Page 17 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Seventeen

N etherfield’s drive stretched before him, dappled with late afternoon sunlight. He did not slow his pace. The needling sense of unease still gripped him, though he knew— knew this time—Elizabeth was perfectly safe at Longbourn. He had seen her safely inside and strictly charged Mr. Bennet to send him a message if she should do so much as sneeze without prior arrangement.

And yet…

Bingley’s familiar drawl met him the moment he stepped through the doors. “Ah! I never know when to expect you these days, old man, so I simply keep a room waiting. Should I have the staff place a plaque outside? Mr. Darcy’s Mysterious and Inconveniently Timed Retreats?”

Darcy exhaled, dragging off his gloves. “Amusing as ever, Bingley.”

Bingley grinned, unperturbed. “You wound me. I am perfectly serious.” He tilted his head, eyes bright with curiosity. “You are a creature of habit, Darcy, and yet lately, I have no notion of where you are or what you are doing. Do tell me, do you have a secret lover? A hidden smuggling operation? An undisclosed duchy you have yet to claim?”

Miss Bingley, reclining elegantly in a nearby chair, suddenly looked more interested in the conversation.

Darcy rolled his shoulders and gave Bingley a dry look. “No to all three.”

“A pity.” Bingley sighed theatrically. “I had my hopes on the duchy.”

Miss Bingley’s gaze sharpened. “You know, Mr. Darcy, you are quite an enigma. A gentleman of good family, certainly—nephew to an earl is something, you know—but one who does not speak of that family. One who disappears to London at the most unpredictable times.” She offered a slow, assessing smile. “One who is, I suspect, far more than he appears.”

Darcy’s grip tightened slightly on his riding crop.

Bingley laughed. “Indeed! I have often wondered if my dear friend is secretly a covert agent for the Crown or some such intrigue.” He turned to Darcy with a teasing grin. “Come now, old man, confess. Have you been leading a double life?”

Darcy forced a faint smirk. “Hardly.”

Miss Bingley studied him, something speculative in her eyes. Then, she smiled with something approaching warmth. “I had not thought much of it before, but… Mr. Darcy, I should very much like to hear more of your work at the Home Office.”

No.

No, no, no . He could not allow that.

Before she could say another word, Darcy cleared his throat. “Perhaps another time. If you will excuse me, I should like to change before dinner.”

Bingley waved a hand. “Oh, of course. Your usual room, as always.”

Miss Bingley’s gaze lingered a moment longer before she, too, demurred, returning her attention to her embroidery.

Darcy wasted no time retreating up the stairs.

D inner that evening was a more animated affair than usual. Colonel Forster, the officer in charge of the regiment stationed at Meryton, had been invited, and he had brought his new young bride along—Mrs. Harriet Forster, barely eighteen and delighting in every moment of her elevated position.

Bingley engaged the colonel in a spirited discussion about local society, while Mrs. Forster dribbled on and on about the upcoming planting festival to a tight-lipped Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst.

Darcy, meanwhile, listened.

Waited.

And then, quite casually, he asked, “I am curious, Colonel, how do you find Meryton? A quiet post, I imagine?”

The colonel wiped his mouth with his napkin before replying. “Oh, quite! A charming little town. No real disturbances to speak of. Such a peaceful winter we passed here—I quite fancy our little regiment has been forgot about, because we ought to have been sent to Brighton for training by now, but alas, here we remain.”

Darcy nodded thoughtfully. “I should think your men must find it somewhat dull.”

Colonel Forster chuckled. “Dull, perhaps, but the young ladies keep them entertained well enough.”

Mrs. Forster giggled. “Indeed! My dear colonel can hardly keep them in line.”

“I should hope you do not need to keep them in line,” Bingley interjected with an easy smile.

The colonel shrugged. “A few minor disputes here and there. The usual foolishness.”

Darcy tilted his head slightly. “Nothing more serious?”

The colonel hesitated briefly. “Well… I have had a few reports of strangers in town. Men who do not belong to the regiment, nor to the town itself.”

Darcy’s pulse quickened.

“Oh?” Bingley asked. “And what do they do?”

The colonel shook his head. “Nothing, so far. Just loitering. As if they are waiting for a carriage or some nonsense. It is probably nothing.”

Darcy did not believe that for a moment.

He lifted his glass, masking his expression behind the rim. “Have these men been here long?”

The colonel frowned, thinking. “Not long. A few days, perhaps. They come and go. I cannot say whether it is truly something to concern oneself over.”

Darcy could.

He placed his glass down with careful precision, his mind already turning. If these men had come in the past few days… it meant something.

And he did not like what it meant.

T he rhythmic clack of billiard balls echoed through the dimly lit room. Darcy lined up his shot, focusing on the angle, the trajectory—only for the ball to glance off the side of the pocket, missing entirely.

Bingley, leaning easily on his cue stick, raised a brow. “You missed.”

Darcy exhaled, stepping back from the table. “Astute as ever.”

Bingley chalked his cue tip, his expression shifting from amusement to something closer to curiosity. “And unlike you.”

Darcy said nothing.

Bingley studied him for a moment before turning his attention to his own shot. “Is something the matter?”

“No.”

“You are certain?”

“Yes.”

Bingley took his shot, sinking a ball with practiced ease. “You know,” he said, in a tone that was almost too casual, “I have noticed a change in you of late.”

Darcy’s grip on his cue tightened. “Have you?”

“Indeed.” Bingley straightened, glancing at him. “Since that business with the—what was it? The Holburn affair? Egad, you looked like a ghost when I saw you back in March. I think you went two months complete without eating or sleeping, and you have hardly got much better since.”

Darcy inhaled slowly. He had not expected Bingley to mention that. “A great many things have occupied me.”

“I imagine so.” He hesitated, then added, “Have you had any progress in your petition regarding Pemberley?”

Darcy had been mid-motion, lining up another shot. The question made his muscles tense, his grip falter just enough that the ball veered wide.

Bingley sighed. “Ah. I take that for an answer.”

Darcy straightened, setting down his cue. “It seems unlikely.”

“A blasted shame,” Bingley murmured, shaking his head.

Darcy strode to the sideboard, pouring himself a brandy. The amber liquid caught the low candlelight, reflecting in warm, shifting hues. He took a long drink, closing his eyes briefly against the heat of it.

For a moment, Bingley simply left him to think. To be silent. To drink to the memory of the home he had lost, the family legacy he could no longer claim.

“So… what is next for you?”

Darcy blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Bingley gestured vaguely with his cue. “You have a life to get on with, my friend. You cannot put everything on hold and pretend the years are not passing. Pemberley is… well, nothing you can do about that. But you are not lost, are you?”

Darcy cleared his throat. This would not do. He thought quickly, hoping to shift the scrutiny away from himself. “I could ask the same of you.”

Bingley let out a short laugh. “What do you mean?”

“You have done well, Bingley. I daresay you have done everything I ever advised you to do.”

Bingley grinned. “Of course. I always heed your wisdom, dear sir.”

Darcy nodded. “Save for one thing.”

Bingley tilted his head. “And that would be?”

“Ought you not to be looking for a mistress for your new home?”

Bingley’s laugh came, but this time it was slightly forced. “Ah. That.” He cleared his throat, feigning interest in the billiard table. “I have been meaning to give it some thought. Perhaps I will go to London, attend some parties, mingle with society.”

Darcy swallowed the rest of his brandy, setting the glass aside before returning to the table. “I am surprised none of the local Hertfordshire beauties have caught your eye.”

Bingley twisted his hands on his cue stick, a flash of something painfully uncomfortable crossing his face. “There were one or two I considered,” he admitted. “One, in particular… but I never felt a sense of actual inclination from any of them. It certainly was not for lack of interest on the part of their mothers, you understand.”

Darcy smirked faintly. “Indeed.”

“But none of the ladies I have met in Hertfordshire seemed…” Bingley hesitated, searching for the words. “Sweet. Personable. Interested in me .”

Darcy coughed lightly, adjusting his stance. “I had thought there was one lady, at least. But perhaps I was mistaken.”

Bingley frowned. “Who?”

Darcy took his time, lining up a shot, then said, as if it were of no great consequence, “Miss Jane Bennet.”

Bingley blinked.

And then blinked again.

A pause.

Then—a laugh. “That is a preposterous idea.”

Darcy lifted a brow. “Yes, perhaps it is.”

Bingley shook his head. “No, truly. Miss Bennet? A charming girl, certainly—why, I daresay the prettiest girl I ever beheld, but I never had reason to believe she harbored any particular regard for me.”

Darcy merely studied him.

Bingley hesitated, then ran a hand through his hair. “And besides, there is the trouble of her mother. And her younger sisters. Friendly enough, but hardly tolerable in company.”

Darcy shrugged. “You are not wrong.” He bent over the table and lined up his stick.

They played in silence for a while, each absorbed in thought.

Then, suddenly— “Are you quite sure?”

Darcy set down his cue stick, glancing at him. “I am nothing of the kind.”

Bingley frowned in thought. “Well… Egad! You think there is any possibility?”

Ah, there it was… his opportunity. “That is not for me to determine,” he said idly. “But we might call upon the family tomorrow so you might discover for yourself.” He turned, casually selecting another cue. “A pleasant country walk, perhaps.”

Bingley studied him, his expression uncertain.

Darcy arched a brow.

Bingley exhaled, shaking his head. “Oh, very well.”

Darcy went back to the sideboard and hid his satisfied smirk behind another drink of brandy.

May 25, 1812

T he Bennet household was rather quiet for this hour of the morning.

Darcy had expected as much. He and Bingley had carefully timed their visit—midmorning, when the younger sisters would most likely be out, flitting about Meryton with their usual unchecked enthusiasm. That, at least, was the hope. The fewer distractions, the better.

It was Bingley who knocked.

Darcy remained half a step behind, hands clasped neatly behind his back, affecting an air of casual disinterest as the door swung open to reveal the Bennet housekeeper. She blinked in slight surprise but curtsied quickly, ushering them into the small front hall before disappearing to inform the family of their arrival.

The moment she was gone, Bingley shot Darcy a glance. “Well, this is a fine surprise.”

Darcy arched a brow. “Surprise?”

“I was half convinced you would find some reason to abandon me at the last moment.”

“I might have done,” Darcy admitted, smoothing a hand down the front of his coat. “But then I recalled how little entertainment there is at Netherfield before luncheon.”

“And that Caroline has declared you to be ‘fascinating.’ She would have set upon you before your breakfast settled,” Bingley chuckled, but the sound had barely faded before footsteps approached.

Mrs. Bennet arrived first, all flutters and exclamations. “Mr. Bingley! And Mr. Darcy! What a delightful surprise!” She turned over her shoulder. “Mr. Bennet, you did not tell me we were to have visitors!”

From somewhere in the depths of the house, Mr. Bennet’s dry voice echoed faintly. “That is because I did not know, my dear.”

“Oh, well! No matter, no matter.” Mrs. Bennet beamed, clasping her hands before her. “Do come in! Girls!”

Elizabeth and Jane entered just as the matron’s summons reached a piercing note.

Darcy’s gaze flickered instinctively toward Elizabeth, finding her poised, composed, that ever-present curve lurking just beside her mouth.

Miss Bennet, however—her shoulders were drawn tight, her expression polite but unmistakably uneasy. Darcy did not immediately understand why. Then he followed the direction of her gaze.

She was not looking at Bingley, as he had expected.

She was looking at Elizabeth, almost as if seeking guidance.

Darcy glanced at Bingley, who was valiantly attempting to mask his curiosity, though his smile was just a fraction too bright, his stance just a touch too eager.

Interesting.

Mr. Bennet had ambled into the room by now, and he leaned against the doorframe. “To what do we owe the honor, gentlemen?”

Bingley straightened slightly. “I was of the hope that we might convince Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth to take a turn about the countryside this morning. The air is fine, and my horse is quite done in from a long ride yesterday, so—”

Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands together. “A walk! How charming!”

Mr. Bennet glanced between the ladies, his lips twitching faintly. “A most neighborly gesture, indeed. What say you, my dears?”

Darcy watched as Elizabeth’s expression softened slightly before she turned back toward Bingley and, with a perfectly poised smile, said, “How very kind of you, Mr. Bingley. I believe a walk would be most agreeable. Do you not think, dearest Jane?”

Bingley’s smile broadened.

Miss Bennet swallowed.

Mr. Bennet waved a hand toward the door. “Very well. Off with you, then. Do try not to lose them, Bingley.”

Mrs. Bennet let out a delighted laugh. “Oh, Mr. Bennet, lose them? Heaven’s sake, he cannot possibly lose them. Did you see how he was looking at dear Jane?”

Darcy barely resisted the urge to groan. Instead, he turned toward Elizabeth just as she met his gaze, her expression rather smug enough to suggest that she had arranged the outing rather than him. Then, with a delicate arch of her brow, she turned smoothly on her heel, linking arms with Jane Bennet and leading them toward the door.

Bingley followed immediately.

Darcy took his time. There was no hurry. He would have her attention soon enough, and it would be one of their less pleasant conversations.

E lizabeth had never known a man so easy to manipulate.

Well—perhaps easy was not the right word. Mr. Darcy was a suspicious, contrary, and dreadfully stubborn creature. But when he wanted something—when he was single-mindedly pursuing a goal—he became remarkably predictable.

Which was why, as they walked, she had little difficulty nudging Bingley ahead with Jane. A murmured comment here, an innocent question there, and before long, Bingley had taken Jane’s arm and was leading her several paces ahead, entirely engaged in conversation about—oh, something or other. Elizabeth did not particularly care what.

She glanced up at Darcy, who was watching Bingley’s retreating form with wary interest. He had not even noticed that she had maneuvered him. Or if he did, his purposes happened to align with hers.

Perfect, either way.

She clasped her hands behind her back, affecting an air of supreme innocence. “I do hope you have recovered from your heart seizure of yesterday.”

Darcy’s head snapped toward her. “I beg your pardon?”

She tilted her chin. “You know. The one that left you pale and trembling and in serious danger of expiring right there in the hedgerows.”

His nostrils flared. “I was not—” He exhaled sharply. “I was concerned.”

“Concerned. How very sweet.”

Darcy’s gaze darkened. “It was not a baseless concern.”

She sighed. “Very well. I grant you that I was not where I said I would be.”

He scoffed. “A gross understatement.”

“And yet, here I am, perfectly well, having suffered no great misfortune beyond a rather wasteful afternoon spent in excellent company. Yet, your face still looks somewhat gray around the corners. I daresay, even if I had been shot by some ne’er do well, His Highness would only be slightly put out with you and would recover quickly enough. He can hardly afford to lose such a useful fellow.”

Darcy said nothing to this. A few steps passed in silence as his face seemed to be tortured with a kaleidoscope of thoughts.

At last, he said, “There were men loitering about Meryton yesterday.”

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “I am sure there usually are.”

Darcy’s voice was even—too even. “Men I had not seen before. Strangers. They were not shopping, nor were they conversing with the townsfolk. They were simply… watching.”

Her amusement faded entirely.

“That could mean nothing,” she said carefully.

“It could,” he admitted. “Or it could mean everything.”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together. She was no fool.

The idea that she was being hunted, that someone still sought to silence her, was not a new fear. It had lurked in the corners of her mind since the day she arrived at Longbourn.

But hearing it put to words, seeing the quiet intensity in Darcy’s gaze as he relayed the information…

It unsettled her.

“You could speak to Colonel Forster,” she suggested.

Darcy nodded. “I did. He came to dine at Netherfield last night. He has noticed the same. And he has made inquiries.”

A cool breeze stirred the air, ruffling the edges of Elizabeth’s bonnet.

She swallowed. “And… Alice? Is anyone inquiring about her?” She hated how uncertain her voice sounded.

Darcy nodded. “Yes.”

She gulped, hating to voice the quite reasonable fear that refused to be silenced. “Do you… do you believe she is alive?”

His jaw flexed. “That is what I hope to determine.”

Elizabeth looked away, staring out over the rolling fields.

Who in her household could possibly be closer to her than her own maid? Alice had been the only person who had seen the tremble in her hands when she dressed for that radically impromptu audience with royalty… the one that she never returned from. It was only logical someone might think her maid could know something, have heard something. If someone had decided that Alice was another loose end to be… tied off—

Oh, dear… what had she done?

Darcy’s voice was quieter when he spoke again. “If their intent is to secure your silence, I cannot think anyone would kill your maid. If anything, they might hold her until… Well. I am sure she is alive. We need only to find her.”

She nodded jerkily. “How?”

“I have a man I trust assisting me in London. And he has men at his disposal, as well.”

She glanced up at him. “Your cousin.”

Darcy’s gaze flickered to her. “Yes.”

She exhaled slowly.

So.

This was the truth of it. She was not safe. She could not even clasp at the illusion of safety.

Darcy had not been panicking yesterday out of mere propriety or a sense of wounded pride. He had believed—truly believed —that she was gone. That realization made her blood turn to ice.

She pressed her lips together. “And you?”

He frowned. “What of me?”

She studied his face, her pulse thrumming a little faster than she liked. “What is your plan?”

Darcy hesitated.

And Elizabeth—quick, perceptive, always watching—caught it. And changed tactic. “No, nevermind that for now. Why are you doing this?” she asked suddenly.

Darcy exhaled sharply, his shoulders rolling back. “Doing what?”

She shot him a look. “Mr. Bingley did not think of coming today all by himself. You came to lecture me—I see it in your eye. You still look half panicked over something that, by your own admission, is already resolved.”

His jaw tightened. “I have no intention of arguing with you further.”

“That is not an answer.”

He kept his gaze fixed ahead. “It is the only answer you will receive.”

Elizabeth huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You are not my father, Mr. Darcy. And you are certainly not a philanthropist who looks after another’s interests merely out of the good of your heart. And do not tell me ‘The Prince Said So.’ There must be a reason . So what is it?”

“I have a duty to my country, madam.”

“No, no,” she said, waving him off, “I expect better. A man of ‘duty’ alone would have long ago left me to rot. I have told you everything I remember. Go find your gunman and let me to my own fate. But you refuse to do that. Why?”

His lips parted slightly, but then he shut them again.

Elizabeth studied his face, searching for the telltale flicker of discomfort, the tightness around his mouth, the minuscule hesitation that always betrayed him. “Why do I get the distinct feeling that you are avoiding the truth?”

Darcy’s steps did not falter, but there it was—something pinched, reluctant in the set of his jaw. A hesitation so minute that another person might have missed it. But she did not.

She had him now.

“You see,” she continued breezily, “it leads me to a rather obvious conclusion, does it not? That you, too, have a personal stake in all of this.”

His stride slowed just slightly. A guilty pause.

So . She had guessed correctly.

“Am I right, Mr. Darcy?”

“I am—” He stopped himself. The first word had barely left his mouth before he seemed to think better of it. He turned his head slightly, fixing his gaze on the distant horizon, the taut set of his shoulders screaming discomfort.

“Now, that is interesting. What could possibly be of such personal importance to you? I wonder… revenge, perhaps?”

Darcy’s mouth opened, as if ready to refute her outright. But then—he hesitated again. His brows drew together slightly, his jaw locked. Something in his expression—something self-conscious—flashed too quickly to disguise.

Elizabeth’s stomach curled with intrigue. What was he hiding?

“You are not merely some errand boy for the Home Office, nor are you a common investigator. You are not a soldier or a constable. The Prince has men for that. And yet… he chose you. Because this … something about all this… is personal for you.”

Darcy’s jaw twitched. “I fail to see—”

“Yes or no?” she cut in.

A muscle ticked in his cheek. He said nothing.

Oh.

He did have something .

She arched a brow, feigning a thoughtful look. “I shall take that as a confession.” A score of possibilities ran through her mind at once, each more outlandish than the last. She discarded the ridiculous immediately.

The Prince had chosen him as her personal knight errant. That, in itself, was strange. Darcy might have come from better circles, but he himself was not a man of rank or influence. He was no statesman, no minister. His work at the Home Office was surely competent, but nothing suggested he was indispensable. Perhaps it was precisely because he was the opposite.

But why him?

Why this case?

Why her?

Was it… political? No. If it were merely about the case itself, he would not look so very much like a trapped animal.

Was it… financial? She pursed her lips, considering it. If he had something to gain, that would explain why a gentleman with no particular interest in her family should be so closely entangled in this affair.

But that explanation did not quite fit, either. Mostly because Darcy did not seem like the man to lose track of even a stray penny, let alone something large enough to engulf him in this . Not out of greed, but rather precision. He simply could not allow mistakes.

She studied his rigid profile, his obvious reluctance.

“Perhaps…” She exhaled, pacing herself. “Perhaps you have some personal connection to one of the men involved. The Prince, perhaps. Or the prime minister?” She paused. “The assassin?”

Darcy shot her a look so incredulous that she nearly laughed.

“Not that, then.” She hummed in thought. “Perhaps your interest is in one of the suspected conspirators.”

Nothing.

“Or perhaps—” she turned her gaze to him, scrutinizing, “—perhaps you are invested in the fate of another of the prime minister’s enemies.”

Darcy’s jaw flexed, but he did not take the bait.

She sighed dramatically. “Nothing? No sharp inhalation? No guilty flicker of the eye? You are making this terribly difficult.”

Still, he was silent as a stone.

Elizabeth huffed in frustration, thinking. If it was not politics, if it was not money, if it was not—

Oh.

Oh.

Her eyes widened in realization. Of course.

A slow, delighted grin spread across her face. “This was about me .”

Darcy stiffened.

Elizabeth’s chest warmed with self-satisfaction. She had unraveled him.

Darcy exhaled slowly, his gaze flicking toward Bingley and Jane, still ahead of them, before returning to the path. “That is hardly—”

“Oh, come now,” she interrupted. “It is a simple question.”

Darcy’s teeth were grinding so hard she could actually hear them. And still, he did not answer.

That silence. That pause. That guilt . A thrill of realization swept down her spine.

He had known her. Or at least, known of her. Before London. Before the House of Commons. Before the assassination.

Which meant…

Her brows knit together as she turned the thought over, the implications unfolding like a map in her mind. Why?

Why had he never spoken to her? Why had he never made himself known? Darcy was a man of connections. His circles were not so far removed from hers that an acquaintance would be unheard of—indeed, had she not been introduced to his young sister? He ought to be expected to have made her acquaintance somewhere.

She took a slow step closer, watching him carefully. “I wonder…” she murmured, drawing out the words, “how long you have been avoiding me, Mr. Darcy?”

Darcy’s gaze snapped to hers.

“You did! You knew me before this,” she declared triumphantly, and then—even better— “And yet you never called. Never introduced yourself. Never sought an acquaintance.”

His scowl deepened.

She bit her lip, shaking her head in exaggerated disappointment. “What a scandalous oversight.”

Darcy exhaled harshly. “It was not an oversight.”

Her brows lifted. “Oh? And what would you call it?”

Darcy’s gaze cut sideways to her, something wary flickering behind his eyes as he muttered something low under his breath.

Elizabeth leaned in, her brow lifting. “I am sorry, what was that?”

He halted, and something in his chest was fairly trembling with some sort of pent-up… something . “Do not let your vanity fool you,” he gritted between his teeth. “It is no work of intrigue or fascination to suggest I was familiar with your name before having you thrust upon me.”

She drew back slightly. “I only meant—”

“Well, then, have your satisfaction!“ he shot back. “Of course I knew who you were! Anyone who has eyes and ears within fifty miles of London knows who the Marquess of Ashwick’s daughter is!”

Elizabeth blinked. “It is not by any design or quality of mine , sir. My father’s name alone—”

“You think that, do you? Have you any idea what is said of you in the gentleman’s clubs? How many wagers have been placed on your marital prospects, the exact size of your dowry, your measurements at the modiste’s, and even on your virtue?”

Her face heated. “How should I know any of that?”

“Well, I have heard it all and then more—things you could never imagine. Things that would give you nightmares when you close those pretty long lashes of yours. So yes, Lady Elizabeth Montclair , I knew your name before we met. But I guarantee you had never heard mine before.”

He began to stalk off, but Elizabeth followed, catching him by the elbow and forcing him to stop. “Just what is that supposed to mean? I said I knew your sister, did I not? I am not so unfamiliar with the name Darcy.”

That drew a look from him that was altogether… she had no word for it other than to describe his expression as terrified. How odd, indeed!

“Meeting my sister once does not mean you are acquainted with my family,” he managed at last.

“Now, that is a very strange thing to say. Are you trying to call me a snob, Mr. Darcy? I said I fancied her. Occasionally, I even have a generous feeling toward you , but you are acting rather like a petulant child just now.”

“I—” His body surged forward as if he were about to unleash a tirade of justice upon her, but then he clenched his teeth and drew back. “I am not calling you a snob,” he insisted.

“Yet you seemed so slighted when you said I must not know your name. How should I have known it, I ask you?”

His throat bobbed, and he looked away. “It is of no consequence.”

“Yes.” She fisted a hand on her hip. “You have the very look of a man to whom this conversation is ‘of no consequence.’”

Darcy exhaled slowly, glancing on ahead at Bingley and Jane. They were nearly out of sight by now. “We should continue.”

Elizabeth hesitated. Never in her life had she heard a man with “no secrets” defend them so vehemently. But there was no getting more from him—not when his teeth locked together like that and his eyes glittered with suspended wrath.

Just then, Jane’s voice called out from ahead. “Lizzy, are you coming?”

Elizabeth drank in a sigh. “You are quite right. Let us catch them up and save this conversation for another day.”

“I would rather not continue it at all, if it is all the same to you.”

She squinted up at him. “It is not, but far be it from me to make the one man whose job it is to protect me despise my very face.”

He had been in the very act of turning away again when she said that, and he stopped, regarding her with the oddest look. Frustration, perhaps, but there was a good deal of… was that tenderness mixed in? Surely not.

He blinked, and his chest rose and fell once. Twice. Finally, his lips parted and his voice, when he spoke, was rather husky.

“That is something you need not fear, madam.”

“Good.” She dared to step a little closer. “Then, if you please, sir, we ought to look like a gentleman and a lady out for a pleasant stroll. Do you mind?”

He narrowed his eyes and watched her in clear amazement as she reached boldly for his arm. She had to do it all herself—crooking his elbow so his fist fell just so in front of his chest, tucking her hand between his ribs and his sleeve, and angling her steps to match his. All the while, he looked as if he had forgot how to breathe.

“There,” she declared in satisfaction once they started again. “My good sir knight, now I have no fear of rut or puddle or stone in my path. We shall make much better progress.”

His mouth, which had been slightly open, clamped shut just in time to form a faint smile. “I think our ‘progress’ was not hindered by your lack of an arm to lean on, but rather by sharp tongues all around.”

“And now, I am determined to be nothing but merry, sir. If you will be a good fellow and keep attempting to smile, we may almost have a pleasant morning.”

At that, Fitzwilliam Darcy, the most vexing man alive… well, he laughed. Not loudly or vainly, but once the darkness cleared from his eyes, he produced a sound that pleased her very much. With a deep rumble in his chest, a tickle against her gloved hand and a thrill that laced from her ears all the way down her spine, he laughed.

And suddenly, she was feeling entirely too aware of him.

Of all people, it had to be Fitzwilliam Darcy who made her blood race like that.