The admission is kindling to my libido, reigniting the blaze from a very sexy daydream I crafted after Ming left. A throwback to those imagined grovel sessions after I first met Darcy, updated to incorporate Toby’s standing desk, adjusted to achieve the ideal height.

Rational thought cuts in like a bucket of cold water. Obviously, the “distraction” was because of Jane and Charles. I push the desk scenario aside.

“Then you had the issue with your dress and the—garter belt?” he asks.

I nod at the proper terminology while my neck warms at the reference.

“Yes.” He smiles again. “That was . . . quite a sight to walk in on.”

I arch a brow, unsure how to interpret this exceptional display of candor. However enjoyable my imagined desk-inclusive trysts, he’s still Darcy. Prior to this afternoon, the last time I saw the man, he rushed out of Meryton after all but confirming the worst Wickham had said about him. That was more than two weeks ago, and he’s made no effort to reach out since.

“You’ve seen me in less. Way less,” I remind him, curling around the yellowing bruise on my ego.

“This was different. Context, as you put it. Seeing you like that in a break room on a Friday afternoon was . . . surprising.”

I’m tempted to suggest we arrange to make seeing me in my garter belt on a Friday afternoon a little more commonplace, but instead I ask, “And is this unexpected peek of my gams so disorienting?”

“Knowing what you’re wearing under that dress is disorienting.” His voice is rough.

I forget to breathe. His eyes stay on mine, and I go on autopilot, covering with an old standby. “All in a day’s work.”

The intensity leaves his eyes, taking the heat and my confidence with it. It’s like the dimming I saw when I evaded his design question at Pemberley, but worse. Lights out.

He nods toward my glass. “I’m going to get a drink,” he says, voice flat. “You want anything else or are you okay?”

A dull heaviness settles in my chest, but I keep my face neutral. “I’m set, thanks.”

He stands, then pats at the pockets of his trousers, first producing his phone, which he places on the table, then a folded check. He pushes it my way. “Lest I forget. Again.”

I stare after him as he strolls to the bar. What the hell was that? This guy turns on and off like there’s a switch somewhere. I make a comment even remotely like something from the show, and it’s lights out.