Chapter TEN
“WHERE TO, sir?” the driver asked, glancing at him in the mirror.
Darcy did not answer at once.
The café door had closed behind him with far more finality than it deserved, and yet the sound of it still seemed to ring in his ears. The hum of traffic outside was distant, muffled, as though the city itself had decided to give him space.
He sat in the back seat and stared ahead, not seeing the street.
“Just… drive,” he said at last. His voice came out controlled, even, as if nothing had happened. “Anywhere. I need a moment.”
“Yes, sir.”
The car pulled away from the curb, merging into the afternoon flow. Darcy leaned back, one hand resting against his knee, the other clenched loosely at his side.
For a moment, Darcy sat perfectly still. Then, despite himself, he let his mind drift.
What had just happened was only the latest in a chain of moments he had been collecting with Elizabeth Bennet. It had truly begun at the frozen yoghurt shop—something small, almost laughable, that should have meant nothing at all.
Or perhaps it had begun even earlier.
Those eyes.
Fine eyes, he had thought once, long ago, and now the phrase returned to mock him with its simplicity.
He had seen them first on a screen late at night, when he had been doing what he did not do, what he certainly did not admit to doing—looking her up after the gala, scrolling through fragments of her life with a restless attention he would have called ridiculous in anyone else.
He had told himself it was nothing. Mere curiosity. A passing amusement.
And yet—
They had followed him since.
They had appeared in his sleep, uninvited and infuriatingly vivid.
At Bingley’s dinner table, when the conversation had turned light and teasing and far too personal, he had said—calmly, dismissively—that he was not prepared for any relationship.
He had added, with the same practiced ease, that he was not falling for Elizabeth Bennet.
A lie.
Not the sort of lie that served a purpose, either. Not strategy. Not protection.
Just cowardice, dressed up as restraint.
Because Bazile—clever, sharp-tongued, perceptive, anonymous Bazile—had captured something in him long before Elizabeth Bennet had ever sat across from him in person.
A week of anonymous chatting. Three meetings in person—though only two with anything resembling real conversation.
And yet it was that one evening in the frozen yoghurt shop that triggered everything, when she had laughed with such unguarded ease, as though amusement were both her shield and her charm.
And he had felt, with a disconcerting certainty, that he knew her… not in the careless way one knows a passing acquaintance, but in the quiet, unsettling way she seemed to take up space in his mind, as though she had always been there, waiting to be noticed.
Not her hobbies. Not her profile statistics. Not the neat list of preferences the app displayed so obediently.
Her.
The part of her that questioned. The part of her that noticed. The part of her that refused to accept an easy answer simply because it was convenient.
It was precisely that part that had turned on him today. The same part that had drawn him in, that had made him think—foolishly—that he could speak to her honestly. That he might tell her what he felt.
Darcy gritted his teeth, the memory of her response burning sharp.
It had been outright rejection, delivered with a handful of judgment.
For what?
Wickham. George Wickham?
The name landed like a stone in his chest.
Of course it did.
It always did.
If only she knew.
If only she had any understanding of what Wickham was, of what he had done, of how much damage one charming man could leave behind him while smiling all the while.
Darcy’s jaw tightened.
Where had she even met him? Had she sought him out, or had Wickham found her first? As a journalist, it was not beyond reason that Elizabeth would do her due diligence before dating any man. Was that how they met? A thousand other questions ran through his mind.
Darcy swallowed hard.
Wickham was a part of his past he had thought buried forever. And yet that particular ghost always seemed to find its way back, determined to haunt him.
His mind drifted back to Elizabeth. She thought she had uncovered some great cruelty. Some casual erasure. She thought him capable of disposing of people as though they were nothing.
And perhaps, in her eyes, his silence had confirmed it.
He stared out the window as buildings passed in a blur.
He could explain it. He could lay it out plainly. He could speak of his father, of trust misplaced, of obligations abused, of Georgiana—
But no.
Not in a café. Not under her sharp voice and sharper verdict.
And yet the bitterness of it remained: she had not even allowed him the chance. She had decided, swiftly and absolutely, that he was precisely the sort of man Wickham had described.
It was the only explanation that made sense. If she had not believed it, she would have framed her questions differently. She would have offered him, at the very least, the courtesy of a response.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, his gaze fixed on the passing street as though it were something he could master simply by looking.
His fingers flexed once against his knee, then stilled.
No.
He would not sit here unravelling over a woman’s opinion, however sharp, however unjust. He was not the sort of man who pursued affection like a boy in a melodrama, scrambling for scraps of attention.
If Elizabeth Bennet rejected him, she rejected him.
That was the end of it.
It should have been.
And still—
His chest felt uncomfortably tight, as though something essential had been struck and left aching.
The driver spoke again, cautiously. “Shall I take you home, sir?”
Home?
What was home, when his thoughts were not there?
“Not yet,” he said quietly. “Just keep driving.”
Because the worst part, the truly intolerable part, was not her anger.
It was the knowledge that she mattered.
And that he could not simply command his own heart into silence the way he commanded everything else.
Not this.
Not Elizabeth Bennet.
***
Elizabeth had barely set her keys down after getting home when her phone buzzed again. She had sent Jane a message as she left the café, and Jane had been texting ever since. Elizabeth hadn’t replied.
This was another message from her sister:
“I’m coming over. Don’t argue. Your silence sounds… upset.”
Elizabeth stared at it for a moment, then typed back.
“It’s fine. I just… it went badly.”
She didn’t add anything else. She wasn’t sure she could.
Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang.
Elizabeth opened the door expecting Jane alone.
Instead, Jane stood there with Lydia beside her—coat on, lipstick perfect, eyes bright with mischief.
Elizabeth blinked. “Jane…”
Jane’s face was apologetic. “She was with me when I got your text. I didn’t want to leave her behind.”
Lydia lifted a hand. “Hello. I was in town. I stopped by to see Jane. And then she got a message that sounded like an emotional catastrophe, so obviously I came too.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “You came for the catastrophe.”
“I came for sisterly support,” Lydia corrected, sweeping inside as though she belonged there. “Which is sometimes indistinguishable from entertainment.”
“Lydia,” Jane murmured.
“What? I’m being gentle.”
Jane mouthed sorry over Lydia’s shoulder.
Elizabeth shut the door and led them into the sitting room.
Jane sat immediately, her concern plain. Lydia perched on the edge of the sofa, curious.
Jane’s voice was soft. “Lizzy… what happened?”
Elizabeth hesitated. The words still felt sharp in her mouth.
“He asked me out,” she said finally.
Lydia’s brows shot up. “Hold on. I know I said I came for support, but how can I support you when I don’t even know who we’re talking about?”
Jane glanced at Elizabeth, then said carefully, “Mr. Darcy asked you put?”
Lydia froze.
Then, very slowly, she turned to Elizabeth.
“Wait,” she said. “You mean… that Mr. Darcy?”
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. “Yes, Lydia.”
“The billionaire.”
“Yes.”
“The one you insulted on Twitter?”
“That was almost a month ago.”
Lydia stared, scandalised. “I am completely lost. When… where… how?”
She shook her head, as though trying to rearrange reality.
“Lizzy, you cannot just casually say you went on a date with the billionaire you publicly humiliated.”
“It wasn’t casual,” Elizabeth snapped.
Jane reached out quickly. “Lydia, please.”
Lydia held up both hands. “I’m silent. I’m silent. I’m simply processing.”
Jane turned back to Elizabeth. “What did he do?”
Elizabeth gave a humourless laugh.
“I just told you. He asked me out.”
“Didn’t you say you were already on a date?” Lydia asked.
“It’s… an app thing,” Elizabeth said, gesturing as if trying to summarise in a hurry. “Long story short, I joined his app to see what it was all about. He apparently has an account too. We were both anonymous. We matched, and the app requires three dates.”
Lydia blinked. “Requires?”
“Yes. Obligatory. Structured. Ridiculous.”
She exhaled.
“Today was supposed to be the third and final one, and then—bam. He asks me out properly. Like it’s normal.”
Lydia rolled her eyes in a so-what-is-the-issue way. “And what exactly is wrong with dating a billionaire? I know women who would kill to get that far.”
“That isn’t why you’re here,” Jane said firmly. “Elizabeth isn’t everyone. And we will support her, regardless of what she decides.”
Elizabeth’s chest tightened. She gave Jane a look of quiet gratitude, and Jane’s expression softened in return.
“Lizzy… what did you say to him?” Jane’s brow furrowed again. “Because I’m certain it didn’t go badly just because he asked you out.”
Elizabeth looked down at her phone, thumb hovering.
“I brought up Wickham.”
Jane’s face changed immediately. “Oh.”
Lydia blinked. “I’m sorry—who is Wickham?”
Elizabeth glanced at her. “Someone from Darcy’s past.”
Jane’s voice was cautious. “The one who messaged you, right?”