Page 25 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Twenty-Five

A low mist coiled through the hedgerows behind Longbourn as Darcy waited beneath the cover of an ancient yew, listening for hoofbeats that were not his own.

His gelding stood quietly beside him, his reins looped loosely in his gloved hand. The second mount—a smaller, fleeter mare he had borrowed from Bingley’s stable—pawed once, twice, before falling still. She had carried couriers before. She would carry a secret tonight.

Darcy glanced toward the narrow track behind the house, half-concealed by the thicket. They would not use the main road. He had planned for that. Every choice from this moment forward had to be quiet, quick, and unpredictable. Somewhere out beyond the trees, Selwyn would already be lighting the lantern. The safe house near Cambridge—little more than a country waystation in his father’s time—had stood empty for nearly a decade. No servants. No family. No reason for anyone to watch it. Until now.

A flicker of movement caught his eye.

Two figures emerged from the shadowed side door of Longbourn—Mr. Bennet first, his coat unbuttoned, shoulders unusually stiff. Behind him, Bingley. Both approached without haste, but with purpose.

Darcy stepped forward.

Bingley offered no jest tonight. He clasped Darcy’s arm in silence and held it a beat longer than usual. “Take care of her,” he said. “And of yourself.”

Darcy inclined his head. “Thank you, Charles. I trust you will look after the Bennets. I fear they may be a target now as well.”

Bingley gave a crooked smile. “Jane says to write. Mrs. Bennet did not say anything at all. Which I take as a form of gratitude.”

Darcy might have laughed if his chest did not feel so tight.

Mr. Bennet extended a small packet, sealed with wax. “For her,” he said. “If she should need reminding that not everyone prefers her absent.”

Darcy accepted it with a quiet nod. “I will do what I can.”

Bennet’s eyes were sharp behind his spectacles. “Do not do what you can . Do what she needs . There is a difference, and you strike me as a man who often forgets it.”

Darcy smiled tightly. “Sir, if I may, I heartily suggest that your family be seen at church tomorrow without Elizabeth. Put it out loudly and to anyone who will hear it that she returned to… wherever it is you all claimed she was from. Protect your family by making it known that your house is no longer her shelter.”

Bennet nodded. “Let us concern ourselves with that, sir.”

“I mean to sit up with him all night ‘drinking,’” Bingley supplied. “And keeping our powder dry. We will be careful, Darcy. I pray you will be as well.”

“I do not need to be more ‘careful.’” Darcy sighed. “What I need is a bit of luck to turn our way for once.”

Before Bingley could respond, the door creaked again, and Elizabeth stepped into the clearing.

No laughing smile. No fanfare. Just a cloak drawn close, and a satchel slung over one shoulder. Her eyes found his instantly, as if she had always known exactly where he stood.

She crossed the lawn with no hesitation and stopped just short of him. “I am ready.”

Darcy gave a small nod, then helped her mount the mare. She did not flinch when he touched her elbow. She did not smile, either.

He kept them to the side lanes, avoiding the turnpike and every coaching inn marked on the general maps. Even before he left Meryton that afternoon, he had put the first signal into motion. Selwyn would receive it through an intermediary—no names, no seals, just a symbol etched in charcoal on the corner of a supply chit. That had always been the agreement.

Selwyn did not know who he was. Darcy had been adamant about that when the arrangement was first made, years ago during a particularly volatile inquiry into naval procurement fraud. Selwyn thought he worked for a minor functionary in the War Office. He had no reason to suspect otherwise.

The safe house itself was no great comfort. A squat stone structure at the edge of an old Cambridge holding, it had been purchased under an alias and stocked only for emergencies. There were shutters that locked from the inside, a cold cellar, false flooring, and a rear exit that led directly to an overgrown game path. It had once been used to move wounded couriers during a failed Irish rebellion. Darcy had sworn then he would never need it himself.

And certainly not for this.

There would be no servant waiting, no one to light the hearth or tend a meal, and certainly no chaperon. The very idea of bringing a lady here alone would have scandalized the man he once was. And yet here they were—riding through a nearly moonless night to a place built for silence, not comfort.

He glanced once at Elizabeth as they turned northward past a low stone boundary. Her cloak fluttered slightly in the breeze, but her seat was solid. Daughter of Lord Ashwick, she had probably grown up chasing the hounds. How strange that now they were chasing her.

Still no questions.

Still no fear.

Only trust.

It humbled him more than he could bear.

I t was past ten when they cleared the last hedgerows of Longbourn. The stars had just begun to push through the thinning clouds, and the road beneath them stretched like a ribbon of ink through open fields.

Elizabeth rode side-saddle, one hand wrapped tightly around the reins, the other gripping the pommel so hard her knuckles had gone numb inside her gloves. The horse beneath her was solid and sure-footed—Darcy had chosen well—but after the first hour, every jolt of its gait sent a fresh ache up her spine.

She had not spoken since they left the tree line.

Darcy had not offered conversation. He rode just ahead, his cloak whipping behind him in the wind, his silhouette stark against the dim sky as his head swiveled constantly about them. He had said nothing when she mounted. Nothing when they turned east. Nothing as Meryton fell behind them and the last pinpricks of candlelight vanished into the dark.

But he checked the road with every rise.

Twice, he paused to listen. Once, he dismounted and led her horse through a narrow copse, their path swallowed by brambles. She said nothing—would not give him the satisfaction or bother of fielding a complaint—but by the third hour her thighs trembled with effort and her hands could no longer feel the reins.

He knew. Of course, he knew.

Darcy slowed once they reached the river valley, allowing her a chance to flex her legs. “Another hour,” he said, his voice low in the close dark. “There will be a place to rest then.”

Elizabeth nodded. Practical, efficient, no sentiment. But the meaning was clear enough.

She had always thought herself capable. Her father had seen to it—long days in the saddle, summers in Devon with more mud than manners, winters where she rose with the sun and did her own grooming. She had never wanted to be one of those society girls who needed a footman just to mount, and more than once, her skills had proved the envy of her friends.

But this ride—this constant vigilance, this lurching, winding, aching ride—was something else entirely. Her stomach twisted with exhaustion.

And still he said nothing.

At the top of a narrow ridge, they paused. The moon had risen now, low and pale, casting silver across the fields. Elizabeth tugged her gloves tighter and looked out across the countryside. There was no road in sight by this time. No travelers. No sound but the wind in the hedges.

Darcy turned in his saddle, his profile etched in moonlight. “You are keeping up.”

It was not quite praise.

“I am not made of lace, Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice hoarse.

A flicker of something passed through his eyes—amusement, maybe—but he gave no reply. He merely inclined his head and turned back toward the east, spurring his mount into a steady trot.

She wanted to hate him for it.

Wanted to scream at him, rail against him, throw her aching body to the ground and demand that he see her—see her for who she was, not a burden, not a charge, not a problem to be managed. But she knew what this was. This was purpose. This was the man he became when everything else fell away.

He would carry her to the ends of the kingdom before he let her fall. But he would not touch her hand unless duty demanded it.

The thought sent a throb of something sharp and burning straight to her chest.

They crested another hill just as the first grey hint of morning filtered over the horizon, pale and cold.

Elizabeth’s entire body throbbed. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep, and her fingers—now locked in a permanent curl from gripping the reins all night—had gone stiff and useless. She had lost all sense of time hours ago, the road behind them melting into an endless stretch of wind and hoofbeats.

Then, at last, Darcy raised a hand. “There.”

Below them, half-shrouded in mist and crouched in a grove of trees, stood a cottage. Low and narrow, built of old stone. The chimney bore no smoke, and its dark shutters gave no sign of life. But as they approached, Darcy gave a sharp whistle—and after a beat, the door opened.

A man stepped out.

No lantern. No greeting. Just a brief nod. And safety at last.

Darcy helped her down. His hands were warm, steady beneath her arms. She tried not to lean into him, but the moment her feet hit the ground, her knees buckled. His grip tightened. Their eyes met in the dark.

“You are shaking,” he said, and his voice was the only warm thing she had felt on her skin for hours.

“I am tired.”

He did not answer. Just steadied her under his arm, holding her close to his side as he handed the horses to the man and guided her toward the door.

Inside, the cottage was cold, but clean. A single room, with a hearth long gone cold, a cot at the back, and a table with a pitcher of water beside a long wooden bench.

Darcy lit a lamp. The yellow glow washed over him—and for the first time, she saw how worn he looked. Dust in his hair. Creases around his eyes. His jaw set too tightly.

This was not a man playing the hero.

This was a man trying very hard not to fail.

She sank onto the bench, every inch of her body humming with pain. He poured water into a cup and handed it to her.

She drank in silence. Then, quietly, she said, “You signaled him before we left.”

He looked up.

“That man outside,” she added. “The one who met us. You arranged it before we even left Meryton for Longbourn yesterday afternoon. You had to have.”

“Yes.”

“He does not know who you are.”

“No.”

She nodded once. “You have had this place ready all along?”

His expression did not change. “I hoped I would never need it.”

Her throat tightened. “Especially not with a woman.”

A long silence. “No,” he said at last. “Most especially not with a woman.”

She looked down at her hands. At the trembling she could not hide. And then, slowly, her gaze lifted back to his.

“Who… who are you, Mr. Darcy?”

He did not answer. Instead, he moved past her to the hearth where Selwyn had left a parcel wrapped in oilcloth. Darcy unwrapped it and passed her a small loaf of bread and a wedge of hard cheese. It was cold, rough food, but Elizabeth took it gratefully and ate in silence, her hands clumsy with fatigue.

When she had finished, he nodded toward a narrow cot in the far corner. “There. Try to sleep.”

She wanted to protest. To ask what came next. How he meant to keep half the world from discovering them this time.

But her legs moved without waiting for her mind, and she sank down on the thin mattress. Her eyes swam with exhaustion. The air had grown paler now—the fragile grey before dawn—and her stomach twisted with nausea.

She lay back, arm curled beneath her head.

As her eyes slipped closed, she mumbled, “Where do you sleep?”

Darcy’s voice came from somewhere near the door. “I do not.”

And that was her last thought before she drifted into oblivion—the assurance that he would keep her safe.

May 31, 1812

D arcy had not slept.

Not truly.

A handful of times, he had closed his eyes—leaned his head back against the cool stone wall, just long enough to lose track of thought. But sleep never came. Not while she lay a few paces away. Not while he still had breath to guard her with.

Selwyn was gone. The last signal exchanged, and the man vanished into the woods as quickly as he had appeared, leaving behind only the ghost of reassurance and two worn blankets.

Darcy had already tended the horses twice. He had checked the perimeter three times. He had washed his face in the shallow stream behind the house until his skin stung.

Anything to stay awake.

Anything to keep his eyes open—and off of her.

She lay still in the far corner, curled beneath a blanket. Her bundle of outer clothes lay at the foot of the cot, her boots neatly placed beneath. One hand rested over her midsection, the other under her cheek, her dark hair worked loose from its pins and tangled against the pillow.

She did not stir. Not even when the blanket she had tossed over herself so haphazardly slipped down from her shoulder.

Darcy moved before he thought.

He crossed the room in silence, crouched beside her, and gently, carefully, tucked the blanket back into place. His fingers brushed the curve of her shoulder, and he felt the warmth of her through the fabric. He could not help it—he studied her face in the pale light that filtered through the shuttered windows.

Even now, in sleep, in exhaustion, there it was.

A hint of it.

That familiar smirk—curved like a secret. She was tired, worn, and hunted… and yet she looked like she might open her eyes at any moment and laugh. At him. At the world.

He swallowed hard.

Perhaps that was what had drawn him to her from the very first time he saw her. The way she laughed, as though nothing could touch her. As though life—real, flawed, dangerous life—was a joke she had already heard the punchline to.

He stood quickly and walked away.

It was early afternoon when the spell broke.

He had been sitting by the window, staring through the warped glass into the trees beyond, when something touched his shoulder.

A hand. Warm. Gentle.

He did not startle at first. His mind was too slow, his body too numb. It took a breath. Then another. And then he turned.

Elizabeth stood beside him.

She was barefoot. The linen of her borrowed gown sagged at one shoulder, and her hair was a riot of waves down her back. In her hand, she held a glass bottle—half-full, dark amber, unlabeled.

“I found this beside the cot,” she said softly. “I thought it might fortify you.”

He stared at the bottle. Then at her. And he shook his head.

“It would only make me sleep.”

She tilted her head. “Yes. That is rather the point.”

“I cannot,” he murmured, dragging a hand through his hair. “Not yet.”

“You can,” she said, firmer this time. “And you must.”

He blinked at her.

She crossed her arms. “Do you think I am entirely useless? I can keep watch.”

“You should rest—”

“I have rested. You have not. I will not let you fall asleep just as someone comes to kill us both.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

She set the bottle on the windowsill, folded her arms tighter, and gave him a look that brooked no compromise. “I will wake you if there is so much as a squirrel.”

He gave a dry huff of laughter and rubbed his eyes. “Half an hour.”

“ One hour.”

He sighed, dragging himself to his feet.

“If I wake up and you are playing cards with an assassin, I shall be very cross.”

Elizabeth smiled faintly as he passed her, every step heavier than the last. He stumbled once against the edge of the hearth but caught himself.

He made it to the cot.

He could feel her watching him as he lowered himself with the stiff awkwardness of a man twice his age. One arm flung over his eyes. His chest rising and falling in the first uneven rhythms of surrender.

He was asleep within minutes.

T he cottage was quiet.

Elizabeth sat on the low stool by the hearth, knees drawn up, blanket draped around her shoulders. The late spring wind outside had slowed to a whisper, and the birdsong—so bright just an hour ago—had faded into the hush of a lazy afternoon.

She had not been raised for this.

Rough stone floors. Musty blankets. Half a heel of bread and a slice of dried meat to call dinner. Every muscle ached from yesterday’s long ride, and she could still feel her thighs twitch faintly each time she stood. Her arms trembled when she tightened the blanket. The exhaustion would catch her again soon—but not yet. She had promised—her breath snagged on an unbidden yawn— promised to stay awake. To keep watch.

So she decided to fill her mind with distraction. Where did she leave off with life before this? Oh! Yes, the festival. Yesterday.

Was it truly only yesterday?

But it must have been. She wrinkled her forehead and tried to remember all. Caroline Bingley, prim and sparkling in her expensive lace, trying to outshine her at the game of Graces—and losing, all while pretending not to care. Of Kitty and Lydia teasing one another near the cider booth, their laughter high and thoughtless as they tried and failed to make Captain Denny look their way. Of Jane, glowing, absolutely glowing, as Mr. Bingley hovered near her elbow with the sort of shy, persistent attentiveness that made younger sisters giggle behind their gloves.

And her. Paraded about the green by Mrs. Bennet, proudly brought to the notice of every acquaintance and stranger in equal measure, as if she had always belonged… until everyone discovered that she did not.

The ache behind her eyes sharpened. Why the devil had silly Mrs. Bennet’s preening and plucking made her belly feel so warm and pleasant? It was… well, it was silly. It should have been annoying, but it…

She should have thought of Devonshire.

It struck her now, with quiet absurdity, that she never had. Not even once, in all the time since she had been dragged unceremoniously from her meeting with the Prince at Buckingham House. She never thought of Ashwick.

That had been her first home—the estate that would eventually pass to her upon her father’s death, unless by some miracle he sired a son and proper heir before then. The place where she had learned to walk, learned to ride, learned to be everything she was.

Her mother was there still—indulgent, talkative, extravagantly affectionate when it suited her. Had Elizabeth shown up on the doorstep in flight from danger, there would have been no questions. No rebuke. Likely a party by the end of the week.

And yet, not once had she longed for it.

Not even when the shadows closed in.

Even now, with the weight of exhaustion in her limbs and the stale, unwelcoming air of the cottage pressing close, she did not crave the velvet cushions and sweetmeats of her mother’s world. That life was safe. At least in theory. But it had never felt like hers.

And it could not have actually been safe , anyway. Anyone chasing her would have looked there first. They did not hesitate to set fire to her room in London, so why would a lofty old mansion in Devonshire slow them down?

Still, it startled her—that the thought of Devonshire came not as a regret, but as an afterthought.

Should that not have been instinct?

Home, after all, was meant to be where you ran, or at least wanted to run, when the wolves were close. But her heart had never turned in that direction.

It turned here.

She let out a soft breath and rested her chin on her knees.

Her thoughts wandered, drifting past Devonshire and its honeyed edges, past the mother who had given her life but never direction. And without quite meaning to, her mind settled back on the place she had just left behind.

Longbourn.

A creaky old house, cluttered and chaotic, full of mismatched furniture and louder voices than she had ever been raised to bear. And yet—

There had been laughter. Music. Banter over breakfast and squabbles over gloves. Hands reaching for hers without calculation. Faces lighting when she entered the room.

And one man seated behind a newspaper who never asked questions he already knew the answers to.

A father...

Not the Marquess. Not the title.

The other man. The one who gave her sanctuary. Who made her laugh when she thought she had forgot how. Who looked at her with knowing eyes and said nothing at all when everything hurt.

Mr. Bennet.

Her hand reached instinctively for the small bundle she had found earlier—tucked into her satchel with neat care and quiet foresight. A parcel. His writing on the paper, just a few words. A few things in case you need reminding that someone expects you to come home.

Home! Such a fond word for a place she had known so little. She did not open it. Not yet. But she held it tight against her chest.

A fortnight.

That was all it took for one man—and one messy, imperfect, beloved family—to make her feel more like a daughter than her own ever had in twenty years. She blinked back the ache behind her eyes.

And then—there was Darcy.

She turned slightly, glancing across the room.

He had not shifted in sleep—too tired for that, probably. One arm flung across his eyes. The rest of him too long for the narrow cot, his boots still on. She had watched his chest rise and fall for nearly ten minutes before he made a sound.

Then came the snore.

Soft, a bit uneven. The sort that caught in the throat and hiccupped out again.

She smiled. It should have been irritating. But somehow, it was not. Somehow, it was… right.

He had brought her here. He had guarded her steps, watched her sleep, refused food and drink so she could have more. He had held her world together with nothing but sheer force of will.

And when this ended— if it ended—what then? Logically, something must change, for they could hardly hide here forever. Long enough for the scent of their trail to fade. The heat of immediate exposure to cool, and her stubborn knight errant to recover the strength to stagger back to his horse, back to the hunt.

Surely the assassins would be caught. Maddox exposed. Cunningham dragged from whatever darkened parlor he was hiding in. The Crown would thank its faithful servants. The scandal would fade. Eventually.

Even if it did not, how long would they really keep hunting her? Surely, at some point, they would either succeed in silencing her or just… give up. If no one caught the wrongdoers, if they had seemed to get away with it, why would they keep up the risk of exposing themselves trying to kill the daughter of a nobleman? Would there not come a time when her father’s name protected her more surely than Darcy’s arm?

Someday, somehow, this would end—it had to. And then what?

Would she go back to London? Back to her father’s house, where the chandeliers gleamed and silence passed for affection? Where her absence had been tolerated with equanimity—perhaps even preferred?

The thought felt like putting on a gown that no longer fit.

She shifted, curling her feet more tightly under herself, still staring at the far corner where Darcy slept. He stirred a little now—the snoring stopped when he rolled into a deeper slumber, one arm flung carelessly off the cot so his hand scraped the floorboards. The cloak she had balled up under his head for a pillow had been pushed off the mattress, but she resisted the impulse to rise and fix it. Let him rest. Let him have this moment of peace. Heaven knew he deserved it after all he had endured for her sake.

That was when a cold stab crept down her spine—a thought she had never encountered before. Would she ever see him again? What would happen to him after this ended—after they survived it?

If they survived it.

She tried to picture him in the drawing room of her father’s London townhouse, sipping brandy with bored peers and refusing to dance. It was a laughable image. He did not belong there any more than she did.

And yet…

He had become such a fixture in her life in two short weeks that she hardly knew how to breathe without him. Her gaze lingered on the hair tumbling over his brow. The loosened cravat. The shadow of stubble on his jaw. The deep steadiness of his breath.

She closed her eyes and rested her cheek on her knees.

No, she was not at all sure she could ever go back to “not knowing” Fitzwilliam Darcy.

And then— crack .

A sound from outside. Clean. Sudden. Like a foot snapping a twig beneath weight.

Her head jerked up. Heart pounding. Breath caught. Ears straining against silence.

She did not move. Neither did the trees.

But something had. She was certain of it.