Page 35 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)
Chapter Thirty-Five
E lizabeth sat upright, hands twisted tightly in her lap, the rigid line of her spine betraying the chaos roiling beneath her calm exterior. To her right, Georgiana shifted closer, the younger girl’s knee brushing against hers in a silent show of support.
To her left, Fitzwilliam Darcy remained stoic, his posture a perfect study in restrained composure—until his hand slipped over hers. She drew in a quaking breath, easing the knot of her fingers to permit his between them.
She thought she caught the corner of a smile—just a flash, quickly gone. But then his thumb moved, slow and deliberate, tracing a soft, unhurried arc along the inside of her palm.
Elizabeth’s entire body flushed. The contact was fleeting, barely more than a whisper of touch, yet it sparked through her like flint to tinder. How could the mere brush of his thumb make it feel like he was caressing every inch of her?
She was probably blushing to the roots of her hair. She sniffed, shifted, had to clear her throat, and then clenched her hand down on his when he moved to withdraw it. And was that an almost silent growl of satisfaction rumbling in his throat?
Across from them, Lady Julia slouched into her chair with all the wounded pride of a girl excluded from the heart of the drama. Her expression—part scandalized, part sulking—shifted in quick glances from her mother to her cousin, clearly itching to leap up and whisper this tale to every dowager and debutante within her acquaintance. But she did not dare.
The Countess of Matlock had positioned herself like a sentry at her daughter’s side, not merely presiding over the room but commanding it. Her hands rested lightly on her fan, which she had not opened since the kiss, and every flick of her gaze was sharp enough to silence gossip before it began.
Despite the warmth of Darcy’s hand, Elizabeth’s thoughts spiraled. She had done the unthinkable—no, the unforgivable, at least in her father’s estimation. She had flung aside every expectation, every careful hope of alliance and influence he had ever curated for her, and she had done it publicly. Before the daughter of an earl. Before the earl himself. And if she knew anything about her father, it was that he would not forget who had witnessed it.
Her fingers tensed within Darcy’s, but his touch remained steady, anchoring. She turned her face slightly to glance at him, but he was looking forward, serene—no, not serene. Resolute. Whatever the consequences, he would meet them beside her.
She tried to take comfort in that. But her stomach roiled. Her father would be livid, of course. But it was not the anger that unsettled her.
It was the grief. Her own. For she had begun to hope, quietly, stubbornly, that one day she might have a different kind of father. A gentler one. One who valued her for more than what she could secure for his name. She had caught glimpses of such affection in Mr. Bennet. The way he looked at Jane. The way he allowed his daughters to speak freely, even when he did not agree.
Ashwick would never become that father to her now.
She had shut the door on that hope herself. She had chosen a man without a title. Without fortune. A man who had risked everything for her but carried the disgrace of a lost estate and a family name maligned by gossip. A man who now sat beside her with fire in his eyes and her hand in his.
As if sensing the exact moment her spirit quaked, the Countess of Matlock turned her head and addressed her with perfect calm.
“Do not fret, my dear,” she said, her tone lightly imperious but unexpectedly kind. “The Earl will do everything in his power to smooth matters with your father.”
Elizabeth blinked, caught off guard. “You believe he can?”
The Countess’s eyes gleamed just faintly above the rim of her fan. “He will. Because I shall tell him to.”
And there was something about the certainty in her voice that made Elizabeth, for the first time since the kiss, draw a full breath.
The distant crack of the front door slamming open rang through the corridors like cannon fire. The staccato rhythm of angry boots followed, accompanied by a raised voice—her father’s voice, unmistakable in its clipped, disdainful fury.
Elizabeth jolted upright on the settee, her spine locking as though bracing for impact. Her eyes darted toward the doorway just as the drawing room shuddered faintly beneath the approaching storm.
Darcy’s hand on hers tightened. “Wait,” he said lowly, not looking at her. Then, already rising, he added quietly, “Let me.”
He was halfway to standing before she could argue, and then, with no hesitation, he turned and extended a hand to help her rise as well—just as the double doors swung open.
The Marquess of Ashwick stormed into the room like a thunderhead, his eyes wild and his gloves clenched in one white-knuckled fist. The Earl of Matlock followed more sedately, though his lips were pressed into a hard, inscrutable line.
Elizabeth had no chance to speak. Her father’s gaze zeroed in on her—then on Darcy, whose position between them was deliberate, unmistakable.
“Lord Ashwick,” Darcy said, his tone courteous but firm. “Before you speak, I ask that you allow me to explain.”
Ashwick drew up short, his nostrils flaring. “Do you, indeed?” he sneered. “Explain what, sir? That you have defiled my daughter in the drawing room of an earl? That you have thrown the Montclair name into every salon in London? That you have undone her future for good and all with your desperation and—”
Darcy’s voice remained even, though the strain behind it showed in the taut set of his jaw. “No. Only that I love her. And that whatever else you believe, I would never harm her. I have done what I must to protect her from the beginning, and I would do it again.”
Ashwick turned a livid shade of red. “Protect her? From what? From a prince? From wealth? From the match of a lifetime? Tell me, Darcy—what exactly do you offer that outshines all that?”
Elizabeth moved to speak, but Darcy held out one steadying hand, not touching her, only halting her with a slight movement. His eyes did not leave her father’s.
“Only myself,” he said simply. “Whatever is left of me.”
The words fell into the silence like a stone into still water.
It was then that Elizabeth noticed—Colonel Fitzwilliam was absent. Vanished. Perhaps wisely.
Ashwick barked a bitter laugh. “And you think that is enough?”
“No,” Darcy said, and this time, he did not look away from Elizabeth as he spoke. “I think it is everything.”
The Marquess looked as though he meant to throw something.
But Lord Matlock—still behind him—cleared his throat sharply. “Ashwick. Sit down. For God’s sake, we are not at Parliament.”
And the Countess, seated in quiet command, added dryly, “I am afraid if you raise your voice again, I shall be forced to remove Lady Julia from the room. She is impressionable.”
Lady Julia, who had not moved once, glared hotly at everyone.
Elizabeth swallowed the tide of emotion swelling against her ribs and folded her hand back into Darcy’s. For the first time since her father had stormed into the room, she saw the faintest flicker of confusion break through his rage.
Darcy’s voice cut through again. “We can speak as men, Ashwick. Or we can shout. But I believe your daughter has chosen her course.”
He did not say, “And it is not one I asked for.” But Elizabeth heard it anyway.
Ashwick’s chest rose once, sharply. Then again. But his eyes were not fixed on Darcy any longer. They flicked to his daughter—and held.
“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low and tight, “you will not do this. I am your father.”
She met him head-on. “Yes. You are. And when I made my curtsey to the Queen, you promised me I might choose.”
Ashwick bristled. “Among those I deemed suitable! How conveniently you forget that part. This—” He stabbed a hand in Darcy’s direction. “This is not what I meant. This is not suitable!”
“Enough,” Darcy said sharply, stepping forward.
Ashwick whirled. “I will not be silenced in my own daughter’s—”
“She is not a child,” Darcy said. His voice was low, even—but there was something steely in it now, something forged. “You may shout, my lord, if it pleases your pride. But do not presume she needs protecting from me. I am merely counseling you not to say something you cannot retract.”
Ashwick drew several heaving breaths, struggling to steady himself.
“So, Lady Elizabeth ,“ he growled, turning his fury back to her, “you will shame your mother’s name for this? Your father’s? For this man, who has nothing but a salary and a family name blackened by royal decree?”
Elizabeth stepped forward—past Darcy’s shielding form, not flinching, not blinking.
“His name,” she said, “is the one I will bear.”
He stared at her, as if unable to comprehend it. “Good Lord. It is already too late, is it not? You are already defiled! By this—”
“I assure you, that is not the case,” she interrupted. “He had every reason to take advantage of me once. He had the power, the opportunity. I was alone. Unchaperoned. I threw myself into his arms and begged him to give me any excuse—any hope. And he refused.”
A silence fell, sharp and abrupt. Her father’s mouth seemed to be trying to shape itself around the words she was saying, but he could not comprehend them enough to repeat them.
“He protected me, when no one else would. Not for his gain. Not to force an attachment. Simply because he could. And I would rather tie my life to a man who refuses to profit from another’s pain than all the dukes in Christendom.”
Ashwick swayed slightly. “ Unchaperoned … how?“ His voice rose. “ When? ”
Elizabeth merely raised a brow. “There were times you never heard me, Father, but others listened. He listened.”
Ashwick blinked and put out a hand to steady himself on the back of a nearby sofa. “No fortune. No title. Not even a home,” he murmured. “You would truly give all that up?”
She only lifted her chin.
Ashwick stared at her. Then looked at Darcy. “And you?”
Darcy’s eyes never left Elizabeth’s. “I would have walked into exile with her and counted myself rich.”
There was a pause. Lord Matlock cleared his throat again. “Well. If no one else will say it,” he muttered, “I suppose I shall. That sounds rather like a settled matter.”
Ashwick looked as though he wanted to punch someone. But instead, after a long silence, he sank into the nearest chair, one hand covering his eyes. “God help me,” he muttered. “You are your mother. This… I cannot mend this, Elizabeth! You have gone too far.”
Lady Matlock, lips twitching, murmured, “And about time, too.”
A sudden voice called out from the doorway, causing heads to turn. “What ho, is everyone in here?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam reentered at that moment, snatching a biscuit off the tea tray, and glanced around the room. “I trust no blood has been shed in my absence?”
Darcy, who had moved back to stand between her and her father like a living shield, exhaled slowly and did not move. His back was straight, his expression calm—but she could see the tendons in his neck, tight with effort.
Lord Ashwick growled, “If you left in order to let your cousin do something stupid and irrevocable, you timed your exit perfectly.”
“And yet,” Richard replied, strolling further in, “it seems we are all still breathing. I must say, I am impressed.”
“You will not be if you hear what your cousin has done,” Ashwick snapped.
“He has done nothing,” Elizabeth said, stepping forward. “I am the one who—”
“Be silent,” her father barked. “I will not have you humiliate yourself further.”
“I am not humiliated,” she said coldly. “And I have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Darcy’s hand closed gently around her wrist—support, not restraint.
“Where will you live?” the marquess demanded. “Do you have a residence suited to her rank?”
“I do not,” Darcy said quietly. “And I probably never will have anything worthy of her.”
“So, what is your plan, man?”
Darcy hesitated. “I have a… a connection in Hertfordshire that might serve our immediate wants. Or we may remain in town. Temporarily.”
“With what income?” Ashwick barked. “What will you use to feed her? Clothe her? Good intentions?”
“I am… employed.”
Ashwick scoffed. “At the Home Office? You can hardly afford to keep yourself. That is not enough!”
Darcy’s jaw ticked. “Then I shall find something that is.”
The marquess snorted, derision curling around every syllable. “You intend to keep her like a governess? Shall I expect to see her giving lessons to other people’s children?”
Elizabeth flinched. Her father might be angry, but he was not cruel—at least, not usually. That he would stoop to mockery meant he was floundering. Losing ground.
The Countess’s voice cut clean through the air. “You are being dramatic, Ashwick.”
He turned to her in disbelief. “You cannot seriously be encouraging this!”
“I am not encouraging anything,” she replied, eyes glinting. “But I am acknowledging what is already done. And you might consider that, in the right light, it may not be a disaster.”
“Indeed,” the Earl agreed, in a voice that sounded like a steaming kettle that had been close to boiling over before he gave it vent. “Darcy’s character is unimpeachable. As for the title, it might be extinct, but the Darcy name is older even than the Montclair—”
“ Extinct? How very tactful of you. No, it was revoked ,“ the marquess growled. “Forfeit! ‘Unnatural circumstances,’ as I recall. The father was… unlawful! How should I think better of the son?”
Darcy opened his mouth—then closed it again.
“Well, if you had any questions about that ,“ Colonel Fitzwilliam scoffed, waving the last bite of his biscuit, “I daresay you missed all evidence to the contrary. We’d a fair proof of that earlier, did we not? Lady Elizabeth, kiss him again and let us see his hair curl once more.”
“Richard, please,” Lady Matlock hissed.
“Sorry, Mother.” Richard cleared his throat. “Shall I leave now? Because I should like to know whether to pour more tea or fetch a clergyman.”
No one even blinked. The silence that followed Richard’s flippant jest stretched on—long enough for the last of Elizabeth’s heartbeat to slow from its thundering gallop. Her father had sunk into his high-backed chair as though the air had been knocked from his lungs. His face was flushed; the deep creases at his brow had not smoothed. But his voice, when it came again, was quieter. No less furious, but resigned in the way a man is when he knows he has already lost the argument.
“Do not imagine I will condone this,” he said, not looking at her. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the mantel. “You will find no support from me. I will not host your wedding. I will not fund your trousseau. You have chosen to disgrace this family, and it will be borne alone.”
Elizabeth’s eyes blurred. She had hoped… well, that was a foolish idea, anyway. She had lost her father. Her throat tightened, and she sniffed. “I understand.”
That was when Darcy’s hand found hers.
Her father inhaled sharply, as if the sight pained him. “I had always assumed you would do your duty. Not with pleasure, perhaps—but with the sense of obligation you were raised to possess. I did not think I had raised a fool.”
“You did not,” she said softly.
Her father’s lip curled. “You will live in squalor. You will starve in the hedgerows with such a husband.”
“I would rather starve with him than dine alone in a palace.”
Lord Matlock let out a sound that might have been approval. The Countess was watching with frank amusement now, as if the outcome had never been in doubt.
Ashwick’s eyes flicked toward them, and he seemed to realize the game was lost. He looked around the room—at Georgiana’s open admiration, at Richard’s smug and knowing grin, at the Earl of Matlock whose family name would now be further tied to his.
And perhaps worst of all—at Elizabeth herself.
He exhaled slowly. When he spoke again, it was almost a murmur. “I will make you an offer, Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s pulse stuttered. What was this?
Ashwick stood slowly. Straightened his coat. “I will settle a sum upon you—a generous one. Enough for land, for comfort. For your sister’s security. A tidy estate. Respectable tenants. The illusion of a life well-preserved.”
He paused. “But only if you give her up.”
Darcy’s fingers tightened around hers, so briefly she might have imagined it. When he answered, his voice was calm.
“No.”
“Do not be hasty,” Ashwick urged him. “You could build something honorable. You would never want for anything.”
Darcy said nothing.
The Marquess took a step forward. “You cannot build with a scandal. You will never outrun it. But wealth—wealth dulls disgrace. It buys silence.”
Still, no answer. Just a tightening of his fingers around hers.
At last, Elizabeth turned to Darcy. His jaw was tight. His brow furrowed. But there was no hesitation in his eyes. He looked down at her. Only her.
And then he looked back at the Marquess of Ashwick. “Keep your fortune.”
Ashwick let out a slow, bitter laugh. “You are as much a fool as my daughter.”
And then he turned and walked out, the tails of his coat slicing through the air like a blade.
Elizabeth stared after him, her heart full and breaking all at once.
“Was that it?” Richard asked after a moment. “He did not even shout or call for his attorney. I am almost disappointed.”
Lady Matlock rose gracefully to her feet. “Well,” she said, smoothing the skirts of her gown, “now that the unpleasantness is behind us… perhaps someone will call for a fresh tea tray.”
Elizabeth turned to Darcy. He was still watching the door where her father had gone.
But he was still holding her hand.