"I was clumsy," Jane stammered, looking ready to die of mortification. "I was avoiding those young men and I—"
"Do not apologize," the stranger said, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Please. Bump into me again. Do it as often as you like. I shall stand here all day if it ensures a repeat performance."
Elizabeth, having reached them, stepped quickly to Jane's side, her protective instincts flaring. She took Jane's arm, readyto drag her sister away from this rake who was flirting so openly on a public street.
"My sister offers her apologies, Sir," Elizabeth said crisply, her eyes flashing. "And we thank you for your assistance. Come, Jane."
The stranger blinked, tearing his gaze away from Jane to look at Elizabeth. He smiled—a slow, devastatingly charming smile that probably caused swoons in drawing rooms across Mayfair.
"And a defender, too," he mused. "Double the danger. I am clearly outmatched."
"Robert?" a familiar, deep voice rumbled from behind the stranger. "Why are you blocking the pavement? We are attracting a—"
The voice stopped dead.
Elizabeth froze. She knew that voice. She knew that baritone. It was the voice of judgment. It was the voice of arrogance. It was the voice of the man who had called her "tolerable."
Slowly, dread curling in her stomach like a cold snake, Elizabeth looked past the charming stranger.
Standing there, holding a brown paper parcel against his chest as if it were a shield, was Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy.
For a moment, time simply ceased to function. The roar of London faded into a dull buzz, leaving only the small, frozen tableau on the pavement outside Hatchards.
Mr Darcy looked... well, he looked as if he had just seen a ghost. A ghost he had been actively trying to exorcise. His face, usually a mask of impassive boredom, was slack with shock. His eyes were wide, fixed on Elizabeth with an intensity thatwas almost frightening. He had gone very pale, which made the dark circles under his eyes stand out starkly.
Beside him stood a young girl—hardly more than sixteen—wrapped in a grey pelisse. She looked from Darcy to Elizabeth and back again, her expression shifting from confusion to a dawning, delighted realization.
And between them all stood the charming stranger—Robert, the voice had called him—still looking at Jane as if she were a religious revelation.
"Mr Darcy," Elizabeth said. Her voice was flat. Cold. It was the sound of a judge passing sentence.
"Miss... Miss Elizabeth," Darcy croaked. He cleared his throat, straightening his spine instinctively, though he didn't let go of his parcel. "And Miss Bennet."
"You know them?" the stranger asked, looking at Darcy. "Fitzwilliam, you know these divine creatures?"
"We are acquainted," Darcy said stiffly. "From Hertfordshire."
"Hertfordshire!" The stranger turned back to Jane, his grin returning with blinding force. "The land of fine eyes! I should have known. I should have packed my bags and moved there immediately."
Jane, who was still recovering from her near-fall, managed a shaky curtsy. "Mr Darcy. It is a surprise to see you."
"Indeed," Darcy said. He seemed incapable of forming complex sentences. He was staring at Elizabeth again.
Elizabeth met his gaze head-on. She channelled every ounce of her anger into that look. She thought of Bingley's abandonment. Jane's tears. His haughty dismissal of her beauty. She narrowed her eyes, communicating a message that clearlysaid:I loathe you, and if I could set you on fire with my mind, you would currently be ash.
Darcy flinched. Actually flinched. He looked down at his boots, then at the parcel in his arms, looking for all the world like a schoolboy caught with his hand in the sweet jar.
"This is unexpected," Mrs Gardiner said, stepping forward. Her voice was calm, but Elizabeth, who knew her aunt well, heard the sharp note of curiosity. Mrs Gardiner was surveying the group—the terrified Darcy, the smitten stranger, the sweet-faced girl—with the calculation of a general assessing the enemy lines.
"Quite," Elizabeth said. "We were just going into the shop. If you will excuse us."
"Wait!" The young girl stepped forward. She looked at Darcy, waiting for him to speak, but seeing he was currently useless, she turned to Elizabeth. Her voice was shy but eager. "You must be Miss Elizabeth Bennet. My brother has spoken of you."
Elizabeth's gaze softened slightly as she looked at the girl. She saw the family resemblance immediately—the same dark eyes, the same noble brow—but where Darcy was hard granite, this girl was soft watercolour.
"I am," Elizabeth said more gently. "And you must be Miss Darcy."
"Yes," she replied, offering a tentative smile. "I am so pleased to meet you. Finally."
