DURING HER EVENING run, which had replaced her morning run, just before Liz turned from Grandin Road onto Madison Road—which was to say not before she’d begun speculating about whether she’d see Darcy but before she’d reasonably expected that she would—there he was: tall and composed and minimally sweaty, presumably thinking supercilious thoughts but looking so unjustly handsome as he did that all her internal organs lurched a little. His real self, his actual physical body before her, as opposed to the tempting yet irritating idea of him, was somehow a surprise. In as blasé a tone as she could manage, she said, “How are people’s brains today?”

“If I’m seeing them, not good.” He was running in place, waiting for Liz to catch up to him, and when she had, he began running next to her.

She said, “You know how everyone says, ‘It’s not brain surgery’—do you and your colleagues say, ‘This is kind of hard, but, hey, it is brain surgery’?” The look on his face prompted her to add, “Am I the millionth person to ask you that?”

“You aren’t the first.” As they continued north on Madison Road, he added, “I’ve been meaning to tell you that my sister is a fan of yours. It turns out she’s subscribed to Mascara for years, and when I told her I’d met someone who works there, she knew immediately who you were.”

“She must have excellent taste.”

“Georgie is very intelligent. She’s a PhD student in history.”

“Do you dare tell me where she goes to school, or will I faint?”

“I knew you’d say something like that. She’s at Stanford.”

Liz pressed the back of one hand to her forehead. “Get my smelling salts!” She glanced at him—he appeared to be only mildly amused, if that—and said, “Seriously, tell her thank you for me. We at Mascara love our smart readers. Is your sister planning to be a professor?”

“If she can find a job out there. She’s a bit of a homebody.”

“Is she younger than you?”

“Significantly—she’s only twenty-six.”

“And does she literally still live at home? Keep in mind that for once I can’t pass judgment, given my own sisters.”

“My parents are deceased. Georgie lives in—”

“I’m sorry,” Liz interrupted, and rather stiffly, Darcy said, “It’s all right.” As they crossed Bedford Avenue, he added, “My father was older than my mother and passed away when I was in high school and Georgie was three. Our mother passed away five years ago. Georgie went to Stanford for undergrad, too, and she was living on campus at that point, which she still is. But she’s never wanted to give up our parents’ house. I don’t think she goes there when I’m not in town, but she’s very attached to it.”

“Do you want to sell it?”

“It’s on twelve acres, and it’s just sitting there. Someone might as well enjoy it.”

“You grew up in the Bay Area, right?” Liz tried to sound casual. Had he really just said twelve acres?

Matter-of-factly, Darcy said, “In Atherton,” and Liz then understood what she previously hadn’t bothered to consider. It wasn’t astonishing that Darcy came from an affluent family—both his education and bearing had provided clues—but it hadn’t occurred to her that his affluence was so extreme. She could hardly guess, in this day and age, at the value of such a property in such a place: Thirty million dollars? Forty? Personality aside, he really was almost freakishly eligible.

She said, “Is there still furniture in the house?”

He nodded. “A couple lives on the grounds in their own cottage, our caretaker, Roger, and his wife. Georgie and I go back a few times a year. It’s really a house for entertaining, so unless we’re having a bunch of guests, it’s kind of depressing. I prefer to sleep on a futon in Georgie’s apartment.”

How had Liz not googled Darcy prior to this moment? And no wonder Caroline Bingley was pursuing him. Not that his fortune made him more appealing to Liz—if it were only money she was after, she might have reciprocated her cousin’s interest. She thought of Darcy’s spare apartment, his fondness for seven-dollar meals at Skyline, and then she thought of having divulged to him her family’s financial troubles. If she’d known more about his background, she might not have; but since she already had, she said, “My parents got an offer on their house yesterday, from the first people who looked at it.”

“Congratulations.”

“Well, it’s low. But my point is that if they had the choice of holding on to that house forever, they would and so would my sisters.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“No, but, as my dad told me, I’m cold-blooded.”

“It sounds suspiciously like you’re bragging.”

“Are you working tonight?” Liz asked.

“I go in at eight.”

“Then should I come back to your apartment now or what?”

At this, Darcy actually laughed, which was a sound Liz had heard so few times that it was jarring. He said, “You certainly should.”