Jane’s other suitors had largely faded away. Anyone with a spot of sense could tell the beautiful angel preferred the viscount’s presence. And much to Elizabeth’s relief, they moved in circles out of reach for the Bingleys, which meant Jane was not subject to that man’s presence. The distance was a kindness Jane did not yet fully recognize, but Elizabeth did.
Elizabeth and her cousin spent as much time as they could spare with Princess Charlotte. The young lady always peppered them with questions about their suitors, the balls they attended, and their outings with Lady Hertford, listening with a hunger that spoke of her own confinement. The poor dear was very secluded. Her father would not allow her out, so she relied on her friends to tell her about the world beyond palace walls.Elizabeth answered carefully, keenly aware that even innocent enthusiasm could be misconstrued where royal daughters were concerned.
Lady Hertford collected Jane and Elizabeth for the evening a few nights before Elizabeth was to take tea with the queen. The event of the evening was a musicale hosted by Lady Elizabeth Foster, an evening that carried a very particular distinction within the first circles. Lady Elizabeth was renowned not merely for her elegance, but for the intelligence with which she curated her gatherings. As the longtime companion and confidante of the Duchess of Devonshire, she occupied a space where art, politics, and society met with effortless grace. Her drawing rooms were arranged to encourage movement and conversation—chairs grouped loosely, doors left open to adjoining rooms—while music flowed as a civilizing undercurrent rather than a spectacle. That evening, a small ensemble of strings and pianoforte commanded polite attention, allowing guests to speak in softened tones without impropriety.
Elizabeth moved easily through the room, keenly aware that Lady Elizabeth’s invitation signaled acceptance of her presence as something more than novelty. Here, among thoughtful conversation and carefully chosen company, she sensed both the protection and the quiet scrutiny that came with such patronage, understanding that this was precisely the sort of setting where reputations were shaped—not by display, but by discernment.
It promised to be an enjoyable evening. Elizabeth very much enjoyed listening to true masters of music, and musicales offered more opportunity for conversation than the crush of a ball ever could. She had met a few ladies with whom it was not a trial to speak—women who listened as much as they spoke, who valued wit and sense over spectacle—and she hoped to further those acquaintances whenever she could.
Each evening now carried weight, each introduction consequence. She straightened her gloves, exchanged a small smile with Jane, and prepared—once more—to step forward into a world that would not pause for her fatigue, nor forgive her inattention.
Darcy searched the room for Elizabeth the moment he entered the large gathering area at Devonshire House. The space itself demanded composure: high ceilings softened by silk-draped walls, candlelight refracted through crystal sconces, the quiet hum of cultivated conversation punctuated by the tuning of instruments. Only the most worthy were admitted to such gatherings, and he counted himself blessed—if begrudgingly indebted—that his aunt had secured him an invitation. Lady Matlock had capitulated easily. The prospect of having both Darcy and her eldest son married before the end of the season was likely too tempting for her to ignore. Darcy knew he was paying now for years of social neglect.
He wondered, with a flicker of unease, if there was any other guest with lower standing than himself. A quick glance around the room dispelled the notion but not the discomfort. He was surrounded by coronets and courtesy titles, men and women whose ease bespoke lifelong belonging. He felt, for once, like an interloper—present by indulgence rather than right.
After several moments, and a pulse of near panic, he finally saw Elizabeth.
Lady Hertford had her at her side, introducing her to their hostess, Lady Elizabeth Foster. Lady Cavendish was there as well, radiant and commanding, though she moved awaya moment or two later, already drawn into another orbit of conversation. Elizabeth stood composed and attentive, her posture immaculate, her expression pleasant—but Darcy sensed, even at a distance, a restraint that had not been there in Hertfordshire. She looked beautiful, undeniably so, but also guarded, as though beauty were now a tool she wielded rather than an accident of nature.
Bramley, it seemed, had had no trouble finding Miss Bennet. The couple now stood with Lady Matlock, conversing in low tones. Jane’s head was inclined toward Bramley, her manner gentle and receptive; Bramley hovered with unmistakable protectiveness. Darcy registered the scene only dimly. His attention had already returned to Elizabeth.
Lady Hertford was momentarily distracted by another acquaintance, and Darcy saw Elizabeth shift—subtly, deliberately—away from her chaperone. The movement was small, but it felt like an opening.
He took his chance.
“Miss de Bourgh.” He bowed, more formally than he had intended. She returned his greeting, somewhat distractedly, as though her thoughts were already elsewhere. “How do you do this evening?”
“I am well, Mr. Darcy. Tonight promises to be entertaining and delightful. I do so love music.” She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. The warmth he remembered—the quick spark of intelligence and challenge—was absent, replaced by a polite sheen that unsettled him more than open hostility would have.
“Are you well?” The flatness of her greeting worried him. It felt earned.
“As well as one can be with many late nights in a row and days filled with activity.” Her tone was light, but fatigue edged it, sharpening the words.
“I would have thought you used to Town hours.” The moment the words left him, he wished them back. Had she not spent the majority of every year in Town? Had she not been raised for this life?
A look of irritation flashed across her face—quick, bright, unmistakable. “You would have thought, that is true.” She exhaled slowly, mastering herself. “Forgive me. I am overtired.”
The room shifted as guests were encouraged to take their seats. Chairs scraped softly against polished floors; the musicians settled. Darcy, seizing what little agency he had left, held out his arm to Elizabeth. She hesitated only a fraction of a second before accepting, her fingers resting lightly at his sleeve, the contact sending a welcome—and unmistakable—jolt through him.
He guided her to a spot somewhat secluded from the others, just beyond the densest clusters of conversation. His heart pounded with urgency. He desperately wished to speak with her, to understand her story, to bridge the widening distance he felt opening between them.
“I confess to some surprise at your…circumstances,” he said. “There was no word of it about Meryton.”
Elizabeth did not look at him when she replied. Her gaze fixed instead on the musicians, as though the violins might offer refuge. “That is perhaps because my secrets are just that—secrets. No one was entitled to know. No one had permission to know.”
“But you could have confided the truth in me,” he pressed, unable to stop himself. The words had lived too long in his chest. “If I had known, I might have courted you openly instead of struggling to suppress my feelings.”
She turned sharply, the movement precise and controlled, and glared at him. The intensity of her expression stole his breath. “My worth should not be dependent on fortune and connections,Mr. Darcy. The truth of my circumstances should have made no difference.” Her voice lowered, but the force of it struck harder for the restraint. “It hardly matters. My life is not my own.”
“Neither is mine,” he said urgently, the words tumbling out, “but you must see we have a chance now.”
Elizabeth laughed, low and melodic—a sound devoid of humor, edged instead with something brittle. “It is not the same, sir. You have a choice.” She rose before he could respond, smoothing her gloves with deliberate calm. “Please excuse me. I should find Lady Hertford.”
And just like that, she was gone.
Darcy remained where he was, the hum of the room rushing back in around him, the music beginning without his noticing. He felt unmoored, exposed. He replayed the conversation over and over in his head, each word a barb. Did Elizabeth hate him? Or was she angrier still—that he had not set aside his pride, his family’s expectations, his fear, to pursue her regardless of consequence?
And what had she meant—truly meant—about her life not being her own?
