Feel. He said feel. Warmth blooms in my chest, flooding me, only to drain out of the hole bored by the words on his phone. The truth fills and hardens in the space: Darcy got Charles to leave Jane.

His brows go high with concern. “Are you okay?”

In my peripheral vision, I catch his hand reaching across the table, halting shy of mine. New disappointment piles onto the weight in my chest, threatening to crush me—I don’t want him to stop. I want his hand on me.

He takes in a short breath. “You must allow me to say how much I admire you.”

Admire?

I open my mouth to respond. His eyes dart to my lips, dropping lower long enough for my cheeks to burn. Despite everything, a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, and he lights up again. That brightness pulls me toward him. But Jane—what did he do to make that happen? The question keeps me planted.

My head teems with too many thoughts, so I produce his words, instead: “ ‘Thoroughly tolerable, but not enough to tempt me.’ ”

His brows come down. “What?”

The defensiveness in the clipped syllable breaks through the conflicting hot and cold overwhelming my senses, releasing the anger the slight can still manufacture. “I heard you. The first night you were at the show with Charles. You said—”

“I know what I said. I’m . . .” He leans back and expels a bitter laugh. “Wow. You held on to that.”

My anger swells, crowding out all other emotions. “I appreciate you’re not denying it. Real gentlemanly.”

“How did you hear that? Were you in the room? No,” he holds up his hand, the one that was close to mine, using it to fan away his questions. “That doesn’t matter.”

He peers at me in what I would otherwise guess was pure curiosity. “What is it, Bennet, that offended you? Or, what clearly continues to offend you? The fact your ‘Kitten’ routine didn’t immediately win me over?” My jaw goes tight.

His eyes soften. “I appreciate what you do at the show. I know that it matters to you, but that night, you kittening, that wasn’t real. That wasn’t something to invest in. Not emotionally.”

“What?” I ask, though I don’t want to give him credit for trying to explain.

“Bennet, you looked incredible. And you were having fun, and that’s great. I get that there’s an art to it and it means something to you. But that doesn’t change the fact that you were putting on an act. A moment ago, you slipped into an act. And that’s not what I want from you.”