Page 32 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Thirty-Two

June 30, 1812

T he silver teapot rattled faintly as Elizabeth lifted it to pour her father’s tea. No one else had entered the breakfast room—not a footman, not a maid—and the only sound was the swish of liquid against porcelain. She replaced the pot and folded her hands in her lap, listening for his approach.

The door opened without ceremony.

“You refused him,” the Marquess of Ashwick said by way of greeting, striding to his place at the head of the table. No kiss, no “Good morning, my petal,” not even the customary inquiry after her health.

Elizabeth inclined her head. “I did.”

He sat, the napkin flicking crisply over his lap. “Without so much as a word to me.”

“I did not think your answer would differ from mine.”

“In that, you are entirely incorrect, but that is not the point.”

She said nothing, reaching for the toast rack.

He snorted, watching her with a gaze sharpened by disbelief. “Her Majesty’s favor is not offered lightly, Elizabeth. And Prince Nikolaos is a suitor blessed with royal sanction. A German principality may not be a throne, but it is hardly something to dismiss over your morning tea.”

Elizabeth looked up. “You promised, when I came out, that I would be allowed to choose my own husband and that I would be granted time to look round.”

The marquess’s lip curled. “Yes, within reason. I had rather thought that implied you would choose someone. Eventually.“ He picked up his spoon and stirred his coffee with more force than necessary. “But it has been over a year since your curtsey to the Queen, and your affections remain a mystery to everyone—including, it seems, yourself.”

Elizabeth’s eyes cooled. “Not a mystery. Simply a matter I keep private.”

His brows lifted faintly. “So there is someone.”

She reached for her own cup. “That is not what I said.”

He leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him. “Then explain why you have refused a prince. And why you persist in asking to travel to Hertfordshire, of all places. What do you imagine I will believe, Elizabeth?”

“My imagination is as vivid as the scope of your beliefs, Father.”

His fist fell on the table—for the first time in Elizabeth’s memory, his temper flared, his face reddened, and he was glaring… at her . She startled and straightened in her chair.

“It would not have anything to do with that Member of Parliament from Hertfordshire, Henry Audley, would it?”

Her eyes flashed with indignation. “Mr. Audley and I have hardly spoken to one another more than twice. Besides, he has a weak chin.”

“I’ll have none of your impudence, Elizabeth!” The marquess snarled. “Society is watching. My line is at an end, but a daughter with royal connections? Now, that is something that might have ensured the Montclair legacy! Refusing a prince’s proposal is not a matter taken lightly, especially when the Crown seemed to favor such a union.”

Elizabeth’s temper flared, her composure slipping. “I will not be bartered like a prized mare at auction, regardless of the Crown’s inclinations.”

The Marquess of Ashwick surged to his feet, the chair scraping against the floor with a discordant screech. His face flushed crimson, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You are being obstinate and ungrateful,” he thundered, his voice reverberating through the room.

Elizabeth rose as well, her eyes blazing as they locked onto her father’s. “And you are forgetting your promise,” she shot back, her voice trembling with emotion.

His eyes narrowed, and he took a step closer. “Enough,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “Sit down.”

Elizabeth’s heart thundered in her chest, but she stood her ground, her chin lifting defiantly. “No. I will wait. Come next March, I shall reach my majority, and then I will require no one’s permission to marry whomever I choose.”

The Marquess of Ashwick’s voice hardened. “Elizabeth, you are my only child. The continuation of our family line rests upon your marriage and the heirs you will provide. Do you not understand the gravity of this responsibility?”

Elizabeth’s eyes remained fixed on her father. “I am aware of my duty, Father. But I will not sacrifice my happiness for the sake of a dying lineage.”

His hand struck the table again, the sound echoing through the room. “Your happiness? This is about more than your personal desires! Our family’s standing, our alliances, they all hinge on your decisions!”

“And what of my life? Am I to be a pawn in your political games, married off to live in Germany simply because the Crown approves of it?”

The marquess’s eyes narrowed. “You speak of autonomy, yet your actions suggest recklessness. Refusing a prince without counsel, showing no interest in suitable matches. Society is beginning to talk.”

“Let them talk. I will not be pressured into a union I do not desire simply to appease society’s gossip.”

He took a step closer, his voice low. “Your mother has connections, friendships cultivated over decades. Do you wish to see them strained, our family isolated because of your obstinance?”

She met his gaze unflinchingly. “I cannot even recall the last time I spoke with my mother or received a letter from her that contained more than the most banal of trivialities. Why should I care for her inconvenience when she hardly seems to care for mine?”

The marquess exhaled sharply. “You are playing a dangerous game, Elizabeth. Time is not on your side. Eight months until your majority, and you believe you can withstand the pressures that will come?”

Elizabeth swallowed. “I do.”

His eyes searched hers. “And if I were to arrange another match, one that would benefit our family immensely? There are agreeable gentlemen, daughter. I do not speak of wedding you to an ogre.”

She shook her head. “It would be futile. My answer would remain the same.”

The marquess’s shoulders bunched as his fist closed around his teacup. “You are determined to defy me at every turn.”

Elizabeth’s voice softened, but her resolve remained. “I seek not to defy, but to choose a man I find worthy. Can you not understand that?”

He glared at the table. After a moment, he spoke, his tone weary. “Do what you will, Elizabeth. But know this: your choices carry weight, and the consequences will be yours to bear.”

“Understood.” Elizabeth rose from the table and left the room, not waiting to be dismissed. The door clicked softly shut.

Eight more months.

She could outlast him.

Elizabeth rattled up the staircase, her steps coming in a disorganized flurry of anger. The morning’s confrontation with her father left a residual heat in her chest that could only be satisfied by screaming into her pillow. But as she reached the landing, the murmur of voices and the shuffle of movement stopped her in her tracks.

Two maids bustled in and out of her former bedroom, arms laden with gowns and personal items. Their brisk efficiency suggested a task both urgent and familiar.

Elizabeth approached the doorway, her brow furrowing. “What is happening here?”

The younger maid, startled, nearly dropped the stack of hatboxes she carried. “Begging your pardon, my lady,” she stammered. “The repairs are finished, and His Lordship ordered us to move your belongings back into this room.”

Elizabeth’s gaze swept the room. The walls, once a muted cream, now bore a fresh coat of soft blue. The heavy drapes had been replaced with lighter fabrics, allowing sunlight to spill generously into the space. The familiar scent of lavender sachets, placed in drawers and armoires, wafted through the air.

She stepped to the window, drawn by an inexplicable pull. The street below bustled with midday activity—carriages rattling over cobblestones, vendors calling their wares, pedestrians weaving through the throng. Her eyes scanned the crowd, landing on a figure standing motionless across the way. A man, his face obscured by the brim of his hat, seemed to be staring directly at her window.

A cold wave of fear crashed over her. The room, moments ago a sanctuary, now felt exposed, vulnerable. She recoiled from the window, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

“No,” she said, her voice tight. “Move everything back. I will remain in the smaller room.”

The older maid hesitated, a crease forming between her brows. “But, my lady, this is your rightful chamber. The other room is scarcely fit for—”

“I said no.” Elizabeth’s tone brooked no argument. “Please, do as I ask.”

The maids exchanged uneasy glances, but nodded. “As you wish, my lady.”

Turning on her heel, Elizabeth almost raced back toward the smaller room. Toward safety. As she rounded the corner, she collided with a figure emerging from the doorway. An armful of gowns tumbled to the floor between them.

Elizabeth recoiled a step as though she had seen a ghost, her pulse slamming against her ribs. And then she recognized the face.

“Alice?” she whispered.

The young maid froze, the bundle of gowns sagging slightly in her arms. Her eyes, wide and glistening, darted to the floor. “My lady—”

“Alice!” Elizabeth surged forward and grasped her by the forearms, the stiff silk of her own sleeves rustling with the suddenness of her movement. “Where have you been?”

Her voice cracked. She could not help it. Her hands clenched tighter around Alice’s arms, not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure she would not vanish.

“I—I did not mean to go. I swear it, my lady. I did not—”

“I thought you were dead!” Elizabeth’s breath shuddered out of her lungs as she crushed the poor girl, along with the bundle of gowns, in an awkward embrace. “We searched. That is… I know you were tracked—good, clever men searching for you! I asked everyone. I feared—” She stopped herself. “You were gone.”

“I was taken.” Alice’s voice broke on the words. “I could not stop them.”

Elizabeth stared at her—really stared. The hollows beneath her eyes, the faint scars along one cheekbone, the way her shoulders tensed under the weight of both memory and fabric.

She stepped aside and pushed open the door to the nearest room. “Come in here,” she said, not waiting for Alice to agree before tugging her inside. “Tell me. Tell me everything.”

Alice hesitated only a second before obeying. The gowns spilled onto the chaise as she lowered her arms, her posture awkward, wary.

“I was taken,” she said again. “After the fire. I had stepped out to fetch more water. Someone grabbed me at the alley near the chemist.”

Elizabeth sank onto the window seat, her legs suddenly weak. “You were alone?”

Alice nodded. “He said you would be joining me soon. That… that I would be a companion to you. But he lied.”

“What happened?” Elizabeth’s fingers dug into the window cushion, her knuckles white against the fabric. “How did you get away?”

Alice’s eyes flicked to the floor. “They questioned me, my lady. About you. Where you had gone. Who you might tell. They thought I knew more than I did. I told them you were summoned to be with Her Majesty but they would not believe me.”

Elizabeth’s heart plummeted. “And made you suffer. Because of me.”

Alice twisted the edge of her apron tighter between her fingers. “They kept me in a cellar. I do not know where. The windows were too high to see out. They brought me stale bread and water, and sometimes… sometimes nothing at all.”

She drew in a trembling breath. “The man who came the most—he was always angry. Said he’d seen me walking with you. Said I had to know something. When I told him I didn’t, he hit me. Backhand, mostly. Sometimes the belt.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught. “Good Lord…”

Alice went on, as though afraid to stop. “Then one night, the one who watched me drank too much. He slumped in the corner of the coach when they moved me. I waited, pretended to be asleep. When I was sure he was out cold, I opened the latch with my teeth and pushed the door open.”

“Good heavens! You jumped from a moving carriage?”

Alice gave a small, humorless laugh. “They were going slow through a village. Not many lights. I leaped.”

Elizabeth stared, horrified. “With your hands tied?”

“I hit the road hard,” Alice said, pressing a hand to her ribs as if she still felt the bruise. “I could not breathe at first. My knees were skinned bloody. But I got up. And I ran. Through a hedge. Across a field. I tore my skirt climbing a gate, and I kept running until I could not feel my legs. I do not even know how far I made it. Just that when I collapsed, it was at the foot of a stranger’s door.”

Elizabeth rose to her feet, tears pricking at her eyes. “And he—this stranger—he helped you?”

Alice nodded, finally looking her in the eye. “Yes, my lady. He opened his door and found me bleeding and filthy and crying like a child. He said he had nothing to offer but porridge and clean sheets, but I thought it was heaven.” Her voice faltered. “He never asked what I had done. Only what I needed.”

“He took you in?”

Alice nodded. “He let me stay. Fed me. Nursed me. When I could walk again, I helped with the garden, the chickens. We… grew fond of one another.”

A silence fell.

“And then?” Elizabeth asked gently.

Alice’s eyes flicked upward. “We married. Quietly. My Bernard is kind, my lady. So kind. But he used everything he had to care for me. We live simple, but I wanted to work—to repay it. So I came back.”

Elizabeth stared at her in stunned wonder. “You… came back here? ”

Alice gave a small nod. “I thought it would be best—they knew me here. But the housekeeper said I was disgraced, and she did not mean to take me back, until Kenny from the stables spoke up for me. Said he had it on authority from some gentleman from the government that I’d been collected to attend you at some royal house. What was I to do but agree? It’s only until I’ve saved enough. My Bernard is waiting. I just— I wanted to do right by him. By you.”

Elizabeth stood without thinking, crossed the room, and drew Alice into a fierce embrace.

“You foolish, wonderful girl,” she whispered. “You should have asked to speak with me the moment you returned. You need not stay a single hour longer.”

Alice looked confused. “But—”

“Come with me.” Elizabeth dragged Alice back to the room she had been sleeping in, a protective arm around the maid’s shoulders as others passed through the door. Once they were alone, she broke away only long enough to pull open the drawer of her writing desk and drag out a heavy locked box.

She opened it and spilled the contents—coins and folded banknotes—into a cloth satchel she laid out on her mattress. Every bit of her own savings, collected from gifts and careful accounting over the past years. A few hundred pounds, probably, but she had never bothered counting it. She pulled the corners of the cloth together and tied them at the top.

“Take it,” she said, pressing it into Alice’s hands. “It is far less than you deserve, after all you endured for my sake. Go home. Go to your husband. And write to me. I want to know you are safe. Happy.”

Tears spilled over Alice’s cheeks. “My lady—Lady Elizabeth—I cannot—”

“You can,” Elizabeth replied, folding her fingers around the satchel. “You will. Quickly, before someone else comes in and sees.”

Alice clutched the purse to her chest, tears spilling over. “Thank you. Thank you, my lady.”

“Do not.” Elizabeth put out a hand. “Do not thank me. This is more than a debt and larger than what coins can repay, but I hope it will at least see you into a new life.”

As Alice slipped out, still clutching the coin bag against her chest, Elizabeth stood motionless beside the door. Her hands, empty now, remained outstretched for a moment longer before she drew them back and clenched them at her sides.

The room was quiet. Too quiet. The kind that used to comfort her, and now only made her skin crawl.

She turned toward the narrow dressing table, ran her fingers over the edge. The wood was scarred and warped from age—never meant for someone of her station, yet lately, it was the only place in the house that felt hers.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror. A fine gown. A house full of staff. A title.

None of it mattered.

She reached for the ribbon at her throat and pulled it loose.

There had to be a way. If Alice could walk barefoot into the night, bleeding and half-dead, and still find her way into the arms of the love of her life—

Then Elizabeth would find hers.

“M r. Darcy—this just arrived for you, sir.”

He looked up slowly, the page’s voice barely registering over the throbbing behind his right eye. He had been staring at the same report for nearly an hour and had absorbed none of it.

The letter was sealed with a plain red wafer. No crest. No ceremony. Just a name scrawled across the front in a hand he recognized as belonging to a junior secretary under Lord Sidmouth.

Darcy broke the seal with his thumb and scanned the page. Your transfer request is granted. Expect departure within the week. You are advised to prepare any immediate family or dependents for extended absence. Further instruction to follow.

His lips thinned. That was all. No formal approval yet, no post named, but it might as well have been done. It was coming. Portugal, almost certainly. Lisbon, if he was lucky. Somewhere more remote, if not. He folded the letter carefully, tucked it into his coat, and stood.

The ache in his shoulder was a warning, but he ignored it. He could take a carriage. It was a long walk to Mayfair, and his boots were not new.

But a carriage cost money—and he had spent enough of that during his convalescence to make even a gentleman feel unease. He preferred the control of his own two feet, and besides… walking cleared the mind.

Or at least, it used to.

He set out just before midday. The streets of Westminster were already warm with the breath of summer, and the air hung thick with dust. He kept his head down as he crossed into St. James’s and then past Piccadilly, weaving his way toward the familiar grid of streets he once walked with such easy confidence.

Each block brought back the memory of another life. Turning the corner at Bond Street felt like stepping into a painting—one he could no longer touch.

He meant to go straight to Matlock house. To speak to Georgiana, to tell her what little he could about what came next. But then, as he passed into the heart of Mayfair, his eyes caught on something that stole his breath.

A placard. Tied with blue ribbon to the wrought-iron gate of a tall, stately home.

FOR SALE. Inquire within.

Darcy stopped walking.

Because this was not just any house. This was his house.

Or rather, it had been.

The London townhouse of the Darcy family—Pemberley House, as it had once been styled, though there was no longer any Pemberley title to speak of—stood quiet behind its neat fence. The windows were shuttered. The knocker polished. The brick the same golden-red as he remembered.

Only the sign had changed.

He stood there so long that someone on horseback passed him twice.

Darcy’s lips parted, but no sound escaped. The sensation was oddly physical—like finding a blade buried in his ribs after the duel was long over. He swallowed, a sour taste rising behind his teeth. How many times had he walked that threshold as a boy? How many hours had he spent pressed against the balustrade of that balcony, listening to summer thunder?

His feet carried him closer without conscious thought. His hand lifted toward the gate.

He wanted to leave. He should leave. Matlock’s townhouse was only five doors down. Georgiana was waiting. But the ache in his shoulder suddenly pulsed with more than pain. It was something else. Something cold and bitter and ancient.

Anger. Not at fate. Not at the king. Not even at Wickham.

But at himself—for allowing it to feel like grief. For feeling anything at all.

The front door creaked open, and a young man in a cravat too bold for the neighborhood poked his head out.

“Looking to view the property, sir?” he chirped.

Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “I have… ‘viewed’ it before.”

The young man blinked. “Ah. Well—uh—it just came available, sir. We have a viewing scheduled in half an hour, but I can make allowances. Would you care to have another look inside, sir?”

Darcy hesitated, the question hanging in the air. His initial impulse was to decline, to walk away and leave the past undisturbed. Yet, an inexplicable urge rooted his feet to the spot. Before he fully comprehended his own decision, he found himself nodding.

“Very well,” the agent replied, producing a set of keys from his pocket. He pushed the door back open, his demeanor professional yet eager, as if this was his very first showing. “This way, if you please.”

Darcy followed, his steps faltering slightly as they approached the front entrance.

“After you, sir,” the agent gestured.

As he crossed the threshold, Darcy was enveloped by a flood of memories. The scent of aged wood, worn leather, and faint traces of dust from his mother’s favorite rugs lingered in the air. The unwaxed marble floor of the foyer gleamed softly in the muted light, each tile a silent witness to the passage of time.

The agent began his rehearsed spiel, his voice a distant murmur to Darcy’s ears. “As you can see, the entrance hall is quite spacious, leading directly to the main reception rooms. The previous occupants maintained the original features, preserving the property’s historical charm.”

Darcy’s gaze drifted upward to the grand staircase. He could almost see his younger self descending the steps, his father waiting at the bottom with a proud smile. The echoes of laughter and the rustle of elegant gowns during evening gatherings seemed to resonate within the walls.

They moved into the drawing room. The agent held up a hand in demonstration. “This room offers ample space for entertaining. The large windows allow for plenty of natural light, and the fireplace remains fully functional.”

Darcy’s fingers brushed against the mantelpiece as he recalled winter evenings spent before the fire, his mother reading aloud while he and Georgiana listened raptly. The warmth of those moments contrasted sharply with the cold emptiness he now felt.

The dining room was next. The long table had been removed, leaving the room feeling hollow. “Perfect for hosting dinner parties,” the agent noted.

His mother always kept the table set with fine china and silver, her face brilliant even when the conversation swelled with politics and finance. His father’s laughter used to rise above the clatter of cutlery, and Georgiana, as a child, would sneak candied almonds beneath the table until she was caught and scolded with a smile. It had been a place of comfort, of ceremony—of belonging.

He had once imagined continuing that tradition. Had pictured himself seated at the head of the same long table, perhaps grumbling inwardly over the number of guests, but secretly pleased by the sparkle in his wife’s eyes as she orchestrated it all. A wife he would never deny. He had imagined enduring the fuss of floral arrangements and wine pairings and all the silly little details of society entertaining, just to see her pleased. Just to hear her laugh.

And of course, now, that wife had a face.

Sharp eyes and chocolate-dark hair that snarled into the most delicious knots at the barest breath. Wit that bit. Kindness that soothed. A voice that haunted his dreams.

Elizabeth.

He could see her standing at the end of the table, smoothing over a footman’s error, or slipping her hand through his arm as she passed him a private smile. Filling the house with warmth. Filling it with life.

And now—he was only a visitor here. And she… might never know it had once been meant for her.

The staircase came next, its curve still elegant beneath the fading runner. Each step creaked under his boots with a familiar protest, like an old friend chiding him for being away too long. The agent continued his polite commentary, gesturing toward the upper floor with a rehearsed flourish. “And here we have the master suite. Generous space, as you see. A fine dressing room just beyond that door.”

Darcy followed him in silence.

The room was unchanged. Tall windows let in the weak July sun, illuminating the carved moldings and the faint ghost of old wallpaper. He crossed to the window without thinking, hands clasped behind his back. Outside, the street stirred with late afternoon traffic—horses, wheels, a fruit seller shouting his wares. Nothing extraordinary.

Except that he had once stood here, in this exact spot, a boy barely old enough to tie his own cravat, dreaming of all the years to come. He had imagined standing here with a wife. With a son, perhaps. Or a daughter who would tug his sleeve and beg to be taken to the park.

He turned slightly, his gaze catching the half-open door across the chamber—the entrance to the mistress’s rooms.

His face heated. The blush crept up his neck like a thief.

It had never been his habit to indulge in fantasies, but... he had once imagined her there. In the dressing room. Her voice calling lightly to him as she complained about the bothersome tangles in her hair that always dazzled his eyes. Elizabeth, wrapped in a silk robe, barefoot on the cool floors, laughing as he caught her hand and pulled her back toward the bed. Not out of hunger, but reverence. Worship. The thrill of knowing she was his, and he was hers.

He turned quickly back to the window, ashamed of the heat still prickling beneath his collar. It was foolishness. All of it.

And still, it would not leave him.

Finally, they went down the stairs and the agent made for the last door in the corridor—the one Darcy had both longed and dreaded to see. His father’s study.

“This room has been repurposed into a gentleman’s retreat,” the agent said, his tone bright. “Ideal for a private office or a quiet library. Fine light from the south-facing windows, and the built-in shelves are—”

He pushed open the door and faltered mid-sentence.

“Oh. I... had thought you had already taken your leave, sir.” His brows knit in confusion. “I beg your pardon.”

Darcy stepped past him—and froze.

Behind the desk, slouched in the leather chair once reserved for the Earl of Pemberley, sat George Wickham. His boots were crossed lazily on the blotter, scuffed soles resting where the elder Mr. Darcy once signed official documents. A crystal glass—brandy, likely—glistened in his hand.

“Well, well. If it is not dear Fitzwilliam. Come to buy back the house, have you?”

The agent blinked between them. “Ah... it seems you are... acquainted. I shall give you both a moment.”

He stepped back quickly, the door clicking shut behind him.

Darcy did not move. His hands were at his sides, clenched tight, but otherwise, he remained perfectly still. Wickham’s presence—his very ease in the chair, the way he tilted his glass in mock salute—was a provocation. An insult. A desecration.

Darcy’s gaze swept the room. His father’s desk, once so meticulously kept, was scattered with playing cards and empty glasses. The shelves, where once had stood volumes on estate law and history, now held cheap knickknacks and half-filled decanters. A cravat had been discarded over the arm of a chair like a soiled napkin.

It was filth. Disrespect. A house turned inside out by a man who had never been invested in it. And yet here he sat.

Wickham raised the brandy to his lips and sipped leisurely. “You look well. A bit thinner than I remember. Heard you were sick. Something about a bullet? Two?”

Darcy said nothing.

“Oh, come now. We used to be such friends.” He gestured to the chair opposite. “Sit down, do. Let us reminisce.”

Darcy did not sit. He stepped forward once, eyes narrowing as he surveyed the wreckage of the study—the ruined papers, the smeared ink, the ring stains on the walnut surface. His father’s nameplate was gone. The brass lamp that had stood in the corner for decades was missing. In its place was a gaudy crystal monstrosity.

Wickham watched him take it all in. He seemed to savor every flicker of disgust.

“I heard about your little petition,” he said lightly. “Stirring up trouble again, are you? Still hoping for a royal pardon? Or just trying to get back what is no longer yours?”

Darcy’s voice, when it came, was quiet. “You have no right to this house.”

“Oh, but I do,” Wickham said, lifting the brandy glass to his lips again. “Gifted by the Crown, no less. That must sting.”

Darcy’s jaw flexed.

Wickham leaned back further in the chair, arms wide. “You always had the land. The name. The fortune.” He grinned. “Or so you thought.”

Darcy’s fists clenched until they trembled, but he locked them at his sides.

Wickham’s smile widened. “Lady Catherine wrote to me, you know. Weeks ago. Thought I should be warned about you. Said you were making a mess of things up in Hertfordshire. Cavorting with gentlewomen well above your station. Trying to stir sympathy in the court.”

Darcy’s heart went still.

“Some girl, she said. Claimed a connection to one of the local families. Mysterious little thing, too well bred for country stock, but nobody could pin down exactly who she was.”

He tilted his head, watching Darcy closely. “Funny, that. You, showing up in the country just as a pretty, unknown ‘cousin’ appears? Lady Catherine seemed convinced you were using her for something. Stirring up sympathy. Playing the country hero. Or was she just a bit of fun before you came crawling back to London?”

He gave a low, deliberate laugh. “Always had a knack for choosing your amusements carefully, did you not?”

Darcy’s biceps were now quivering, his jaw ticking.

Wickham smiled wider. “What is this? Touch a nerve? She must have been some little piece of flesh.”

Darcy moved before he even registered the decision. He crossed the room in three strides and struck Wickham across the jaw.

The brandy glass toppled to the floor and shattered. Wickham reeled, crashing against the desk before surging upright. For a moment, he looked stunned. Then his expression darkened. He swung wildly, catching Darcy with a blow to the shoulder.

Darcy gasped, his injured side collapsing inward with pain. He staggered, gritting his teeth, trying to right himself—but Wickham was already on him.

They went down hard, grappling, fists flying. Wickham was stronger, and Darcy—still weak, still recovering—could not keep pace. A punch landed to his ribs. Another to his already bruised temple. His vision went white.

And still Wickham snarled insults in his ear. “Always so bloody noble,” he spat. “Still fighting battles no one asked you to.”

Darcy clawed for purchase, found the edge of the desk, tried to haul himself up.

Wickham kicked him back down.

“Stay down, Darcy. It is where you belong.”

Darcy coughed, blood in his mouth.

And Wickham, smirking now, stepped over him—then kicked his hat aside as he sauntered out the door.