Page 27 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“R uin me? As in… ruin? The… you know. The—” Her hands shaped in the air and gesticulated somewhat crudely. “ Everything?”

Darcy swallowed. He turned from the fire and pressed both hands to the back of the chair between them. “That is what he would prefer.”

Realization dawned slowly. “You mean—this entire time —he meant for you to…?”

“Yes.”

Elizabeth’s breath left her in a slow, stunned hiss. “No, no. I was there! I heard his command. He said he wanted me protected .”

“He did. But not only that.”

She moved toward him—one step, maybe two—but her eyes never left his. “You mean to say I was bait. For… an entirely different sort of trap.”

Darcy only nodded.

Elizabeth’s expression contorted—outrage warring with humiliation. “He wanted you to prove yourself a man? That was the test?”

A faint, bitter smile ghosted across Darcy’s mouth. “He believes in appetites. Wine, women, sensation. Scandal entertains him. Virtue bores him. And my life has never entertained him.”

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “He was willing to destroy me for that? Just to watch you slip because he thought it would be amusing? ”

His gaze flicked up, meeting hers. “Yes. And do not think your father’s standing mattered one whit to him. That probably only made it all the more entertaining as far as he was concerned.”

Elizabeth stared at him. Her mouth opened, then closed. “You knew. From the first night, you knew.”

He nodded. “I did.”

She let out a soft, incredulous breath and turned away, pacing to the far end of the hearth. “So… this was never about the assassination. Not really. It was all about you and trying to get Pemberley back and a spoiled, selfish Prince who thought this was all a good joke.”

“No,” he said quietly. “It was and is about the murder. Maddox still lives. Cunningham still hides. The Prime Minister was gunned down in daylight, and a scapegoat was hanged for it—there is real justice at stake, and there really are men who would very much like it if you never spoke another word again. But the Prince… he saw an opportunity to accomplish many things at once. Temptation of every sort to dangle before me , and you entirely without choice in the matter.”

Elizabeth spun back to face him, fury flickering in her voice. “You should have told me! Before it was too late, before I was dragged away from—”

“How?” he scoffed. “Announce it right there when we were standing outside the gates to Buckingham House? You would have stormed the palace and thrown your gloves in his face, and then we would have been hanging two people at Old Bailey.”

“I still might!” she snapped.

His mouth twitched despite himself. But there was no laughter in it. “It was cruel. I know it.”

Her chest rose and fell. “And yet you played along.”

“No!” he said sharply. “No—I refused to.”

Something in her expression shifted. Doubt. Wonder.

“I have obeyed his command,” Darcy continued, “and I have protected you—with my own life, I have protected you. Nothing more. Nothing less. Not one step beyond what duty required. I have not touched you, and I will not.”

Elizabeth stared at him. Then—softly— “Why not?”

His mouth dropped open. “I… what? ”

Her voice broke. “It would have been so easy for you, you know. Seduce me. Trade my honor for yours. One night. One misstep—a bottle of ale, a few promises you have no intention of keeping. That is all it would take, is it not?”

The look she gave him stopped him mid-breath. His chest shot through with quiet, blazing pain. A question and an answer and a wound, all at once. “I am not such a fool that I ever accounted that… or anything about you… easy.”

She took a step forward.

Then another.

He did not move.

She crossed the room with no hesitation now, only the quiet certainty of a woman who had made up her mind. He told himself to stop her. He told himself to turn away.

He did neither.

She came to stand before him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her skin, the faint rise and fall of her breath. Her hands reached up—tentative at first—then firmer, fingers slipping behind his neck. She had to stretch on her toes to reach him, and still he did not move.

So she pulled.

And he let her.

Their lips met—soft, testing, unbearably tender. His breath caught. For one suspended second, he kissed her back—and then he tore away.

“This…” he said, voice raw, “this was not what I wanted.”

She looked up at him. “Are you sure?”

“No. That is…” His hands fisted at his sides, nails digging into his palms—anything to keep from reaching for her. “I never asked for this.”

Her head tilted just slightly. “Then do not lean down. I cannot reach you if you do not lean down.”

She kissed him again… because she could.

This time, he tried.

He truly did.

His hands came up—caught her by the shoulders—not roughly, not firmly, only enough to slow her. His lips parted, his breath ragged, but he could not seem to make the words come. Her mouth was already pressing to his again, soft and sure, and the moment he tasted her, all his strength faltered.

She was warm beneath his hands. Warm and willing and alive in a way that made his heart seem to burst. Her kiss deepened—more bold now, more certain—and he groaned as her fingers slid over his chest, over his shoulders, tugging him closer.

He wrenched back with effort. “Elizabeth,” he managed, hoarse. “This is… a bad idea. We should not—”

“Then tell me to stop,” she whispered.

Her eyes met his, wide and sure and gleaming in the low light.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came.

So she reached for him again.

When he kissed her back—truly, fully—it was like drowning. His hands tangled in her hair, and her arms wrapped around his neck. There was nothing gentle in it now. Her lips parted beneath his with a sigh that was half a moan, and he drank it in like salvation. Her body pressed to his, mouth opening for him again and again, and he was lost. Devouring her. Consuming her. Every sound she made shot through him like fire. When he kissed down her neck, she arched, gasping encouragement.

He was already gone.

He could not think. Could not reason. He knew only her fingers twisting in his hair, her mouth trailing heat along his jaw, the intoxicating press of her curves beneath his hands. She clung to him, pliant and eager, and he burned for her.

She whispered his name—his given name—and it wrecked him.

He picked her up—one seamless, breathless movement—and she laughed against his throat, the sound barely audible, more sigh than laughter, but it curled around his spine like a brand. Her arms wound tighter around his neck, and her lips found the line of his jaw again just before she pulled back to look at him.

His eyes met hers. He should have set her down. He should have said her name—gently, warningly, with all the strength of a man still in control.

Instead, he carried her to the cot.

The room seemed smaller, dimmer, pulsing with the sound of his own heartbeat. He knelt over her, his hands braced on either side, trying—truly trying—to draw one last breath of sense before he lost it entirely. But she was already pulling him down with her, fingers in his hair, cradling his head to her chest like she meant to keep him there forever.

And he went. Helpless. Wanting.

Her breath hitched as his lips found her throat, lingering there. Kissing lightly, then deeper, letting his mouth speak the things he could not yet say aloud. Her scent, her skin, the shiver she gave when he moved—he had never known desire like this. It consumed. It commanded.

He could make this right. Even now… even if…

She would be ruined, yes—her reputation shattered beyond repair—but not by force, not by deceit. By choice. By her own will. Her own fire. She had come to him , arms open, eyes clear, asking nothing but the truth of his heart.

And he would give her everything in return—everything that was his to give, at least.

Her father would surely protest, but he would prevail. He would tell all, if necessary, to prove that he was the only man she could possibly have. He would bind himself to her in every way a man could. She would never lack for protection, never fear disgrace. The world might talk—God knew it would—but he could shield her from the worst of it. With his name. His vows.

She would not fall alone.

The Prince would see it. That lecherous puppet master would count this as a victory. His little game played out. The noble, icy Fitzwilliam Darcy, finally tumbled by a woman. It would be proof enough, perhaps—proof that Darcy was, in the eyes of the court, a man like any other. Tempted. Mortal. Flesh and blood.

And no longer a worthy source of entertainment for a royal hedonist. The Prince might finally keep his promise… the scandal would fade. His name might be restored.

And he—he could go home. To Pemberley. To his birthright.

But not alone. Not this time.

He could bring her with him. Hand in hand. Queen of the place he had once been forced to leave in disgrace. The final piece of his shattered world made whole—his ruin and his redemption, wrapped in the same arms.

Her hands threaded into his hair and pulled him closer.

“I love you,” she whispered, voice soft as prayer, fierce as battle. “I love you, Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

The words struck him like a musket ball.

Clean through. No warning. No armor. No breath.

His hands froze where they rested—gripping her waist, her ribs, her heartbeat.

His lungs refused to work. His vision tunneled.

He lifted his head slowly, as if surfacing from a dream he had no wish to wake from.

And then—he pulled away.

Not gently.

He staggered upright, every motion abrupt, disjointed. His limbs no longer obeyed the rhythm of desire, only the jolt of panic pounding in his chest.

And he walked.

Blindly. As far as the room would allow.

The moment her voice broke the silence, soft and uncertain, he flinched.

“What did I do?”

He did not look back.

She was still seated, he could tell by the sound of her voice—muffled slightly by the press of the cot, by the distance between them—but her hurt rang through the question as clear as any bell. A tremor of disbelief, of aching confusion.

“Nothing,” he said at last, his voice unsteady. “Lord help me, you did… everything right. That is the problem.”

Behind him, he heard the creak of the cot as she shifted. Then her feet on the floor. Then a single step toward him.

He held out a hand, sharply, as if warding off a blow.

“Please!” he choked. “Do not come closer.”

She halted. He could feel her stillness behind him like heat. Silence stretched between them until she spoke again—quieter, gentler.

“Is it… because I said I loved you?”

His eyes closed. His throat worked once before he found the words.

“It is because I cannot hurt you.” He gripped the edge of the shuttered window in both hands, his knuckles white. “No matter what you believe now, what you might convince yourself you understand… if I take what you offer—if I give in, indulge my own pleasures—you will be the one to suffer.”

“I told you, I understand the consequences—”

“No,” he cut in, voice ragged. “You trust me. That is not the same thing.”

She blinked, and her mouth dropped open for a half a heartbeat.

“I do trust you. And I know you are not a cad, but perhaps just this once, you should try acting like one. If you took me to your bed now, it would not be out of vanity or cruelty. I know that. I know you . And if you are right—if it meant your name restored, your family redeemed, your home returned—then perhaps I should let you. Perhaps the exchange would be worth it.”

A bitter sound escaped his throat—half laugh, half groan.

“You think I have not thought of that?” he muttered. “That I have not imagined exactly how the Prince would react—how loudly he would laugh first, and then quickly he would declare his 'suspicions' laid to rest? How easily the path would clear if I gave him his entertainment?”

“But we could marry! No scandal, no… consequences to regret.”

Darcy’s heart lurched. She would have him? In that way, as well as this? Oh, how he had longed for… for even a kind word from her, but she was offering her entire self, all her future, for him? He closed his eyes and balled his fist, clenching it against his teeth to prevent himself from blurting out a “God, yes!”

Instead, he hung his head, shaking it. “Your father would send you to Scotland first. You would bear my bastard in disgrace and he would hide the child and cover it all, or sell you to the nearest lord in need of an heir before he would consider… It is impossible, Elizabeth.”

“I… I can choose whom I please when I come of age…”

Darcy chuckled bitterly. “Next March? I am afraid that would be too late.”

He turned toward her, but not fully. “It is no good, Elizabeth. I promised myself, from the first moment the Prince assigned me this task, I would not use you. I would not… trade you. I cannot buy back what was lost by harming what is most precious to me.”

Silence.

Not confusion, this time.

Suspicion.

He heard her drawing closer, could almost feel the air stir as she sucked in a gasp. “What do you mean by that?”

Darcy turned slowly. The sight of her—eyes wide with hurt, lips parted in confusion—struck him with a force that nearly stole his breath. He clenched his jaw, swallowing the emotion that threatened to overtake him.

“What I mean,” he began, staring at the floor so he would not look at her face, “is that you were right.”

“Right? About what?”

He let the air out of his lungs slowly, his eyes searching hers. “That day outside Longbourn, when I confronted you about wandering from the safety of the house... you guessed not only that this was personal for me, but that I knew of you long before we met. That is… not the full truth.”

He paused, a bitter smile touching his lips. “At the time, I retorted that everyone knew you—the daughter of a marquess with a dowry substantial enough to feed all of London for a year. Everyone was competing for your hand, yet you had satisfied none of them. You were the constant subject of society pages, with endless speculation about whom you would choose.”

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “Yes, I remember. But that was not all?”

Darcy shook his head, his expression pained. “No. I first saw you at a ball. I declined an introduction. Refused a chance to dance with you.”

She blinked, a little surprise flickering across her face before she smiled. “That does not astound me. I have always thought you the sort who would despise dancing.”

He managed a faint grunt. “It is true, I have never been fond of it. But that was not the reason.”

He turned away, running a hand through his hair. “My aunt, Lady Matlock, advised me to marry an heiress. She believed that was the surest way to restore some of our family’s dignity. I loathed the idea of trying to rebuild my family on the back of another like that… but I had Georgiana to consider. I could not easily dismiss my aunt’s counsel, so, I accepted her invitation to a ball. It was last year, early spring—one of the first balls of the Season.”

Elizabeth squinted, and then a wrinkle appeared at the edge of her mouth. “Lady Matlock? I remember that ball. I wore a gold gown the Duchess of Wrexham helped to design—gold silk with a ridiculous number of rosettes. My hair would not stay pinned, and Lady Henshawe made my maid redo it twice before we even left.”

He nodded, a distant look in his eyes. “It shimmered like liquid gold in the candle light. I remember, it was shortly after you made your curtsey to the Queen.”

She let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “The first ball I attended after that, yes. You do have an excellent memory. I went with Charlotte and her mother, and we were nearly turned away at the door because someone forgot the invitation. I danced with Lord Densmore—who stepped on my foot—and then with Captain Harcourt, who would not stop talking about the weather.” She tilted her head. “But I have no memory of Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

Darcy swallowed. “No… you would not have. My aunt introduced me to numerous young ladies that evening—all respectable, many beautiful and well-dowered. I even considered asking one or two to dance. Your name was on everyone’s lips before you even arrived—so much speculation about you and maybe one or two others who were expected to make an appearance that evening.”

She blushed and looked down. “I never liked that bit. Of course, yes, it is flattering, but I believe it frightened away just as many people as were drawn to me.”

He offered a dry huff. “Well, believe me, I thought it all rot at first. But then I saw you enter the room, and I had eyes for no one else. Nor did any other gentleman.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “But I never saw you. Not even a glimpse. I feel sure I would have remembered.”

He smiled ruefully. “No. Because I knew you were as far beyond my reach as the stars. Yet I could not look away.”

She sniffed and swallowed, glancing at the window—the floor—his shoes. “I never meant to…”

“Yes you did.” His voice softened. “You walked in like the room belonged to you, and perhaps it did. Not because of your father’s name, or the whispers of your dowry. It was the way you moved, as if joy followed in your wake. The way you looked at each person who spoke to you—as though their words truly mattered.”

He risked one step closer to her—just enough to reach for the worried knot of her fingers to try to soothe them. “I watched you laugh with a girl whose name I never caught. You tucked a flower back into her hair when it slipped from her ribbon and whispered something to her that made her glow. I watched you rescue a plate from a nervous footman and hand it off before the hostess saw. And I watched you take a seat beside an elderly lady who seemed utterly forgotten, and make her feel the center of the room.”

His voice wavered. “You made the tedious seem delightful. The pomp and vanity of that hall dimmed in your presence. You... outshone everything.”

She was still staring at their hands, letting him do as he pleased with her fingers. But at his last words, she locked her hand to capture his, not permitting him to withdraw it.

He hesitated, then continued, his voice thick with emotion. “There was a moment when you reached for a biscuit and found the plate empty. You blinked, made a face, and then laughed—laughed like it was the best joke you had heard all evening. And in that ridiculous moment, I knew.”

“…Knew? What?” She was gazing up at him now, eyes wide and glittering with a sheen of tears.

He worked one hand loose from hers and let his fingers trace her cheek, shaking his head. “I realized then that I had seen the woman to whom I would compare all others for the rest of my life. A woman I could never hope to even speak to.”

She narrowed her eyes faintly and tried to open her mouth, but her voice cracked before she could release even a single word.

He exhaled a shaky breath. “I left the ball shortly after, apologizing to Lady Matlock for not dancing with any of her guests. She did not forgive me for months. And I did not forget.”

Elizabeth finally cleared her throat. “You… you really thought all that, did you?” she whispered.

He smiled faintly. “When I saw you that night at Buckingham House,” he murmured, “brought into the Prince’s chambers, shaking and frightened... and then entrusted to my care...“ He closed his eyes. “Great heavens, I felt unworthy. Incapable. My failures nearly cost you your life.”

Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears again, but her features hardened. “No! The mistakes were mine, not yours.”

He shook his head. “I cannot accept that. I could never live with myself if any harm came to you. Because the woman I once placed on a pedestal, whom I watched from afar, whose name I sought in every broadsheet, every carriage in Mayfair...”

He cupped her face gently. “You are no longer a distant dream to me, Elizabeth. You are a part of my heart. And I would sooner tear it from my chest than do anything to hurt you.”

He leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to her cheek. As he pulled back, she caught his face in her hands, attempting to bring his lips to hers. But he resisted, stepping away.

Clearing his throat, he mumbled, “I should check the perimeter.”