Page 16 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Sixteen

T he afternoon sun hung high in the sky, gilding the rolling fields with gold as Elizabeth and Jane climbed a gentle slope. The scent of fresh earth and wildflowers filled the air, a soft breeze tugging at their bonnets and loosening stray curls from their pins. It was the kind of afternoon that begged for idleness.

Which was precisely what they intended.

Jane spread out their provisions—a bit of bread, some cheese, and a few apples—on a cloth laid over a clean patch of grass while Elizabeth flopped down unceremoniously beside her, stretching her legs in the sunlight.

“Well,” she sighed contentedly, lacing her fingers behind her head, “I think we have made our escape most admirably.”

Jane gave her a knowing look. “You mean you have spirited me away to avoid Mr. Collins.”

Elizabeth cracked one eye open. “I consider it a service to my dearest friend.”

Jane laughed, shaking her head as she tore a piece of bread in half. “He is… an odd sort of man, is he not?”

“He is a plague upon the good name of cousinhood.”

“That is unkind.”

“That is entirely accurate.” Elizabeth rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. “I can see already what the man wants, and it is not tea in the sitting room.”

Jane chewed her lower lip and looked away. “It… it would make sense, Mama says. After all, I have no other prospects at hand, and he is eligible…”

“Tell me truly, Jane—do you think you could ever tolerate a man like that?”

Jane fiddled with the edge of their picnic blanket. “It is not a question of tolerating, I think, but of what must be done.”

Elizabeth frowned. “That is a most troubling answer.”

Jane merely smiled. “I am practical, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth huffed. “You are too gentle-hearted by half.” She plucked at a stray blade of grass, twirling it between her fingers. “You deserve a man who will admire you properly. Who will see you for the treasure you are.”

Jane gave a small laugh, shaking her head. “And where, pray, is such a man to be found?”

Elizabeth smirked. “Well, if I had to wager a guess… I believe we both know a certain gentleman who has been utterly charmed by your presence, whether or not you choose to acknowledge it.”

Jane stiffened slightly. “Elizabeth—”

“Oh, Jane, do not try to deny it.” Elizabeth sat up, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. “You are quite certain that Mr. Bingley has no intention of marrying at all, but I have seen the man in company. And I tell you now, he is precisely the sort of man who wishes for a wife.”

Jane let out a small, skeptical laugh. “And how would you know such a thing?”

Elizabeth raised a brow. “Because men like him are never content on their own. He is too affable, too eager to please. The sort of man who delights in pleasing others generally wishes for someone special to please.”

Jane blushed deeply.

Elizabeth grinned. “You see? I am right, am I not?”

Jane looked down, smoothing the folds of her gown with unnecessary focus. “It does not matter if you are right. I do not think he sees me that way.”

Elizabeth scoffed. “You hide it too well.”

Jane looked up, confused. “Hide what?”

Elizabeth leaned forward conspiratorially. “Your heart, Jane. If a man has any inclination toward you, he must first be assured that you return it—or else he will turn away in doubt. A little encouragement does no harm.”

Jane bit her lip. “But I have told you, I do not know how.”

Elizabeth considered this. “Well, if none of our other ideas seem workable, then you must take inspiration from your sisters.”

Jane’s expression turned faintly horrified. “Lydia and Kitty? But you said I might not… I… do not think I could.”

“You could. ” Elizabeth nudged her playfully. “You simply need a bit of practice.”

Jane gave her a sidelong glance. “And tell me, Lizzy, are you in the habit of practicing such things yourself?”

She shrugged, feigning ease. “Certainly not. I have no use for such artifice.”

“No use? Not even for a certain gentleman with striking blue eyes and a rather unfortunate tendency toward brooding?”

“Who… you cannot mean Mr. Darcy?”

Jane laughed. “Do not pretend you have not noticed him.”

“Oh, I have noticed him, I assure you. But not, I think, in the way you mean.”

Jane tilted her head. “He is rather handsome, though, is he not?”

Elizabeth pulled a face. “Terribly, almost painfully so. A pity he can hardly afford to feed himself, let alone a wife.”

Jane swatted her arm. “Elizabeth!”

“Well, it is true.”

Jane sighed. “He seems… honorable.”

Elizabeth hesitated.

That was… true, was it not? For all his frustrating ways, for all his cold, infuriating arrogance, he was—undeniably—principled.

Steady.

A man of unwavering conviction.

And dreadfully, excruciatingly handsome.

Elizabeth scowled at herself.

Jane watched her curiously. “What are you thinking?”

Elizabeth shook herself from her thoughts. “That we have wasted quite enough breath on Mr. Darcy. Let us find a more pleasant subject, shall we?”

Jane smiled softly. “Like how I am to ensnare Mr. Bingley?”

Elizabeth grinned. “Precisely.”

The laughter between them came easily after that, their worries momentarily forgotten in the golden warmth of the afternoon.

T he midday sun glared down over Meryton, though it did little to ease the chill that had settled deep in Darcy’s chest. He was barely aware of his surroundings as his horse pounded over the dirt road, hooves kicking up dust in his desperate haste.

Elizabeth was not in Meryton.

Elizabeth was not with the Bennets.

Elizabeth was not anywhere she was meant to be.

He had been ready to believe she had simply deceived everyone—that she had gone somewhere else entirely, careless as ever—but now… now he was back to believing something far worse.

Had someone got to her first?

The thought sent a bolt of fear through him, sharp and searing. His grip tightened around the reins, knuckles pale. No. It could not be. She was too clever, too blasted independent, too—

Well. If anyone took her, they would return her rather promptly. Of that, he was… at least somewhat confident.

Darcy pulled his horse up sharply beside the coaching inn, barely allowing the beast to settle before swinging himself down. His coat was still dusted from the road, his gloves dirty from the reins, but he barely noticed.

Inside the small post office, two men stood talking. One was the innkeeper, an elderly man with thin gray hair and spectacles perched on the end of his nose. The other was a footman in faded livery, a parcel tucked under his arm.

“…wouldn’t have believed it, but I saw it with my own eyes,” the footman was saying. “Three men, just standing there by the corner, watching. Not speaking. Just… waiting.”

Darcy’s pulse kicked up. “Excuse me, but… who?”

Both men turned, startled by his sudden presence.

The footman hesitated. “Sir?”

“Who were they watching?” Darcy demanded, stepping forward.

The innkeeper gave him a bemused glance. “Mr. Darcy, I am sure it was—”

“Tell me.”

The footman shifted his weight, glancing at the innkeeper before returning his gaze to Darcy. “Well, sir… I do not know exactly. But it seemed to me they were paying particular attention to the ladies out shopping this morning.”

A cold dread settled in Darcy’s stomach.

Elizabeth.

“Describe them,” he ordered.

The footman blinked. “Dark coats, looked like London men. Not officers—no regimentals—but they didn’t belong here. Too quiet, too still. I only saw them for a moment before they disappeared down an alley, but I could not shake the feeling that they were… looking for something. Or someone.”

Darcy’s mind reeled. If men had been in town watching… had they followed her? Had she been taken before he even knew to look? His body was rigid, his stomach twisting violently.

No. No, he would not let himself believe it.

His voice was tight when he spoke. “Where did you last see them?”

The footman hesitated before nodding toward the northern road. “Headed that way.”

Toward Longbourn.

Darcy did not wait. He was out the door in an instant, swinging himself atop his horse with a forceful motion. The beast, sensing his urgency, barely needed a nudge before launching forward, tearing down the lane in a blur of dust.

His heart pounded in his ears.

Let her be there. Let her be safe.

He had been too slow in everything—too slow to uncover the plot, too slow to find Alice, too slow to realize the danger Elizabeth still faced.

He would not be too slow this time.

The road between Meryton and Longbourn was mercifully quiet, save for a few farm carts making their sluggish way back from market. Darcy scanned every face, every movement. If someone had taken her—if someone had so much as touched her—

He gritted his teeth, forcing the thought away.

Just as he was coming over a ridge, he spotted an older man trudging along the side of the road. One of Longbourn’s tenants, judging by his well-worn clothes and slow, steady gait.

Darcy pulled up alongside him without hesitation.

“Sir.” His voice was rough, urgent. “Have you seen Miss Bennet?”

The man looked up, squinting against the sunlight. “Eh?”

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” Darcy ground out. “Or her cousin, Miss Jane. Did you see them in Meryton today?”

The man frowned, scratching his head. “No, sir, not in Meryton.”

Blast.

“But I did see them walkin’ t’other way this mornin’,” the farmer added. “Took a parcel with ’em, looked like they meant to spend the day in the fields.”

Darcy’s breath stilled.

The fields? Not Meryton. Not taken?

A rush of something—something overwhelming, something fierce—rose in his chest, nearly knocking the air from his lungs. He had gone from cold terror to relief so quickly that he felt almost ill from it.

He had not lost her.

Not yet.

He could barely trust himself to nod his thanks to the man before spurring his horse forward once more, now tearing toward the pastures.

T he last of their apples had been eaten, the crumbs of their meager luncheon scattered by the wind. The sun was pleasantly warm, the breeze cool, and Elizabeth was feeling, for the first time in days, a sense of peace. Jane was finally laughing at all the funny ways she had conjured up to flirt with Mr. Bingley, finally letting herself hope. The world felt wide and open, stretching out before them with golden fields and endless sky.

And then—

A sharp movement at the crest of the hill.

Elizabeth twisted in the grass, shading her eyes against the sun. A lone rider had come upon them, his dark coat unmistakable even at a distance.

She blinked as her mouth dropped open.

Oh, surely not.

But yes, yes, there he was. Darcy dismounted in one swift, fluid motion, his boots hitting the grass hard enough to make an audible thump, even at this distance. His movements were tightly controlled, but she could see it—the wrath boiling in his frame, the rigidity of his shoulders.

Something was wrong.

Beside her, Jane sat up. “Is that Mr. Darcy? What is he doing here?”

Darcy’s head snapped toward Jane as he closed the distance to them, as if only just registering her presence. He inclined his head in something resembling civility, but his gaze cut sharply back to Elizabeth almost immediately.

Her stomach twisted.

That look.

She knew that look.

Oh dear.

Darcy drew a breath as he halted before them, his skin mottled with barely restrained feeling. His words were clipped, each syllable deliberate. “Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth rose to her feet, brushing stray grass from her skirts. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, affecting lightness, though her heart had begun to hammer. “What an unexpected surprise. We heard you had gone back to London. Have you come to join our afternoon’s excursion?”

He did not answer.

Instead, he took another step forward, looking as though he were fighting the urge to grab her by the arm and haul her bodily back toward Longbourn.

Elizabeth arched a brow.

Well, then.

Jane, dear, oblivious Jane, looked between them, her brow creased with worry. “Is everything quite well, sir?”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. He bowed his head briefly. “Forgive me for being the bearer of unpleasant tidings. You are wanted at Longbourn.”

Elizabeth folded her arms. “For what purpose?”

The muscle in his jaw jumped. “Because you were expected elsewhere.”

Something cold dripped down Elizabeth’s spine.

Expected.

As in, people had been looking for her.

She shot Jane a quick glance, but Jane, if she noticed anything amiss, only looked politely concerned.

Elizabeth turned back to Darcy, tilting her head. “I do believe we told Mrs. Bennet of our plans.”

Darcy’s nostrils flared ever so slightly.

Yes, he was livid.

Jane straightened. “We were only taking advantage of the fine weather,” she said gently. “I hope no one was too worried.”

Darcy let out a slow, measured breath. “Of course not.”

Liar.

Elizabeth lifted her chin, watching him. Whatever had happened, it was not nothing. She could see it—feel it. Darcy was not merely irritated. He was disturbed. Deeply so.

And she had the distinct feeling that, once Jane was out of earshot, she would not like what he had to say.

D arcy had worked his blood to a froth for the last two hours, scouring Meryton, questioning shopkeepers, housemaids, passersby—anyone who might have seen her. And no one had. She had vanished.

And now she was smiling at him.

Darcy fought the urge to catch her by the elbow and drag her somewhere private where he could properly express his thoughts on the matter. But they were not alone. Jane Bennet was still ahead of them, polite, serene, and entirely unaware of the torrent of rage and relief threatening to undo him.

So instead, he fell into step beside Elizabeth “Bennet,” forcing calm into his expression, restraint into his posture, and absolute control into his voice.

“You did not go to Meryton.”

Elizabeth turned her head toward him with mock surprise. “No.”

“You lied.”

A small smile. Infuriating. “Yes, I did.”

Utterly unrepentant. He ground his teeth. “How do you expect to be protected when I never know where to find you?”

She frowned, arching her brows in thought. “Well, I daresay if you cannot find me, those who mean to do me harm are likewise inconvenienced.”

Darcy stopped walking. He opened his mouth to protest… then closed it. Blast if she did not have a point.

Elizabeth continued another two paces before pausing and glancing back, her brow lifted in challenge. “Had you a pleasant ride from London?”

His muscles coiled so tightly he thought he might snap. Had she any idea what she had just put him through? Did she know he had searched every street, questioned every merchant, every resident, before mounting his horse with the sickening certainty that he had been too late?

That she was gone, taken, dead , because he had not acted fast enough?

His voice came out as a snarl—low, brittle, controlled through sheer force of will. “I searched the whole of Meryton. I questioned every shopkeeper, every house, every bloody acquaintance I could find. I probably exposed myself beyond all reason and measure. No one had seen you. No one knew where you had gone.”

She rolled her eyes. Rolled her eyes. “You are making rather a fuss over nothing.”

Nothing.

The rage that boiled in his chest had nowhere to go. He could not bellow at her, could not grasp her arms and shake some sense into her, could not tell her how many times he had relived the moment of arriving in that godforsaken town, asking after her, and hearing nothing but silence in return. And could not wipe from his imagination the image of finding her lifeless body, too late…

So instead, he stepped forward—too close, too sharp, barely lowering his voice to something that would not alarm Jane Bennet.

“Alice is missing.”

Elizabeth’s teasing demeanor vanished. “Alice?”

That had struck. Finally, something got through.

He pressed the advantage. “She left without her belongings. Without a word. The household is calling it an elopement, but no one believes it.”

Elizabeth’s hands clenched in her shawl, her lips parting, then pressing together again.

Good. She should be afraid. She should understand.

But instead, she lifted her chin. “You do not know that Alice was taken.”

“And you do not know that she was not!”

A standoff.

The soft sounds of birdsong. Jane Bennet’s easy footfalls ahead of them. The distant murmur of wind through the hedgerows.

Darcy could hear none of it. His blood thundered in his ears, his vision too sharp, his breath too controlled. “Do you not appreciate how unwise it is for you to vanish into the fields alone?” he hissed.

“I was not alone,” Elizabeth said at last, her voice stubborn, defensive.

Darcy’s hands curled into fists. “Jane Bennet is not a bodyguard.”

“And you are not my gaoler.”

A sharp breath left him, but he refused to rise to the bait.

No. He was not her gaoler.

But hang it all, he was responsible for her. He had been charged with her safety, her life, and he had spent half the morning convinced she had been stolen from beneath his nose.

Elizabeth sighed, shaking her head. “We are here. We are well. Surely that is what matters?”

Darcy’s throat burned. He forced his jaw to unclench, his hands to relax at his sides. “We must return,” he said stiffly. “Now.”

Elizabeth studied his face, as if weighing whether to argue further.

But then Jane Bennet turned back, calling for them to hurry along, and Elizabeth sighed, sending him one last pointed look before falling into step beside him.

Darcy said nothing else.

His hands were still shaking.