Page 34 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Thirty-Four

“P ortugal—some business or other for the Foreign Office. He said he would be away for some years, perhaps. I am afraid it shall be forever,” Georgiana whispered, her voice thin with grief.

Elizabeth blinked hard, trying to focus. The walls tilted, ever so slightly. Her teacup clinked sharply against the saucer as she set it down with trembling fingers.

“Elizabeth?” Lady Julia’s voice held a note of alarm now. “You look quite pale. Shall I call for salts?”

“No,” Elizabeth breathed. “No, I—” She pressed her fingers to her temple. “It is only... the heat.”

It was not. It was the world collapsing inward. The air was thick and impossible. Her stays too tight. She had come here to find out if he was well, to discover where he had gone—and instead she had learned he was leaving the country. Leaving England. Leaving her .

“He cannot,” she murmured.

“Elizabeth?” Lady Julia stepped closer. “Do you—”

From the corridor beyond the door came a familiar cadence: footsteps, booted and brisk, and low voices in conversation. Georgiana’s head snapped up.

“That is Richard,” she said, rising from the seat. “And—oh!”

Lady Julia turned sharply toward the door. “Is that Mr. Darcy with him?”

Elizabeth rose unsteadily. Her heart had already leaped a thousand times in an instant. She knew that voice. She had replayed it in her mind too many nights to mistake it now. Fitzwilliam.

The door had not yet opened, but she was already moving. Her blood simmered. Her limbs, moments ago heavy as stone, were carried now by something else entirely.

There were words just outside—the colonel’s voice, chiding him over something. “—I told you it was idiotic, but do you listen? No, of course not. You are going to Portugal, and for what? To avoid—”

Darcy’s voice cut him off. “I have come to see Miss Darcy,” he said to the footman outside.

Elizabeth was already surging forward, already fixed on the door.

“Yes, sir. She is in the drawing room with Lady Julia. I am afraid they do have a caller—”

“Georgiana is entertaining callers?” the colonel’s voice echoed outside. “Darcy, perhaps we should—”

“Forgive me, but I prefer not to tarry long enough to be detained by the earl. I will ask her to step out for a word.”

The door opened. The footman stepped aside, halfway through a proper announcement. But Elizabeth was already there, already waiting to intercept him, chin high and back straight.

Darcy entered, and for a moment, a smile of greeting flashed on his face. Then he halted mid-stride. His eyes jumped past his sister and cousin—straight to her.

She did not wait for pleasantries. “ Portugal? Why the devil are you running away to Portugal?”

Darcy’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged. He appeared entirely at a loss, his usual stoicism faltering.

Richard stepped between them. “I told him it was idiotic,” he said helpfully. “But he never listens.” He turned to Elizabeth with a quick bow. “Lady Elizabeth, always a pleasure.”

Lady Julia’s mouth was hanging open, and she was gasping like a fish. “You… you are... acquainted? ”

Elizabeth ignored her. “Well?” she pressed, taking a step closer to Darcy. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

Darcy’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze dropping momentarily before meeting hers once more. “I... I did not think it would be of interest to you,” he managed.

Elizabeth’s eyes flashed with a mix of hurt and indignation. “‘Not of interest?’” she echoed. “You believe I would not care to know that you intend to exile yourself to the far reaches of Europe?”

The colonel cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, Darcy is an idiot. On that, we can all agree. Perhaps we should all sit down,” he suggested, though no one moved.

Lady Julia’s brow furrowed deeper. “I must insist on an explanation,” she declared. “How is it that you are all so familiar?”

Georgiana’s gaze mirrored her cousin’s bewilderment. “Brother?” she prompted, seeking clarification.

Darcy exhaled slowly, his gaze never leaving Elizabeth’s. “Lady Elizabeth and I became… acquainted this spring,” he said weakly.

Elizabeth’s fists balled. “ Acquainted ,“ she repeated, the word tasting bitter on her tongue. “Is that all it was?”

Darcy’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering beneath the skin. “Elizabeth...”

The use of her given name sparked a handful of gasps from the others, and sent a shiver of warmth through her belly. Oh, how many times had she heard him saying her name in her dreams? But she was too angry with him to soften so easily.

She crossed her arms. “I demand an answer. More ‘smuggling’ to tamp down for the Crown? A life given over in service to a Prince who can hardly be bothered to remember your existence, save when you can be prodded into amusing him?”

His throat bobbed. “It was not like that. I—”

The colonel clapped his hands together. “Darcy, shut up. You will only make it worse for yourself.”

“Richard,” Darcy growled between his teeth, his eyes never leaving Elizabeth. “This is a private conversation.”

“There you go again. I swear, man, it is like you have a death wish. Well, now,” he said, forcing a chuckle. “Shall we at least attempt civility? Let us call for more tea. Julia, dear, ring for Mother. I’ve a feeling we could use a bit of leaven in the lump. For a certainty, we cannot leave them alone, or one of them may not survive.”

Lady Julia’s eyes narrowed. “Richard, what have you involved yourself in?”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “I assure you, dear sister, I am merely an innocent bystander in this tale.”

Georgiana stepped forward tentatively, her gaze pleading. “Lady Elizabeth, please... what is happening?”

Elizabeth tore her eyes from Darcy’s, turning to the younger woman with a softening expression. “I am attempting to understand why your brother seeks to abandon his entire life for some foolhardy quest.”

Her chest rose and fell in rapid, uneven breaths. She looked once more at Darcy, whose face had lost all color. His lips parted as if to speak, but still, nothing of any use came out.

Lady Julia made a sound—half outrage, half confusion—and turned on her heel. “This is intolerable. I shall fetch Mama. At once.” She swept from the room, skirts swishing behind her, the door clicking shut with a finality that felt almost symbolic.

Richard exhaled and folded his arms, muttering, “Well, that ought to go well.”

But Elizabeth ignored him. She took another step toward Darcy, her voice low and trembling. “If you think to disappear to Portugal without so much as a farewell, then you are a coward.”

His eyes snapped to hers. “Do not call me that.”

“What else would you call a man who flees the very thing he wants?” Her voice broke. “Have you even spoken to Mr. Bingley? I can see by your face you have not. You said nothing— nothing —to me or anyone else who cares for you. No word, nothing! I feared for a while that you might be dead and I knew not how to find out. After everything. After being shot, after—”

“You think I did not want to?” he interrupted, his voice hoarse. “You think it has been easy to stay away?”

“Then why did you?” she cried. “Why vanish? Why say nothing? Why Portugal?”

He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. “Because I was trying to survive. Because I thought it would be easier, less painful, to vanish from your world than remain in it with no place and no claim—”

“You are a fool,” she whispered.

He blinked. “I know. A fool, and… and yes, a coward.”

“No,” she said louder, eyes glistening. “The man I met—he was not a coward. He waited, he planned, he turned and fought. He went back for the people he loved, even if it meant a bullet or the noose.”

Darcy flinched.

Elizabeth pressed on. “So do not tell me this is about survival. Do not insult me by pretending this is noble.”

“I am not pretending!” he snapped. “Do you not understand? I have nothing left. No home. No family lands. No standing. Nothing I could offer you except the pleasure of having your name dragged through the muck alongside mine.”

“You think I care about any of that?”

“I know you do not. But your father does. And your family. And every last smug bastard in the ton who would say I lured you into disgrace.”

“You did not lure me,” she hissed. “I ran to you.”

Darcy looked away, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes as his fists worked.

Georgiana, still near the settee, emitted a tiny sound—half gasp, half squeak—and pressed a hand to her mouth.

Richard cleared his throat behind them. “I am still here, you know. And… uh… Georgiana is somewhat more innocent than the rest of you lot.”

“Feel free to leave then, Colonel,” she snapped without looking at him. Her gaze was fixed on the man whose body was listing toward her, even though his words and his manner were clearly screaming his desire to bolt.

The door opened again, unannounced this time, and the Countess of Matlock stepped inside with the slow, commanding grace of a woman who had never once been uncertain of her welcome in any room. Her eyes scanned the scene—and paused.

Elizabeth stood just left of center, her cheeks flushed, her posture rigid, her hands balled at her sides. Darcy was scarcely a foot away, equally still, his mouth parted, breath shallow, his eyes locked onto Elizabeth’s as if unable to look anywhere else.

At the far end of the drawing room, Colonel Fitzwilliam was perched lazily on the edge of a low ottoman, teacup balanced precariously in one hand, looking as if he were watching a play.

A moment of silence passed like a thunderclap.

The Countess blinked once, then again. Her eyes narrowed just slightly. “I… assume we are interrupting something,” she said, her tone laced with the exquisite poise of a woman who had stepped straight into scandal and found herself vaguely intrigued.

The Earl of Matlock stepped in behind her, halted dead in his tracks, and muttered, “Good God. It’s Ashwick’s daughter. What the devil—”

Richard gestured airily with his spoon. “Ah, good afternoon, Mother. Father. You are just in time for the climax.”

Elizabeth turned toward them, not retreating. Not explaining. “Forgive me, my lord and lady,” she said with a perfunctory curtsy. “But I mean to marry your nephew, whether he cooperates or not.”

The room froze.

Darcy’s hand shot up, palm outward, a soundless plea for restraint. His eyes, wide with alarm, locked onto Elizabeth’s, silently urging her to reconsider. But Elizabeth was already walking toward the Earl, her expression composed, her voice sweet.

“Lord Matlock, you are well acquainted with my father, the Marquess of Ashwick, are you not?”

The Earl, still clearly trying to make sense of the scene before him, nodded slowly. “Yes, indeed. Ashwick and I have shared many a table over the years.”

“Excellent.” Elizabeth’s gaze shifted to the Countess. “And you, Lady Matlock, have a passing acquaintance with the Duchess of Wrexham, if I am not mistaken. I recall seeing you both in conversation at several balls.”

The Countess inclined her head. “That is correct.”

A serene smile curved Elizabeth’s lips, though a storm brewed beneath her composed exterior. “Wonderful,” she said softly. “Then, my lord, I trust that when you speak to my father this afternoon, you will be able to convey that the magnitude of the scandal shall be in direct proportion to the disagreeability of his reaction.”

The Earl blinked in confusion. “‘This afternoon?’ Magnitude? I am sorry, Lady Elizabeth, but to which scandal are you referring?”

Elizabeth took a deliberate backward step toward Darcy, her eyes never leaving the Earl’s. “This one.”

And with that, she turned to Darcy, closing the distance between them. Rising onto her toes, she reached up, her hands gently cradling his face. For a heartbeat, time seemed to suspend as she looked into his eyes, searching, imploring.

“Elizabeth, no,” he breathed.

She only smiled back at him. Then, with deliberate intent, she pulled him down and into a kiss that was anything but chaste.

The moment her lips touched his, the world reeled.

She felt it before she heard it—a collective intake of breath, like the room itself had gasped. Somewhere at the edge of her vision, Lord Matlock’s form shifted violently, as though struggling with whether to exclaim or sit down. She did not look. She did not care.

The countess moved—Elizabeth caught the flick of a fan rising, rapid and practiced, and knew without turning that it was Lady Matlock. She imagined those shrewd eyes watching her behind a veil of painted ivory.

And Richard… there was a sound, like a muffled snort of laughter. A scrape of boot against marble. If she turned her head, she might see his grin. But she would not. Not now.

All she knew—truly knew—was Darcy’s mouth against hers, the tentative tremble of him as his hands found her waist, and the way her whole body sang with the shock and sweetness of having him, just this once, not stepping away. Not retreating. Not telling her no.

She stepped back at last, breathless but triumphant, her gaze locked on Darcy’s—daring him to contradict her. He did not. His mouth was still slightly parted. He looked stunned. She half expected him to scold her or flee the room.

He did neither.

“Elizabeth,” he murmured, his voice a raw whisper, “what have you done?”

She smiled and caressed his cheek. “I have given us no choice but to face what we both know to be true.”

The silence around them was staggering.

When she finally looked up, it was to find the Earl of Matlock frozen mid-step, his eyes wide, mouth agape in a way that would have been comical in any other setting. His cheeks were an alarming shade of crimson. He looked as if someone had struck him with a brick.

Georgiana had gone rigid, one hand clapped over her mouth, the other fisted in the folds of her gown. Her wide eyes darted from Elizabeth to her brother and back again, horrified and enthralled all at once.

Lady Julia stood behind the settee with a hand pressed to her bosom, her jaw visibly working as though she was struggling to articulate even a single syllable.

But it was the Countess who drew Elizabeth’s attention.

Her fan was raised, fluttering gently. Her expression was cool—pleased, almost smug. As if she had seen something like this coming for some time and was only surprised that it had taken so long. There was the faintest upturn at the corners of her mouth, and when Elizabeth dared meet her eye, the Countess gave the smallest, most imperceptible nod. Approval, sharp and quiet and not at all unimpressive.

The Earl finally cleared his throat, though it came out more like a wheeze.

“Well,” he said gruffly, “this is most… unconventional.”

The Countess tilted her head slightly. “But perhaps not entirely unwelcome,” she said, with lavish calm.

Richard gave a bark of laughter. “Darcy,” he said, shaking his head. “It appears you have been outmaneuvered.”

Darcy looked at her. A beat passed. Then another.

And he smiled.

A real one—slow, boyish, warm and astonished.

“It would seem so,” he said.

The Earl drew himself up, squaring his shoulders like a man about to do something unpleasant but necessary. “I shall… repair to Ashwick House at once.”

“Please do,” Elizabeth replied serenely. “And I would advise haste, for Lady Julia over there is already trying to decide which friend to call on first to air the gossip.”

That earned a sputter from Julia and a choked sound from Georgiana, who slapped her hands to her mouth again, as though trying to suppress a scream.

“Do not dawdle, Father,” Richard added, clapping the older man on the shoulder as if the entire thing were a lark. “And I think I shall come along for… for a bit of fortification. Ashwick will not be in a cheerful mood when he hears of it.”

The Earl blinked as though reeling from a blow he could neither name nor avoid, then turned stiffly and exited the room.