Page 33 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Thirty-Three

July 2, 1812

L ady Elizabeth Montclair had always been strategic in her social engagements—raised to understand, as she was, the nuances of rank and influence. A simple morning call could topple an alliance or create a stir that would reverberate throughout London for weeks.

Thus, when she resolved to reconnect with Lady Julia Fitzwilliam, daughter of the Earl of Matlock, it was with deliberate intent, careful planning… and no little chagrin.

She had not called on Lady Julia in more than a year—not since that brief friendship during her first season. It had not ended in acrimony; rather, Elizabeth had simply found the girl uninteresting. Too dull. Too prim. And altogether too pleased with herself for keeping her cousin Georgiana perpetually underfoot. Still, Julia was well-connected, easy to impress, and—most importantly—the daughter of an earl… an earl who happened to be Darcy’s uncle.

Elizabeth did not need to like her. She just needed to gain her trust.

The carriage rocked slightly as it came to a stop, the horses snorting. A footman opened the door, and Elizabeth stepped down without hesitation, skirts brushing the stone. She did not pause to adjust her gloves or glance up at the windows. She simply walked to the door and knocked.

The butler, upon recognizing her, executed a deep bow. “Lady Elizabeth Montclair, an unexpected pleasure. Her ladyship is in the music room. May I announce you?”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth replied sweetly. “However, I had hoped to see Lady Julia. I hope my unanticipated visit does not inconvenience her.”

“Not in the least, my lady. Lady Julia always welcomes your company. She is in the drawing room.”

As she was guided through the familiar corridors, Elizabeth’s eyes flitted over the portraits lining the walls—generations of Fitzwilliams, each rendered in oil and shadow. She searched their faces without meaning to. The arch of a brow, the curve of a mouth. Did that gentleman resemble Darcy about the eyes? Did that lady carry his sister’s gentle expression? These were his people. His mother’s blood. Elizabeth had passed through this house before without giving them a second glance. Now, they felt like echoes. A family she might have called her own.

The drawing-room doors were opened, revealing Lady Julia seated by the fireplace, an embroidery hoop in hand. At Elizabeth’s entrance, she set aside her work, a genuine smile gracing her features.

“Lady Elizabeth!” she greeted, rising gracefully. “What a delightful surprise.”

Elizabeth curtsied subtly. “Lady Julia, I hope I do not intrude upon your morning.”

“Not at all. Please, sit.”

As they settled, a maid appeared with tea, the delicate clinking of porcelain filling the brief silence.

“It has been some time since our last meeting,” Elizabeth began, accepting a cup.

Lady Julia nodded, her eyes full of more curiosity than her words let on. “Indeed. I heard you were at the theatre recently. I saw an opera last week, so it seems the Season has kept us all engaged. How have you fared?”

“Well enough,” Elizabeth replied, with that practiced smile her mother had taught her. Lady Julia was fishing for gossip about Prince Nikolaos, but Elizabeth had more interesting topics in mind. “However, I have decided I do not care for the theatre. It is not for lack of effort on my part, I assure you. I simply do not prefer it.”

Lady Julia’s lips drew together in a bow, and her brows climbed upward. “Indeed? Why, half of London saw that engraving of you and… oh, some gentleman or other, I can hardly keep them straight. It looked as though you were enjoying yourselves tremendously.”

“Artistic license, I am afraid. No, I have recently taken an interest in the musical arts. I can play, to be sure, but I rather prefer to listen to others.”

“Do you?” Lady Julia sipped her tea nonchalantly. “I am content with either. However, Viscount Bromley has asked me to play so often when we are in company that I think I might come to agree with you.”

Elizabeth smiled at that thinly veiled bit of false modesty. “Oh, but you are not the only musician in the house, at least. I recall that your cousin—whatever was her name, dear? She was rather accomplished.”

Lady Julia set down her cup with a flourish. “Georgiana, yes. She is a dear girl,” she said. “Though I daresay Mother has kept her too often alone—at her brother’s request, I am afraid. She has been permitted precious little society.”

Elizabeth lowered her cup. Ah, they were getting to him already. This would be easier, even, than she had hoped. “I do not recall you mentioning that she had a brother.”

“Oh, yes. He is great friends with my brother Richard, else I doubt we should ever see him. Fitzwilliam is… particular about Georgiana’s company. As if the girl were made of glass!”

Elizabeth took a quiet sip of her tea. “Perhaps her brother believes she would be happier in smaller company,” she said lightly. “A shy young lady, though very sweet. I hope she is well?”

“She is, though still not formally out.” Lady Julia gave a slight roll of her eyes. “Everyone treats her like some cloistered nun rather than the niece of an earl. But I suppose that is a Darcy for you.”

“Is she often in Town?” Elizabeth asked, keeping her voice mild.

Lady Julia’s eyes lit up, sensing an opportunity. “She is staying here in London just now. I daresay she must be dreadfully bored. Prefers the country, that one.”

Elizabeth allowed a small smile. “Then perhaps she might welcome a walk in the park some afternoon? I think I should like to know her better. Anyone who plays as beautifully as she does might enjoy a friend with a similar passion for music.”

“I shall send for her at once,” Lady Julia said, already reaching for the bellpull. “It would be the very thing. She has been sighing at pianoforte scores and writing letters to no one for days. And I cannot think of a better companion than Lady Elizabeth Montclair.”

She turned toward the footman who presented himself by the door. “Have Miss Darcy brought to us at once.”

The man bowed and vanished, and Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap to still their sudden restlessness. Her heart gave a quiet thud.

“She spends far too much time upstairs,” Lady Julia added. “Sketching, mostly, or brooding. You would think her brother were the only man in England worth pining over.”

Elizabeth did not reply. She could feel her pulse in her throat.

The door opened.

Georgiana Darcy entered with hesitant steps, her eyes flicking between her cousin and their guest. She had grown taller, perhaps a touch thinner than Elizabeth remembered. But her face was the same—gentle, watchful, guarded. Her hands were clasped before her in a way that reminded Elizabeth uncomfortably of Darcy at his most reserved.

“You remember Lady Elizabeth Montclair, of course,” Lady Julia said airily. “She was just saying how she hoped you might keep her company.”

Georgiana curtseyed. “Yes, my lady. I remember.”

Elizabeth stood. “Miss Darcy,” she said warmly. “I hope I have not imposed.”

Georgiana’s gaze lifted to meet hers—shy, but not overly reticent. “Not at all. I am glad to see you again.”

And there it was. Not only a memory, but a possibility. A door cracked open.

Elizabeth stepped closer. “Perhaps you will sit with me?” she asked. “Only if you were not otherwise engaged before we pulled you away.”

Georgiana hesitated, then nodded at once, and Elizabeth could see it—the faintest flicker of relief in her eyes that she had not been summoned here to perform and impress. She sat beside her on the settee, and Lady Julia, sensing herself dismissed from her own drawing room, reached for her embroidery frame with a very self-satisfied smile.

Elizabeth settled deeper into the settee beside Georgiana, offering a warm, encouraging smile. The younger woman sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze lowered, the very picture of modesty.

“Miss Darcy,” Elizabeth began gently, “I recall from our previous meeting that you have a talent for the pianoforte. Do you still find joy in playing?”

Georgiana’s cheeks tinged pink, and she nodded slightly. “Yes, my lady. I practice when I can.”

“Music can be such a solace,” Elizabeth said. “Especially amidst the bustle of London. Do you find the city agreeable?”

Georgiana hesitated, her fingers tightening together until the knuckles whitened. “I... I prefer the countryside,” she admitted.

Elizabeth nodded. “The countryside does have its charms. But surely, London offers its own diversions? Have you attended many events this season?”

Georgiana’s eyes flickered toward Lady Julia, who observed the exchange with a faint smile. “Not many,” Georgiana replied. “My family is... particular about the company I keep.”

Elizabeth sipped her tea thoughtfully before venturing, “Ah, yes. Lady Julia was just mentioning your brother’s protective nature. It is commendable how he looks after you.”

At the mention of her brother, Georgiana’s composure faltered. Her eyes welled up, and she glanced down, dabbing at them with a handkerchief. There was a marked sniff.

Lady Julia sighed, setting her hoop down with more than a hint of exasperation. “Georgiana, must you always be so dramatic? It is not as if he is dead.”

Elizabeth stiffened in alarm. Not dead, but… but what was the matter with Darcy? Lady Julia seemed to think whatever it was of little consequence, but Lady Julia had also been heard to laugh off the little matter of another war with America, so that was no sound indication.

Had something happened to him? Was he ill? That bullet wound in his shoulder… had it got infected, after all? Had he lost… Oh, good heavens, pray he did not lose his arm!

She leaned forward, a spiraling series of fresh nightmares tumbling through her mind. She held on to her teacup like a lifeline, lest she claw for Georgiana’s hands instead. “Miss Darcy, I apologize if I have upset you. Is something the matter with your brother? Is he…”

Georgiana shook her head, her voice trembling. “It is just... my brother is leaving soon. He intends to take a post halfway around the world, and he is to sail tomorrow. I fear I shall never see him again.”

Elizabeth sat frozen, her teacup suspended halfway to her lips. The china began to tremble faintly in her grasp.

Leaving?

Her thoughts raced, scrambled, failed to catch up. Mr. Darcy—Fitzwilliam—was leaving. Not for the country, not for some brief errand or posting in a neighboring county. Halfway across the world.

She blinked once, twice, her breath shallow as if someone had knocked it from her lungs. A strange, cold nausea stirred low in her belly.

And Georgiana… sweet, shy Georgiana, who clearly adored her brother with quiet reverence—Georgiana believed she would never see him again.

Elizabeth swallowed hard. Something cracked open inside her, sharp and breathless. There was no room now for pretense, no excuse to retreat into careful civility. She had not come merely for news.

She had come for him. And he was about to vanish.

D arcy knelt before the half-packed trunk, sleeves rolled to the elbow, his shirt damp with the effort of sorting through the detritus of a life he had not intended to abandon so suddenly. A pair of boots thudded to the floor beside him. He straightened, reached for the stack of folded shirts on the nearby chair, and began placing them neatly inside.

His manservant, Mr. Simmons, had left the day before. His departure was hardly a surprise. Darcy had never been one to need constant assistance, and Simmons had been more a fixture than a servant, more accustomed to dusting the furniture than providing meaningful help. Now, Darcy was left to sort through the remnants of his life alone.

Tomorrow, he would board a ship to Portugal.

Every movement felt mechanical. Shirts. Books. A custom shaving kit he had barely touched. A second trunk waited open by the hearth, filled with things he had no intention of taking—items destined to be sold, given away, or forgotten.

He picked up a stack of papers from the desk, a few contracts, letters he had never bothered to read. They went into the trunk without much thought. There was little enough left for him to take—no more than could fit inside a few small trunks. He was leaving everything behind: the place, the life, the man he had been.

But there were a few things he could not part with—things he knew Georgiana would appreciate. Some of his mother’s old jewelry, the last of his father’s books, a few knickknacks of sentimental value. He wrapped them carefully, placing them to one side.

His hand brushed against something unexpected. He had nearly forgot about it—tucked in the corner of an old drawer. It was a drawing, neatly folded and already yellowing from too much handling. The sketch was of Maddox. Elizabeth had drawn it in that hasty, almost unconscious way she had, capturing him with lines so precise they almost hummed with life.

Darcy stared at it for a long moment. Why the devil did he still have it? Maddox was dead. Nobody needed this anymore. Why had he not thrown it out, burned it? It was a reminder of a time he should have left behind.

He held it in his hand for a while longer, almost mesmerized by the simplicity of it. How easily she had drawn it. Had she thought of him while sketching it? He could almost hear her voice in his mind as she had talked to him back then, teasing him about the “scoundrels” they were surrounded by, drawing that inimitable smile from him, one of those rare smiles that no one ever saw except her.

Shaking his head, he tucked the drawing aside, but then his eyes fell on something else—a familiar pair of ladies’ gloves. They had been carelessly folded and left in one of the pockets of his best coat.

The gloves Elizabeth had worn to Buckingham House—the ones he had made her remove so she could blend in, disappear in plain sight. As if she could ever disappear! He had not realized he had kept them, had not even remembered to return them.

For a moment, he simply stared at them. His pulse quickened, and before he could stop himself, he brought them to his nose. Her scent. That faint, unmistakable fragrance of rosewater. He closed his eyes as the memories washed over him.

Buckingham House. The mad dash into darkness. She had been frightened, furious, utterly disoriented—torn from everything familiar, from the illusion of safety she had always known. She had lashed out with words sharp enough to draw blood. And still…

Even then.

Even with her temper high and her pride higher, he had barely been able to take his eyes off her.

She had worn these gloves. Pale grey, soft as breath, with a bit of fraying along the edge where she worried the seam with her thumb. He had watched that thumb for an hour, sitting across the room while she slept—legs folded under her on a filthy cot, her face half-turned into her arm, that indomitable spine finally softened by sleep.

He had watched her and known, with the terrible clarity of a man doomed by his own conscience, that he could never have her. Not without cost. Not without destroying her.

And yet he had wanted. Desperately.

He lifted the gloves to his face and closed his eyes. If this was all he could keep… Well. Odd how something so small seemed to have the power to destroy him .

He opened his eyes again, startled by his own emotion, and gently placed the gloves in a pile of things for Georgiana. Best that he let go, while he still could.

He breathed in deeply, trying to clear his head. He had a choice to make, a future to build, even if it meant a life alone.

Darcy had just begun to fold his two spare cravats when the latch turned and the door to his flat pushed open with a clatter.

“Packing already?” Richard called out, striding in like he owned the place, though his smile came too quickly and sat too loosely on his face. “You could have told me. I would have brought a bottle of brandy and made a ceremony of it.”

Darcy did not turn. He closed the trunk with care, then fastened one of the latches. “I have little enough to take. The rest is of no use to me now.”

Richard looked around the modest apartment, taking in the spartan furnishings, the half-filled shelves, the solitary trunk resting at the center like a coffin. “Still feels a bit grim, does it not? You are quite sure about this?”

Darcy straightened slowly, lifting his eyes to meet his cousin’s. “Yes. I am quite sure.”

Richard rubbed the back of his neck, then wandered further in, tapping a knuckle absently against the mantle. “Portugal,” he said at last. “Not exactly the tonic I would prescribe. But I suppose if the plan is to put the whole of England behind you, that is one way to do it. You do set off in a dashed hurry, though.”

Darcy moved to the writing desk and began sorting a few items into a leather folio—letters, a few clippings, a folded map. “You would not understand.”

Richard scoffed. “You are right. I cannot possibly comprehend the desire to flee to the farthest corner of Europe because you are too pigheaded to—”

He broke off, sighing. Then, as if deciding something in that instant, he reached into his coat and drew out a square of torn paper. He crossed the room and held it out.

Darcy frowned, glancing at it without taking it. “What is that?”

“Read it,” Richard said, flatly. “You are the one always harping on about reading the evidence.”

Darcy took it, unfolded the scrap. It was from the society pages, a narrow column trimmed unevenly from its neighbors. His eyes scanned the words, his stomach twisting as he read: One of the ton’s brightest gems seems to shine a little less brilliantly today, as whispers abound of a certain lady’s recent refusal of a royal offer from none other than the Prince of Württemberg. Speculations run rampant about the reasons behind such a surprising demurral.

Darcy said nothing. He folded the page again, carefully, too carefully. He held it out to Richard. “Why have you brought me this?”

Richard did not move to take it. “I thought you might like to know what the rest of London has been whispering about for the last few days. You remember London, do you not? The place you live in, where the woman you are running from still resides?”

“Her affairs are no concern of mine,” Darcy replied, placing the scrap on the edge of the writing desk with a precision that betrayed him.

“You are insufferable.”

“I am aware.”

Richard paced away, stopped at the window, then turned back. “You love her.”

Darcy’s voice was low. “It makes no difference.”

“Then why do you look like that?”

Darcy did not answer.

After a long moment, Richard reached for the torn page and stuffed it into the pocket of Darcy’s own coat, hanging on the hook. “I came to walk with you. You will want to bid Georgiana farewell, and I have a few matters to settle with Father.”

Darcy nodded once, reached for his coat. Neither man said anything more as they stepped into the hall, the door closing behind them.

Richard hailed a carriage with a sharp whistle, stepping into the street with a confidence that brooked no argument. Darcy followed, his steps dragging somewhat.

“Come now, Darcy,” Richard chided, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Must you always pinch pennies? Allow me to indulge in this extravagance. My treat.”

“Your generosity is noted, though unnecessary.”

Richard only grunted in response, tossing a few coins to the driver as he ushered Darcy into the waiting carriage. His eyes flicked once—just once—toward the far end of the street, where the familiar corner of Grosvenor and Upper Brook loomed. “Humor me,” he said, too casually, climbing in behind him. “Even you must admit that limping up Mayfair on foot with half your shoulder still stitched is not the ideal farewell.”

Darcy did not reply. He folded his arms with stiff discomfort, the movement tugging at half-healed skin. He turned his head deliberately toward the carriage window and fixed his gaze on the drab brickwork of the shops and facades they passed.

It was cowardice. He knew it. But still he refused to look.

The carriage turned.

He felt it in the curve of the wheels before he saw it. His throat closed.

Pemberley House.

He kept his eyes on the far side of the street. A milliner’s display flashed past—a garish explosion of ribbons and bonnets. Next, the butcher’s, and then the tobacconist. His reflection stared back at him in every shop window. Tight jaw, hollow eyes. Unflinching.

He did not look. But he could see it, anyway.

The pale, elegant facade. The gate with its spear-point finials. The ivy that climbed along the western wall. The gleam of brass on black iron.

And the sign.

He did not need to read it again. “FOR SALE. Inquire within.” A stranger’s hand affixed it. Wickham’s final insult.

The house his grandfather had bought. The one his father had loved. The one he had once imagined passing on to a son of his own. To Elizabeth’s son.

Darcy swallowed hard and clenched his gloved hand into a fist. If Richard noticed, he said nothing. The carriage wheels rolled past, and Pemberley House vanished behind them.

Only then did Darcy exhale. The carriage’s interior was stifling, or perhaps it was the maelstrom within his own mind that suffocated him. The broadsheet clipping Richard had shown him burned in his pocket, its words seared into his consciousness.

She refused a prince...

Yet, once, she had offered herself to a man stripped of title and fortune.

Would she still? What if he asked her… now—today, even?

The notion was absurd, reckless. To ask her to abandon her world, to accompany him to a foreign land where neither rank nor wealth could shield them. In Portugal, her titles would be whispers, her influence diminished.

But perhaps that might be what she desired—to escape the relentless scrutiny, the ceaseless gossip.

The thought was intoxicating, a vision of a shared exile where they could forge a new existence, unburdened by expectation.

Yet, she is not yet of age.

March 20th.

The date loomed in his mind, a barrier insurmountable. Without her father’s consent, marriage was an impossibility. And even if they waited, even if he dared to hope—

Eight months was an eternity in this world of alliances and strategic matches. By then, she would have moved on. Forgot all about him in favor of someone better suited to her.

The carriage jolted, the sudden halt snapping him from the dizzying reel of thoughts that had looped without mercy. He blinked, disoriented, as if surfacing from underwater.

Matlock House rose before them, prim and dignified in its symmetry, just as it had always stood. The same brass knocker on the black-lacquered door. The same climbing roses curling around the window frames. But something inside him recoiled. It was not the house that had changed.

It was him.

Darcy reached for the latch and paused. His hand trembled once before he willed it still.

This was farewell. One last duty to perform. One more mask to wear.

He stepped down. The cobblestones were warm beneath his boots, the air thick with London heat, and every muscle in his body ached with the knowledge that this might be the last time he saw his sister’s face in many years.

He drew a breath.

And walked to the door.