The Earl inclined his head, his voice genial but measured.
"We have heard your names. My sister, Lady Catherine, wrote of her time in Kent.
And my niece—Georgiana—has spoken of you as well, I believe."
Elizabeth, practiced in composure, felt a subtle tightening in her chest.
To be mentioned among the Darcys—and their relations—was no small thing.
She dipped into a graceful curtsey, her voice calm and clear.
"Your ladyship does me much honour. I hope Lady Catherine found Hunsford to her liking this season."
Lady Matlock's lips curved faintly.
"Lady Catherine is rarely without strong opinions—and her letters are rarely short."
At this, Colonel Fitzwilliam gave a quiet, quickly stifled laugh.
The corner of his mouth twitched—amused, but not unkind—and for a moment, Elizabeth felt her heart lighten.
But when his gaze found hers—sharp, assessing, touched with something unreadable—
a faint shiver passed through her.
A look of calculation.
Or was it recollection?
She met his eyes without faltering, her chin lifting ever so slightly.
Whatever he had discerned—or suspected—she would not flinch.
Mr. Darcy had remained silent through the introductions.
He stood a half-step behind his aunt and uncle, his posture immaculate, his expression composed.
But his eyes—
His eyes never left her.
Once, that silence might have wounded her.
Now, it steadied her.
She knew him too well to mistake it for indifference.
It was not anger.
It was not reserve.
It was something far more dangerous.
It was remembrance.
The knowledge pulsed between them—unspoken, undeniable.
Every rule of society bade him look away, speak, perform his part.
