“And they end,” she added, “with you.”
His hand closed against the edge of the table. “My aunt has a talent for presuming,” he said. “You need not trouble yourself with her suppositions.”
“And yet she troubles the room with them,” Elizabeth replied. “And my cousin repeats them as though they were already settled.” Her gaze searched his. “What is it Lady Catherine expects of you, Mr Darcy?”
The question struck too near. Habit rose at once to shield him.
“I do not think this is a suitable subject for—” He pushed back his chair.
He did not know what he meant to do. There was no proper excuse for leaving the table mid-course.
But the instant he rose, Elizabeth startled.
The reaction was immediate, unguarded. She gasped—not loudly, but sharply—one hand shot to her temple, and the other flew out as though to stop him, closing around his wrist without thought.
The contact was unmistakable.
Not pain. Not shock.
Something else entirely.
Heat flared where their skin met—swift, certain—as though recognition itself had taken form. Darcy froze. The pressure in his chest deepened, breath caught high and shallow, every instinct arrested.
The room did not vanish. It simply ceased to matter.
Elizabeth stared at their joined hands, then up at him, her expression caught between surprise and something perilously close to understanding.
Darcy did not move. Could not.
For the first time, the old stories did not feel distant or absurd. They stood before him, embodied and undeniable—looking back through her eyes.
And in that instant, he knew—beyond sense, beyond any chance of saving doubt.
This was the thing he had been fleeing. A lifetime spent in dismissal and reason, laughing off a heritage so buried beneath habit that its shape had nearly been lost.
It had found him out at last.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Jane, my dear, youhave scarcely touched your tea,” Mama said for the third time, pressing the cup nearer as though appetite were a moral obligation. “You must keep up your strength! One never knows how much conversation the day may require.”
Jane smiled faintly and complied, though Elizabeth could see the effort behind it. She looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with the hour or the way they had passed the night.
“I should not be surprised,” Mama continued, lowering her voice with a theatrical air that failed to diminish its reach, “if we were to receive avisitorbefore luncheon. Indeed, I should be quite astonished if we did not. Such attentions are not paid twice without intention, and Mr Bingley is nothing if not decisive.”
Elizabeth paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth. She set it down again. She would rather not eat, if this was to be the course served.
Mary nodded from across the table. “It would be the natural progression,” she said. “Affection, when properly guided, seeks resolution.”
Kitty almost knocked over her poached egg as she reached for the tea. “Do you think he’ll bring flowers?”
“I think,” Mama replied, “that he will bring aquestion. A most important question, indeed! Is that not right, Mr Bennet? Oh, for mercy’s sake, that man has gone off to his library again. Kitty, darling, do stop coughing! Jane, go upstairs and put on your pink gown. It does so much for your complexion. Yellow only makes you look ill, and we cannot have Mr Bingley fearing the Bennet girls are forever taking to their beds for the least little thing.”
Elizabeth pushed her chair back a fraction. “Really, Mama,” she said, “it seems premature to speak as though—”
“Premature?” Her mother turned. “My dear Lizzy, one must be practical. Nothing is gained by pretending ignorance when everyone can see what is before them. Jane is admired. Mr Bingley has been constant. We must make of it what we can!”
Mary glanced at Elizabeth over the rim of her teacup. “It is unwise,” she said, “to resist conclusions that recommend themselves so plainly. Excessive doubt is as much a failing as rashness.”
