Page 30 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Thirty

T he chamber they brought her to was larger than any she had entered in weeks, perhaps months—an opulent drawing room converted to a lady’s dressing suite, with high ceilings, gilt-trimmed paneling, and a row of mirrors framed in gold.

Two women in aprons stood waiting. One of them, older and silver-haired, curtsied. “Your ladyship,” she said, as though Elizabeth had not come in filthy boots and a bloody riding dress.

Elizabeth blinked. “You must be mistaken—”

“No mistake, Lady Elizabeth,” the younger maid said gently. “We were told you had been through an ordeal. We are here to assist.”

She wanted to protest—say something tart and proud—but her body sagged too heavily against the doorframe for pride. Her arms ached. Her ribs still felt every jolt of that cursed carriage. And she could hardly walk another step. She nodded once.

They stripped her carefully, murmuring apologies when they revealed the bruises on her legs and the cuts on her palms, shins, and feet. The elder woman gasped when she saw the angry gouge across Elizabeth’s back. “Musket ball,” she muttered. “Near miss.”

“Oh!” the younger one cried. “It must have pained you terribly!”

“Not until about six hours ago,” Elizabeth said with a shudder. “I did not even notice it at first.”

The maids surveyed her with round eyes, but made no further comments about her injuries. They brought a shallow copper tub and filled it with heated water. Steam rose like a balm, and Elizabeth sank into it with a soft groan, arms floating at her sides, eyes closed. It made her wounds sting and scream in agony, but it was a good sort of pain.

At some point, one of the women found a purpling bruise beneath her cheekbone. “Ah,” the younger one said, clucking softly. “I’ll fetch the powder. No one need know.”

Elizabeth opened one eye. “You are very good at this.”

“I had four sisters and one brother who boxed for coin,” the girl replied wryly. “I became a genius with rouge.”

Her hair was next—a solid half hour of dunking, scrubbing, yanking tangles—amidst muttered apologies—and more dunking and scrubbing. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth ignored it. Or she did not care enough to need to ignore it. Whatever pain inflicted upon her scalp, it was nothing to the empty place in her heart.

While her skin dried and her wounds were re-bandaged with ointment and silk, Elizabeth’s mind drifted—slipping past the quiet murmurs of the maids, past the perfume of lavender water, and back to the wet-black woods and gunpowder smoke of the cabin. The floorboards had been slick with blood. Her flesh still remembered the sting of glass, the slippery weight of Darcy’s body, the hollow terror of thinking he might be gone.

How Darcy had slumped against her in the carriage, half-lost to pain and exhaustion, murmuring incoherently. Names. Places. Once, a prayer. But then—softly, brokenly—her name.

Always, he came back to her name.

And when his head had dropped to her shoulder, heavy and unguarded, she had not shifted a muscle. She had held still for miles, letting him lean into her. Letting herself believe, just for that magic time, that she was allowed to be the one he leaned on.

That weight had felt like both an anchor and a promise.

She reached for that memory now. Clutched it. Buried it under her ribs and held fast. Because she did not know what would come next. And she needed something to believe in.

A gown was produced—seafoam silk, finely embroidered—and she stepped into it, letting them button her up like a paper doll.

The mirror showed her a stranger.

There was no dirt, no blood, no signs of the shattered cottage. Her face was pale but composed, hair pinned back into elegant submission, her figure smoothed and shaped into a version of herself that fit Carlton House’s expectations.

Except her hands. Those, only dark-colored long gloves would be able to disguise entirely, and if she moved her hands just so, even now, a little blood would stain them. How Alice would fret at her!

She closed her eyes and gulped. Alice.

She could not ask the maids. They bustled efficiently, their attentions fixed on ointments, ribbons, and hairpins. What would they know of a missing lady’s maid vanished weeks ago into the belly of a conspiracy? They were servants of the royal household, not spies.

But she had asked the colonel. In the cabin, when the colonel’s men were securing the surroundings and Darcy was half-drugged with spirits at her side, she had begged an answer to the question she had been holding on her tongue since the rescue.

“Alice. My maid. Has there been any word?”

His answer had been spare. “It appears she may have escaped. But as of now, no fresh intelligence.”

Elizabeth had nodded, but the uncertainty had sunk its teeth into her and refused to let go. Escaped… to what? And was she truly alone? Or recaptured? Dead?

But then, even her fears for Alice had paled compared to her worry for Darcy.

His head propped on her shoulder, he had looked like something carved from cold stone—bloodied, silent, too pale. She had watched the pulse in his neck to be sure it still beat. She had whispered to him in the dark when he flinched in his sleep, and when he had murmured her name.

She had not told the Prince about the kiss. The near-seduction. It was the truth, after all, and it might have been enough.

She could have. She had been tempted.

One word, one cleverly dropped suggestion, and the scandal would have been theirs. Her ruination. His obligation. It would not have mattered what her father thought of him, not when honor demanded redress. Darcy would be hers, and if the Prince thought the whole thing satisfying enough, Pemberley would be his.

But she had said nothing. Because Darcy had looked at her with that gaze she knew too well by now—serious and shuttered and painfully noble—and warned her not to do it. He had promised he would deny it. That if she threw herself on the sword of scandal, he would not catch her, though she knew in the pit of her soul that bit was a lie on his part.

And so she had let the opportunity pass.

What now?

What would her father say, if he saw the truth of what had unfolded? Would he believe her untouched, when the whole of the Prince’s household had seen her arrive bloodied and disheveled beside a man who was not her husband?

Could she ever see Darcy again without the shadow of what might have been?

She did not know. But the ache in her chest said she would never stop wishing it.

D arcy found himself standing on the grand steps, trying to force his posture erect. The oil lantern on the corner was blinding, and the early evening bustle of London streets seemed distant, muffled by the pounding in his head. His shoulder throbbed where the bullet had torn through, the graze at his neck burned, and the bruise on his temple sent waves of nausea with every heartbeat.

A carriage pulled up outside Carlton House, its lacquered panels gleaming with the Prince Regent’s insignia—a symbol of power, opulence, and distance. But it was not for him. It waited for her.

Darcy paused at the edge of the square, one hand braced against the lamppost as though the iron might steady the unraveling ache in his chest. He was already meant to be gone—already late to collect his final documents—but the sight of the carriage held him rooted. A footman adjusted the harness; another swung the step into place. Above, behind one of the tall windows on the upper floor, a curtain shifted. A maid, perhaps. Or someone closing off the view. He would never know. But he felt it, that invisible pull in his chest, the absurd hope that it was her—watching, wondering, waiting.

His hand tightened on the post. And then the door opened.

He could not see her face. Only the flash of pale silk, a gloved hand. A woman’s figure descending with care and a barely concealed limp—the same posture he had seen her adopt while carrying his pistol in her sleeve and blood on her knuckles. The royal livery moved to surround her, to escort her to the carriage with the same polished elegance used for foreign princesses and Her Majesty’s own daughters.

She did not look back.

And then the door closed. The driver snapped the reins. The wheels turned, and the carriage—her carriage—vanished into the turning curve of Pall Mall.

He let go of the post. And forced himself to walk away.

Summoning what little strength remained, he signaled for a hackney cab. The driver eyed him warily, noting his disheveled appearance and the pallor of his skin. Darcy managed to instruct, “Whitehall. The Home Office.” The driver hesitated, but, seeing the coin glinting in Darcy’s palm, nodded and set the horses in motion.

The carriage wheels clattered over cobbles slick with rain, but Darcy barely registered the sound. His vision blurred; every jolt of the vehicle sent knives of pain lancing through his shoulder, his spine, his skull. He kept upright only by force of will, one hand braced against the wall of the compartment, the other pressed to his side. Sweat clung cold beneath his cravat. His coat, still stained dark with blood beneath the shoulder seam, stuck to him like a second skin.

London unspooled around him, grey and indistinct. Streets he knew by heart—Brook Street, Piccadilly, the turn toward Whitehall—blurred past without meaning. The chill in the air pressed in through the cracks in the frame. But he was beyond cold. Beyond exhaustion. All that remained was the mission.

The Home Office loomed ahead like a sentry in stone—cold, massive, watching. He nearly stumbled on the step down, catching himself with a grunt of pain that tore across his bruised ribs. The footman offered a hand; Darcy ignored it. He had to walk in under his own power.

He passed through the entrance and into the interior hush of bureaucracy. The familiar scent of ink and old paper replaced the smoke and ash that had clung to him since last night. His boots echoed down the corridor—too slow, too uneven—and heads turned. A junior clerk dropped his quill. A secretary stilled mid-conversation. They knew who he was, of course. Knew enough to whisper.

But no one dared stop him, or ask why his shirt bore crusted red stains.

His hand trembled as he reached for the key to his office. The brass stuck in the lock before clicking open, and the door swung inward to reveal the small, orderly room where he had spent countless hours unravelling treason.

He crossed to the writing desk, swaying slightly. With stiff fingers, he unlocked the drawer beneath. Inside, wrapped in linen and bound with twine, lay the bulk of the evidence. Folded ledgers. Crumbling correspondence. A banker’s receipt in coded script, signed by a false name—one they now knew to be Cunningham’s. Letters that would unwind him. Ruin him.

Darcy laid each piece on the blotter with reverence, as though touching something holy. Or dangerous.

Darcy left the Home Office with the documents tucked close to his chest, wrapped in oilskin and tied with twine. The corridors had quieted as he passed, but whispers rose in his wake. He did not look at them. Did not slow. Let them gawk. He was beyond the reach of their curiosity.

Outside, the cold bit through the linen at his collar. The weak moon had begun its ascent, and the damp air clouded in like a second weight on his shoulders. He turned west, toward his flat.

The walk should have taken fifteen minutes.

It took nearly forty.

By the time he reached his door, his right arm hung limp at his side, and his vision danced with light. He fumbled with the key three times before the lock finally yielded. The door opened inward to silence and dust. No fire laid. No supper waiting.

He made straight for the desk.

There, beneath a pile of military reports provided by his cousin and a discarded greatcoat, lay the rest of it. More evidence. Copies of letters he had once shown to Richard—ciphered notes, household accounts from the Bellingham estate, a sworn statement from a disgraced footman who once served in Cunningham’s town house. He gathered them all, hands shaking, and then sat down to pen a cover letter for His Highness that he hoped would connect all the ruinous dots.

Then, and only then, did he pull the bell rope.

His manservant had been on leave for weeks—probably forgot the name of his employer by now. But Darcy had made arrangements months ago for such a moment as this. A trusted courier, paid well for discretion, appeared within a quarter hour. He was a broad-shouldered man with pale brows and a weathered coat, and he said nothing about the state of the flat—or of Darcy himself.

“You are to take these to Carlton House,” Darcy said, forcing the words out though his vision spotted. “Directly to His Highness. No detours. No intermediaries. Do you understand me?”

The courier nodded once, solemnly. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Go.”

The moment the door shut behind him, Darcy staggered back to the sitting room. He leaned against the wall, willing the world to hold still—but it swayed beneath him. His knees buckled.

He made it to the bedroom. Just.

His coat dropped somewhere between the door and the edge of the mattress. His boots he did not bother with. He collapsed half onto the bed, one arm flung across his eyes, breath ragged and shallow.

The fever came for him like a rising tide.

Heat, cold, light—all blurred together. He drifted between lucidity and memory, but always, always came back to her.

The kiss.

Her hand at his cheek, her body pressed against his chest, the taste of breath and tears and something wild. Her lips. The impossible softness. The way she had said his name like it mattered.

Fitzwilliam.

He clung to it, even as darkness pulled him under.

As her carriage approached Ashwick House, Elizabeth’s gaze lifted to the familiar facade. The stately townhouse stood in its customary grandeur, but her eyes were drawn upward—to the charred remains of her bedchamber’s windows. The blackened edges stood in stark contrast to the pristine stonework, a silent testament to the recent fire. A lump formed in her throat as memories threatened to surface, but she swallowed them down, straightened her shoulders, and descended from the carriage.

Inside, the air hung thick with the rich scent of roasted duck and saffron rice, underscored by the faintest trace of clove-studded wine. Elizabeth paused just inside the threshold, her gloves still on her hands, bonnet slightly askew from setting down out of the carriage. A footman appeared instantly, offering to take them, but her gaze remained fixed ahead.

The dining room had changed not at all since her childhood: deepest mahogany gleaming under the gas sconces, a single taper lit at the center of the table. Her father dined alone at the head, shoulders faintly hunched, a glass of something dark and potent resting near his left hand.

Elizabeth mustered all her fortitude and stepped forward without much of a limp, forcing her shoulders to square, her lips curving into what she hoped passed for a pleasant smile.

Her father glanced up from his plate, brows lifting in surprise that seemed—momentarily—genuine. “Well! If it is not my wandering Petal returned to the fold. Come back so soon, eh?”

She flinched. Just a flicker, barely more than the tightening of her mouth, but it lanced through her all the same. Still, she crossed to the table and made herself answer lightly, “I thought you might have grown used to the peace.”

He chuckled, gesturing toward the empty seat across from him. “Peace is a dull business. Sit, sit. You must tell me everything. I had understood the Queen would keep you tucked away at Frogmore for at least a month. What happened? Did she tire of you already?”

Elizabeth eased into the chair, smoothing her skirts as she gathered her composure. “She had… other matters to attend.”

“Mm. And yet she sent you home without a proper escort or fanfare. Not quite the dazzling exit I might have expected.”

She tried for another smile. “I had a royal carriage, Father. Guards and coachmen, all of it.”

“Of course you did,” he said airily, returning to his wine. “But surely your time was not wasted. You must have drawn attention—your mother would be apoplectic with envy. Was Lord Pembroke there? I hear he is back in circulation. Or that dashing young Viscount Stanhope—clever fellow, though rather too fond of racing debts. And what of the Marquis of Belgrave? He was positively sniffing after you last season.”

Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. She reached for her napkin and folded it with great care. “I saw none of them.”

Across the table, her father smiled shrewdly. “Ah, then it was Prince Nikolaos. I have been hearing rumors about him. Come now, Petal, I—”

She swallowed, and the napkin fell to the table.

Her father’s smile faltered. “What?”

“Please,” she said quietly. “Do not call me that.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “I beg your pardon?”

She lifted her gaze, and this time it did not waver. “That… name you always use. I am no longer a child to be petted.”

For a beat, he said nothing. Then, with a mild shrug and a crooked smile, “Very well, my pet—ah—my dear.”

The Marquess of Ashwick picked up his fork again, slicing into a cutlet with surgical precision. “Well, what of Her Majesty?” he asked between bites. “Did you make yourself agreeable?”

Elizabeth folded her napkin again, refolding it once more before answering. “As much as could be expected.”

He snorted. “Which means you said something saucy and offended someone in lace.” He waved his knife vaguely. “Really, Petal—my dear—you must learn to temper your wit in royal company.”

She looked down at the tablecloth. “There was no incident. Her Majesty was perfectly satisfied.”

“I daresay she was,” he mused. “Though you being sent home so quickly... one does wonder.”

Elizabeth lifted her gaze again, steady this time. “It was not a punishment. Merely a change in schedule.”

“Hm.” His eyes drifted to her gloved hands. “Is it unusually cold at Frogmore this spring, or have you taken to fashioning yourself a nun?”

She blinked once, then slipped her hands beneath the edge of the table. “It was drafty, yes.”

He arched a brow at her evasion, but made no further demands. He merely sipped his wine and leaned back in his chair, his smile returning. “Well, even if the Queen did grow tired of your company, you cannot possibly have returned without some tale to tell. You may as well admit it—there was someone. Some romance. Your face gives you away.”

She did not reply.

He set down his utensils with exaggerated care. “Come now. I may be your father, but I was once a young man myself. There is a look about you—you’ve either had your heart bruised or your pride wounded.”

Elizabeth kept her gaze on the tablecloth. “The gentleman did not return my affections.”

He scoffed immediately. “Then he’s a damned fool.”

Her eyes flicked to his, startled by the vehemence.

“I mean it,” he said, waving his fork for emphasis. “Name the fellow. I shall see to it he understands what he has thrown away.”

“I would rather not.”

“Afraid I’ll duel him?” he teased, clearly warming to his own narrative. “You must give me more credit. I have attorneys now. I let them handle my grudges.”

Elizabeth forced a smile, then rose to her feet. “It truly is of no consequence. And I am… very tired. May I take my leave?”

He waved a hand, already reaching again for his wine. “Of course, of course. Ah—one thing. Your bedchamber will be uninhabitable for a time. A fire. Nothing serious, but the furnishings were ruined and the walls rather scorched. Select any of the other rooms you like.”

Her breath caught faintly. “I heard about it. And… Alice?”

He lowered his glass. “Alice?”

“My maid. I hope she was not…” Elizabeth swallowed. “That is, I hope no blame fell on her. She is not… dismissed, I hope?”

“Ah.” He cut a bit of his meat and pierced it with his fork before replying. “I suppose she is around somewhere. I doubt she had anything to do with the fire. But if she’s not to be found, someone else will see you settled. There is always someone.”

Suppressing a sigh, Elizabeth rose and made her way up the staircase, her footsteps soundless against the plush runner. The house was quiet—too quiet. Every portrait along the corridor seemed to watch her pass, their painted eyes judging her as an interloper in her own home. When she reached the guest wing, she bypassed the grand chambers with terrace views and ornate balconies. No vistas. No trees. No French doors. She needed four walls and a single latch she could set herself.

The room she chose was modest, narrow, and square, with a single window that overlooked nothing but the inner courtyard and stable roofs. She closed the shutters before she crossed the threshold, twisting the latch firmly and testing it twice. The lamp on the bedside table cast a soft glow, flickering as though uncertain it had the strength to last the night.

She moved to the dressing table on legs that barely felt her own. The stool creaked faintly as she sat. The mirror offered her no comfort—only the dim outline of a woman she scarcely recognized.

She reached for the buttons at her wrists and slowly tugged at the gloves. The fabric caught where scabs had dried against the lining. When she finally pulled them free, she stared at the damage.

Her hands were a ruin—scraped raw across the knuckles, the pads of her fingers lined with angry red. Deeper gouges along her palms had reopened in places, the skin puffed and dark with bruising. There were cuts she did not remember getting. Scars that would stay.

She laid them palm up on her lap for a long moment. Then she turned back to the mirror and reached for the cloth and dampened it with the basin.

One pass took off the worst of the powder over her cheeks. Another revealed the truth. A dark bruise bloomed across her left cheekbone, half-hidden by clever cosmetics. A faint line at her hairline, where a shard of glass had nicked her. A smear of dried blood behind her ear.

She dabbed carefully at each spot, ignoring the sting. She did not stop until the cloth was stained, until every effort to look untouched had been undone.

Then she sat back.

And stared.

The girl in the mirror was not the one who had curtsied before royalty and danced under chandeliers. She was not the whispered-about heiress with the London suitors and the diamond pins. She was not the Marquess’s daughter, or at least—she no longer knew what that meant.

She was a girl who had run through dark woods. Who had fought off trained killers with her bare hands. Who had hidden in floorboards with the man she loved, waiting to die.

Her throat clenched.

She had not cried at all. Not when she had held Darcy’s unconscious body. Not when she had lied to the Prince’s face. Not even when she had come home to find her bedchamber blackened and her maid vanished and her father only dismayed that she had returned so soon.

But now—

Now the silence gave her no more space to run.

Her shoulders trembled. Her breath caught. And the tears came—not sobs, not loud or messy—but quiet, steady rivers that would not stop. She buried her face in her hands and let them fall.