoring the rest of the party to focus her beams on the two wealthy men. "We were just saying how dull town is. Charles has been positively mopish. Haven't you, Charles?"
She reached Darcy's table, and then her eyes landed on the others.
Her smile faltered. It didn't just fade. It curdled.
"Miss Bennet," Caroline said, the name tasting like vinegar in her mouth. "And Miss Elizabeth. I did not know you were in town."
"Evidently," Elizabeth said pleasantly. "Though your brother was informed of it."
Bingley, who had been staring at his boots, looked up. His gaze landed on Jane.
Jane sat calmly, her hands folded in her lap, looking radiant in her winter furs. She didn't look heartbroken. She looked regal.
"Jane," Bingley breathed. The old, puppy-like adoration flooded back into his face, forgetting entirely about the Shepherdess or the Greek Muse. "Miss Bennet. You look... you lookradiant."
He stepped forward, past his sister, drawn by the old magnet. "I was going to call. Truly. In January. But seeing you now..."
He reached out. He took Jane's gloved hand, which was resting on the table. He squeezed it, leaning in with a familiarity that was entirely inappropriate given his month of silence.
"You must believe me," he said, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper. "I have missed you. I have been—"
Jane didn't pull away. She simply looked at him. Her expression was kind, but it was the kindness one shows to a stranger's child.
"I am glad to hear you are well, Mr. Bingley," she said. Her voice was steady. "And I wish you every happiness. But please, do not distress yourself on my account. I am perfectly happy."
"But—" Bingley pressed her hand harder. "Jane, surely—"
Suddenly, a shadow fell over the table.
Robert Fitzwilliam rose.
He didn't jump up. He unfolded himself from his chair with a slow, predatory grace that Darcy had rarely seen. The smile was gone. The twinkling eyes were gone. In their place was Viscount Keathley—heir to an Earldom, a man who had faced down creditors and duellists, and a man who was currently looking at Charles Bingley as if he were a particularly offensive insect.
"Bingley," Robert said. His voice was soft, but it carried a blade. "Release the lady's hand."
