Then Darcy’s hand clasped Oliver’s and squeezed tight. The pressure was reassuring, and warm, and Oliver held on to his hand like a guardrail while descending icy stairs. Mrs. Bennet’s gaze flickered down to their clasped hands as the shock on her face morphed to confusion. “Also,” Oliver added, his voice tight with tension. “Darcy and I are, erm, courting, I suppose.”
