Elizabeth’s mouth curved despite herself. “How unfortunate.”
Jane glanced at her, eyes warm and knowing. “I thought I heard raised voices.”
“So did I,” Elizabeth said. She buttered the roll with more care than the task required. “It sounded like a philosophical disagreement. Possibly involving propriety.”
Jane smiled, then sobered. “Lizzy—”
Footsteps passed in the corridor beyond the open door. Elizabeth’s hand stilled.
She had known he would come. The certainty had settled in her long before the sound reached her ears, the same quiet awareness that had lifted her gaze moments earlier, unprompted, toward the doorway.
Darcy paused there.
For a fraction of a second, his expression was not surprise at all, but recognition—something taut and searching, as though he had found precisely what he expected and was bracing himself for it. Then the look shifted, smoothed into polite astonishment.
“Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth,” he said, inclining his head.
Elizabeth returned the courtesy. She was acutely aware of the distance he kept from the table, the careful placement of his feet, the way his hands remained occupied. A small stack of broadsheets was tucked beneath his arm.
“I did not expect to find you here so early,” he went on. His voice held this morning, but there was a faint pitch to it that made her stomach lurch in answer.
Jane gestured lightly to the window. “The morning is agreeable.”
“So it is.” Darcy glanced down at the papers. “There is… a great deal of talk already about last night’s disturbances.”
He extended the broadsheets toward them—toward her—then hesitated, as though recalling himself mid-motion. The papers did not quite cross the space between them.
Elizabeth’s fingers curled reflexively against her napkin. The thought of standing, of closing that distance, brought with it a swift, unwelcome memory of heat and breath and the terrible price of nearness.
“Jane,” she said, too quickly, “would you—?”
Jane looked from her to Darcy, brows lifting in faint, amused confusion. “I am rather farther away.”
“I know.”
Jane’s brows pinched together, but she rose without comment and crossed the room, accepting the broadsheets from Darcy’s outstretched hand. Their fingers brushed briefly. Darcy did not flinch.
Elizabeth watched instead.
When Jane stepped back again, papers in hand, Darcy’s gaze returned to Elizabeth’s face. It held there—longer than courtesy required, longer than was wise. There was no warmth in it, no invitation. Only a quiet, searching hunger that made her breath feel shallow and ill-managed.
At last, he inclined his head once more. “I must see to other matters.”
“Of course,” Jane said.
Darcy turned and went down the corridor without another word.
Elizabeth remained seated, her hands folded tightly in her lap, the place where he had stood still warm in her senses long after the sound of his steps had faded.
Jane spread the broadsheets across the table, smoothing them with the flat of her palm as though they might settle into sense if treated gently enough.
“There are several,” she said. “Different printers—The Times, theMorning Chronicle, theGazetteer. And this one fromLloyd’s.” She lifted the first sheet and read.
“‘An Uncommon Disturbance Felt Across the Metropolisand Beyond.
In the late hours of the night just passed, a tremor of notable force was felt throughout London and its environs, causing alarm among householders and damage to chimneys, glass, and masonry in several districts.’”
Elizabeth’s eyes tracked the lines as Jane read. The words arranged themselves with unnerving calm.
