Page 10 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Ten

May 16, 1812

T he gardens were already swarming with guests, their bright summer attire clashing against the expanse of manicured hedges and gravel paths. A violin played somewhere, mingling with the rise and fall of cheerful conversation. Glasses clinked, voices laughed, and every inch of the lawn seemed occupied by people ambling, gossiping, and generally making a nuisance of themselves.

There had been many poor decisions in his life, but agreeing to attend a garden party voluntarily was swiftly climbing the ranks. As the carriage rolled to a stop, Darcy resisted the urge to sigh.

Beside him, Bingley was already stirring, peering out of the window with an expression of untouched enthusiasm, while across from them, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst looked equally unimpressed. A pity they had decided to risk the summer sneezes, after all.

“Well,” Miss Bingley said with a sniff, adjusting her gloves. “If one must endure an afternoon of country society, I suppose a garden party is as tolerable as any other form of drudgery.”

Bingley ignored her entirely, turning a broad grin toward Darcy. “Come, man, at least pretend you are not already regretting this.”

Darcy arched a brow, but before he could retort, the footman opened the door.

Bingley was the first to alight, stepping onto the drive with unshakable cheer, while his sisters followed, the very image of reluctant civility. Darcy took his time, adjusting his coat before stepping down to join them.

Bingley grinned, stepping back and gesturing to the assembled guests. “What do you think? A fine turnout, is it not? Sir William hosts the best garden parties in the county. He rather thinks it his solemn duty to do so. I understand his early roses are exceptional this year.”

Miss Bingley sighed extravagantly. “Yes, how noble of him to gather so many fine gentlemen and so many… eager young ladies.”

Darcy ignored her, his gaze sweeping the crowd absently. He was not here for leisure. A great many respectable families were present—some already seated beneath the white canvas of the refreshments tent, others strolling between rose-laden trellises or pausing to greet acquaintances. The scent of the first summer flowers and lemonade hung thick in the air.

He could already feel a headache forming.

“You look delighted to be here,” Bingley teased.

“I do not recall saying I was.”

“Then why have you come?”

“Perhaps I merely wished to see how much havoc you have caused in my absence.”

Bingley laughed. “Oh, hardly any at all. And if I have, I am certain it has been delightful havoc. Look—Sir William has arranged all manner of amusements—quoits, croquet, and something absurd involving blindfolds, which I refuse to take part in.” He lowered his voice again. “Miss Lydia Bennet seems intent on ensuring I do, however. I may need your assistance in fending her off.”

Darcy arched a brow. “I will not be rescuing you from Miss Lydia, Bingley.”

“Even if it is a matter of life and death?”

“Especially then.”

Bingley sighed. “You are a cruel friend, Darcy.”

“I have been told as much.”

Bingley only grinned before motioning toward the central gathering of guests. “Come. I shall introduce you to some of the new arrivals.”

Darcy, against his better judgment, followed.

His gaze swept the crowd absently, noting Sir William Lucas in full enthusiasm, bowing deeply to an elderly woman and launching into an elaborate speech about the virtues of country society. Mrs. Bennet was already at work, fluttering and beaming as she boasted to anyone who would listen about her daughters, and Mr. Goulding was arguing about the merits of spring crops.

Darcy listened without listening, his mind too occupied with duty to engage in more of Bingley’s pleasantries. Lady Elizabeth… or, rather, Miss Elizabeth Bennet was here somewhere. And today, for the first time, he would be expected to “meet” her.

D arcy saw her the moment she stepped out of Sir William’s little maze.

It was impossible not to.

She looked exactly as she should—her gown simple, her hair modestly arranged. She was entirely unremarkable. And yet—he noticed her immediately. Apparently, that was his curse.

She walked beside Jane Bennet, her expression pleasant, her movements comfortable. Not stiff or uncertain, as one might expect of a young lady suddenly deposited into unfamiliar company. No, Elizabeth “Bennet” looked perfectly at ease. As though she had belonged among them her entire life.

That, more than anything, unsettled him.

He had expected… he did not know what. Her usual hauteur? Disgust? A slip, a sign of unease? Instead, she carried herself as though she had never been anything other than the obscure daughter of a distant cousin, welcomed without question into the fold.

The ruse was working. That was all that mattered. He forced his attention elsewhere.

But then, as he was doing his best to admire the daffodils in the garden beds, Mr. Bennet approached. “Mr. Darcy,” he said, as if the entire exchange were some fine joke, “I do not believe you have been introduced to my cousin, Miss Elizabeth Bennet from Shropshire.”

Darcy turned.

She stood beside Mr. Bennet, the very picture of politeness and composure.

She curtsied. Smooth, graceful. The performance of a young lady who had been executing such movements since infancy.

“Mr. Darcy,” she murmured. “A pleasure.”

He bowed… unfortunately rather stiffly. “Miss Bennet.”

When she straightened, she met his gaze—too directly, too knowingly.

Darcy narrowed his eyes. She was enjoying this. As bad as Mr. Bennet, she was. That tiny flicker of amusement, the barely-there quirk at the corner of her mouth—he knew a challenge when he saw one.

“I understand you are just returned from London. I hope you are enjoying Hertfordshire,” she said pleasantly.

The words were harmless.

The look in her eyes was not.

Darcy inclined his head. “As much as can be expected.”

Her lashes swept downward. A slow blink, deliberately measured. When she looked at him again, there was no mistaking the satisfaction in her eyes.

“Oh, but surely there is much to appreciate in a country setting,” she said. “The air is fresh, the company lively—”

“Indeed,” he said. “I imagine you have found the company quite… educational.”

Her lips parted, just slightly. The barest flicker of amusement. “Oh, exceedingly,” she murmured.

Before either of them could push the exchange further, another figure stepped beside them. Bingley, of course. Darcy could feel his friend’s presence without looking—could sense the way Bingley’s gaze flickered between them, the way his brow creased just slightly in confusion.

“Ah, Miss Bennet, allow me to introduce my friend and neighbor, Mr. Bingley,” Mr. Bennet said, his tone still carrying the faintest trace of laughter. “Mr. Bingley, Miss Elizabeth Bennet—a cousin come to grace us with her presence for the summer.”

Bingley gave a quick bow. “A pleasure, Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth curtsied smoothly. “And you, sir.”

Bingley smiled, but Darcy saw the flicker of hesitation. His friend’s gaze darted briefly between them, his brow knitting ever so slightly.

Darcy braced himself.

Bingley was not a man given to suspicion or even quick observation, but he could be attentive in ways that often proved inconvenient. Bingley shifted his weight, clearly expecting someone to offer some kind of explanation. “I must say, it is a surprise to meet a new relation of the Bennet family.”

Darcy cleared his throat. “Miss Bennet is visiting from Shropshire.”

Elizabeth barely suppressed a smile. “Hampshire, actually.”

Bingley looked between them again. “Rather a long way between the two places, I should think.”

Darcy swallowed, but Elizabeth only lifted one shoulder. “And yet a person can call more than one place home, sir.”

“Of course, of course,” Bingley agreed. And then he smiled at her as if she were the prettiest creature he ever beheld.

Darcy would have decked the fool if it would not have caused a scene. Instead, he turned to Mr. Bennet and said, with all the politeness he could muster, “I believe your cousin has already made herself quite at home.”

Mr. Bennet gave a slow nod, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “Oh, I imagine she will fit in quite nicely.”

Darcy did not respond. He did not need to.

Elizabeth was watching him again, that same knowing glint in her eyes. He resisted the urge to exhale sharply and turned his attention elsewhere.

She was someone else’s problem now.

Or at least, that was what he told himself.

D arcy folded his hands behind his back, forcing himself to focus.

The conversation had already begun by the time he approached the cluster of gentlemen standing near the terrace, their voices low but firm with opinion. Politics were as divisive as ever, and with a Prime Minister assassinated, there was hardly a topic more suited to a gathering of respectable country gentlemen who had read just enough of the broadsheets to consider themselves well-informed.

“…Dreadful business,” Sir William Lucas was saying, shaking his head gravely. “A terrible thing, losing a Prime Minister that way. Never happened until now.”

“And a public spectacle, no less,” added Mr. Goulding, gesturing broadly with his glass of claret. “The House of Commons! Imagine it. Never has such an act of violence occurred in our very halls of government.”

A murmur of agreement passed through the group.

Darcy said nothing. He had read the official statements. He had also read between the lines.

“It is already a settled matter,” Mr. Long grunted. “Bellingham’s guilt was plain, and his sentence will be swift. He shall be hanged before the week is out.”

“Yes, yes,” Sir William agreed, though with less certainty. “And yet, some argue there is more to it.”

Darcy lifted a brow. “Some?”

Sir William sighed. “Audley, for one.”

“Henry Audley?” Mr. Goulding frowned. “The Hertfordshire man?”

“The same.”

There was a murmur of interest.

“Audley has been pushing hard for an inquiry,” Sir William went on. “He claims the case was closed too quickly.”

Mr. Long scoffed. “Nonsense. What else is there to say?”

“Bellingham fired the shot,” agreed another gentleman. “Everyone saw it. It is all quite cut and dry.”

Sir William looked less convinced. “And yet Audley insists it was too simple. That the investigation was rushed, no due process.”

Darcy kept his expression carefully neutral. Rushed, indeed.

He reached for his glass, taking a slow sip as he turned the thought over in his mind. Henry Audley was no radical, but he was a man of reform. He had made a name for himself in Parliament as an idealist—a man who spoke of justice and progress in a way that either inspired or infuriated his peers.

He was also, by all accounts, scrupulously honest.

Darcy had not yet spoken with him, but if Audley was insisting that Bellingham had not acted alone…

A small movement caught his eye.

Elizabeth.

She was standing just beyond the group, not so close as to be part of the conversation, but near enough that she could hear.

She had been disinterested a moment ago, laughing with three or four other young ladies. But now?

Now, her entire focus was fixed on the conversation. A conversation she could hardly afford to look interested in. She was trying to be subtle about it.

She was failing.

Her hands were clasped tightly before her, her posture rigid, her expression carefully neutral—but her eyes were sharp, her lips slightly parted.

She knew something.

Darcy was certain of it. And blast him, he had hardly asked her a single question since the Prince passed her off into his keeping. He had been too convinced she saw nothing useful, and too concerned with keeping her alive to stop long enough to inquisite her again. Perhaps he ought to reconsider.

He forced himself to take another sip of his drink, glancing away as though he had not noticed her reaction.

But he had.

And he was going to find out why.

E lizabeth had not expected to enjoy herself.

She had thought—perhaps foolishly—that this garden party would be another ordeal to endure. That she would drift about the hedgerows, making polite conversation with perfect strangers, ever on guard, hoping desperately to avoid missteps and suspicion.

And yet, here she was—walking through a sun-dappled garden, perfectly at ease beside Jane Bennet.

She rather liked Jane.

The eldest Bennet daughter was quiet but warm, her words chosen with care, her presence easy and uncomplicated. Unlike her younger sisters, Jane did not chatter endlessly or demand attention. She simply existed beside Elizabeth, a companion rather than a burden.

A pleasant surprise.

It was in this unhurried state that Elizabeth’s attention was caught by a young girl sitting on a stone bench near a garden wall, a sketchbook open across her lap. It was Maria Lucas, Sir William’s daughter.

Elizabeth had met her earlier that afternoon, but even in those brief moments, she had learned much of her. For one, she was excellent friends with the younger Bennet sisters. The girl had sharp, bright eyes, a lively way of speaking, and the unmistakable look of someone trying her very hardest to appear more serious than she was. She reminded Elizabeth a little of Charlotte Wrexham in that way.

She was trying—and failing—to sketch a landscape.

At least, that was what she wanted people to think.

Lydia Bennet sat beside her, peering over her shoulder, her brows drawn in a dramatic frown.

“I tell you, his chin is sharper than that,” Lydia declared, gesturing toward the distant group of red-coated officers standing near the refreshments. “See how it angles just so?”

Maria’s pencil hesitated. “You think so?”

Elizabeth stifled a laugh. This was not a landscape.

It was a portrait.

And judging by the number of bold, decisive strokes, Maria had drawn him before.

Jane must have noticed as well, for she giggled, then cleared her throat. “You sketch very well, Maria.”

The younger girl sighed. “It is not so bad, I suppose, but—” She made a face and rubbed at the page with her thumb. “I can never seem to get the shape of his face quite right.”

Elizabeth watched her for a moment, then—without thinking—she reached for the charcoal.

Maria’s eyes widened, but she said nothing as Elizabeth kneeled beside the bench and took the sketchpad into her own hands.

“The problem,” Elizabeth murmured, “is that you are drawing what you think you see, rather than what is actually there.”

Maria leaned in eagerly. “How do you mean?”

Elizabeth tilted the pad slightly. “Look at him now. Do not think about how he looks, how handsome he is or the way he laughs. Think about shapes and shadows. Where does the light strike? Where does the line truly go?”

Maria blinked, considering.

Lydia, however, was far less patient. “Yes, yes, but fix his chin first.”

Elizabeth huffed a laugh but obeyed, adjusting the line of the jaw with a few quick strokes.

Maria’s mouth fell open. “Oh! That is so much better.”

Jane, standing beside them, watched with quiet admiration. “You are very skilled, Cousin.”

Elizabeth stiffened.

Cousin.

She had almost forgot that.

She cleared her throat and gave a small, dismissive shrug. “I had some… instruction.”

“Some?” Maria gaped. “This is far more than some .”

Jane tilted her head. “Your family must have placed great importance on education.”

Elizabeth’s heart lurched. Indeed… that was her father’s fondest indulgence. The finest masters all his money could afford, as often and as long as she pleased. And drawing had been her chief pleasure—a luxury very few in her present circumstances could even dream of.

For a moment, she could not answer.

There was a sharp awareness in Jane’s expression—not suspicion, but curiosity. It was a harmless question. An innocent assumption.

And yet, Elizabeth felt a wave of panic.

She forced a careless smile. “Yes, well… I suppose they did.”

Jane’s expression softened, and she nodded as though the response satisfied her. Then, to Elizabeth’s great surprise, she said, “If you like drawing so well, I shall ask Papa to procure you some charcoals.”

Elizabeth blinked. She had not expected that.

People had always spoken of her talents in terms of accomplishment—a thing to be shown off, to be praised, to be used for admiration or advantage.

No one had ever thought about it as a thing she might want . A thing she might miss or enjoy.

Elizabeth hesitated. “You need not trouble him.”

“It is no trouble,” Jane said simply. “You have a gift. You ought to have the means to use it.”

Elizabeth swallowed. Something warm unraveled in her chest.

A gift.

Not an accomplishment.

A gift .

She exhaled slowly, glancing back down at the sketchbook in her hands.

Maria was still staring at her in open fascination.

Lydia huffed. “Well, if you will not fix his expression, at least let me color in his uniform.”

Elizabeth let out a soft laugh and handed the charcoal back.

D arcy did not come here to play games.

And yet, it seemed the world conspired against him.

“I insist, old man!” Bingley declared, clapping him heartily on the back. “We cannot have you brooding in a corner all afternoon. It is a party, you know.”

Darcy sighed. “Bingley—”

“No excuses,” his friend interrupted cheerfully. “Sir William has declared the game, and as you are an esteemed guest, it would be the height of bad manners for you to refuse.”

“Bingley,” Darcy repeated.

Bingley only smiled. “Come now, it is just a bit of Pall-Mall.”

Darcy closed his eyes.

Pall-Mall.

A most undignified game.

But he could already feel the attention of their host—and of several other guests—turning toward him, expectant, eager. A refusal now would be pointedly noticed.

With a slow breath, he nodded.

The group cheered.

Bingley beamed.

Darcy resigned himself to his fate.

Sir William clapped his hands together, beaming at the assembled guests. “Now, my dear friends, I have devised a most delightful variation for our game this afternoon! Rather than each of you competing alone, I propose we engage in a friendly contest of pairs. A gentleman and a lady shall form a team, alternating strokes through the course. This way, we may ensure both lively conversation and a fair chance for all.” He winked broadly, clearly pleased with his ingenuity.

“This is most irregular,” murmured one of the older gentlemen, though not with any real complaint.

“Indeed!” Sir William said cheerfully. “But we must allow for a bit of amusement in life, must we not?” He gestured to a waiting footman. “The names shall be drawn at random.”

The guests assembled as Sir William Lucas enthusiastically read out the game pairings. One by one, names were called, players matched, the crowd bubbling with excitement as friends and flirtations alike were thrown together for the afternoon’s sport.

And then—

“Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth Bennet!”

Darcy’s stomach dropped.

He turned his head sharply toward Sir William, as though hoping he had misheard.

But no.

There stood Elizabeth, already stepping forward with a sweet, slow smile—one that made something in his chest rip apart and caused his toes to curl in dread.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said pleasantly, dipping into a perfectly polite curtsy.

Trapped.

He could feel Bingley’s silent laughter beside him, could see Caroline’s visible irritation, could sense the general hum of interest among the gathering crowd.

It was a perfectly innocent pairing. A random one. So why did he feel as if Fate were trying to torment him?

T he wooden ball rolled across the grass, Darcy adjusting his stance before striking it with his mallet. The crack of impact was sharp, clean, precise—the ball sailing neatly through the metal hoop ahead.

A perfect shot.

Elizabeth, standing beside him, hummed thoughtfully. “A fine start, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy ignored her tone, stepping back as she moved forward for her own turn.

She studied the ball, gripping her mallet lightly, her posture relaxed, almost careless. Then, in one smooth motion, she struck—sending the ball gliding effortlessly through the next hoop.

Darcy’s eyes narrowed.

Elizabeth met his gaze, all innocence and mirth.

“Oh dear,” she said lightly, swinging her mallet onto her shoulder. “Did I do that correctly? You shall have to forgive me, sir, I am ever so unfamiliar with these country amusements.”

“You seem to be managing well enough,” Darcy remarked as evenly as he could, lining up his shot.

Elizabeth lifted her mallet, her expression all bright-eyed innocence. “How very reassuring. I would hate to put my partner at a disadvantage.”

Partner.

Darcy adjusted his grip on the mallet, trying to hide how his hand flinched. He struck, sending the ball rolling cleanly through the hoop.

She stepped forward, taking her turn, barely sparing a glance at the ball before striking it with casual perfection. Dash it all, she was even good at this .

“Miss Bennet,” he said, watching her progress, “I trust you are settling in well at Longbourn?”

Elizabeth’s mallet paused just slightly before she swung. Not enough for anyone else to notice—but he did.

“Oh, quite well, sir,” she replied smoothly, stepping back as her ball cleared the hoop. “Your concern is touching.”

“I had no intention of ‘touching’ anything, I assure you,” he muttered under his breath.

She turned, brows lifting. “I beg your pardon?”

Darcy cleared his throat and gestured for her to continue. “It is merely my duty to ensure all matters are proceeding as they should.”

She hummed. “Ah, yes. Your duty.” She lined up her next shot, giving him a sidelong glance. “And do you make it your duty to concern yourself with all the young ladies of the neighborhood? Or only the ones you so conveniently find in need of shelter?”

Darcy set his jaw. She was enjoying herself entirely too much.

He took his shot, sending his ball rolling smoothly through the next hoop. “There. That is how it is done.”

Elizabeth approached, adjusting her grip. “Is it?” she mused, tapping her mallet idly against the ground. “How very enlightening.”

She swung.

His ball, not hers, went sailing off-course.

Darcy stopped short. His eyes followed its trajectory into the grass, landing well outside the playing field.

Elizabeth pressed a gloved hand to her chest. “Oh dear,” she said, her voice all syrupy innocence. “Was that yours?”

Bingley, watching from a few yards away, gave an inelegant snort of laughter.

Caroline, meanwhile, looked as if she had just swallowed a lemon whole.

Darcy turned, slowly, back to Elizabeth.

She twirled her mallet lazily, gazing up at him with mock concern.

“You did say the goal was to eliminate the competition,” she reminded him.

Darcy rubbed a hand over his face. This woman.

A few paces away, a group of gentlemen were speaking in low tones. Darcy caught the familiar name Audley and flicked his attention toward them—only to notice that Elizabeth had, too.

She was trying not to look as though she was listening. Failing miserably, of course.

“You seem quite interested in the conversation over there,” he observed idly.

Elizabeth did not miss a beat. “Do I? How very fascinating.”

Darcy studied her carefully. “Mr. Audley is a reformist, is he not?”

She arched a brow. “Are you concerned I may have political leanings, Mr. Darcy?”

“I am concerned about a great many things.”

Her smile deepened, the picture of ease. “How very unfortunate for you.”

She stepped past him toward her next shot, entirely unconcerned. He watched as she lined up her mallet, tapped her ball forward with infuriating precision, and sent it sailing exactly where it needed to go.

Effortless. Graceful. Entirely too composed.

Darcy’s grip tightened around his own mallet.

It was not just the game. It was her . The way she spoke in circles, always just on the edge of saying something significant—before pulling away at the last moment, leaving him grasping for meaning.

He was accustomed to control. To order. To reading a person’s intent within moments. That was his entire occupation—that was why the Prince trusted him. And yet—Elizabeth was an enigma. A puzzle he could not quite fit together.

Which made her dangerous.

Darcy inhaled slowly, counting to three. He was going to lose his mind.

And Elizabeth-whatever-her-name-was was having the time of her life watching it happen.