Page 36 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Thirty-Six

July 4, 1812

T he trunk groaned as he knelt beside it, the hinges complaining under the pressure of his hand. Darcy paused, the folded shirts and carefully arranged parcels inside looking absurdly obedient for a life that had just unraveled and spun itself into something completely new.

He was not going to Portugal.

He was supposed to set sail yesterday. That ship, now halfway down the coast of France, had been meant to carry him from this country, from a scandal he could never live down, from the woman he loved and could never have.

Only now... he did have her. Or rather, she had him—because he could not claim to have won her so much as surrendered.

His mouth curved into a grin, unbidden, as he pulled a linen shirt from the top of the trunk and tossed it aside. He could still see her face in that moment—eyes blazing, voice determined, the press of her lips on his so fierce it had driven every rational thought from his head. She had chosen him in a display meant to shock half the British aristocracy, in a house not her own, with no hope of apology or retreat. His fiancée.

Fiancée.

The word still made his chest swell and his stomach swoop as if he were a schoolboy on his first errand of daring. Two days. They had been engaged for two days, and in that time, he had upended every plan, burned every bridge, and now stood on the precipice of a life he had never dared imagine.

He was, as of yesterday, unemployed. He had not officially resigned from the Home Office before—there had not been time—but now, he had sent word of his change in circumstances. He was supposed to be on his way to Portugal—his old position terminated, all his duties assigned to another.

Whether they would welcome him back now was another matter. A man whose personal life had become this public, this tumultuous, did not make for an ideal servant of the Crown. Still, he hoped.

He also hoped for a reply from Bingley. He had written the moment he realized he would not be leaving—sent off a rambling letter full of apology and explanation, though God only knew how Bingley would take it. Darcy had not told him everything about Elizabeth, not before. The truth had been too raw, too uncertain. Now it was unavoidable.

And if the Home Office did not take him back... then what? He could not very well install Elizabeth in his bachelor’s rooms at Albany, even if he could afford to keep them. He had nothing to offer her but the remnants of a gentleman’s salary and the scraps of pride that came with refusing charity.

Bingley would take them in, and he just might have to accept… at least, in the beginning. But he would not live off his friend’s goodwill. He could not bear to see Elizabeth treated with condescension—or pity.

He leaned back on his heels, pressing a hand to his face and laughing quietly.

She had refused a prince. For him .

That was enough. That was the stone on which they would build.

The last of the linen shirts lay crumpled in his lap when the knock came—sharp, official, and utterly unwelcome.

Darcy groaned and ignored it. Perhaps it would go away—not likely, because scandal did not work that way, and Darcy was certainly at the heart of a scandal by now.

A second knock, brisker this time.

He stood slowly, tugging the front of his waistcoat, heart tightening as he crossed to the door and unlatched it. The man on the threshold wore livery Darcy recognized too well. Red and gold, crested with a crown. A royal messenger.

Darcy’s shoulders tensed. “May I help you?”

The man bowed crisply. “You are requested immediately at Carlton House, sir. His Royal Highness says it is a matter of urgency.”

Darcy blinked. “There must be some mistake. I am no longer employed in any official capacity. His Highness surely wants someone still in a position to be of use.”

The messenger did not waver. “There is no mistake, Mr. Darcy. His Royal Highness specified you by name. A carriage is waiting.”

Darcy exhaled. He glanced past the messenger to the window above the street. Sure enough, a black-lacquered coach stood at the curb, a footman poised at its door like a marble statue.

He did not need to ask what this was about.

Elizabeth.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course,” he murmured. “He did not even wait until tomorrow for the banns to be announced. A prince’s pride must be stroked.”

The messenger, to his credit, neither blinked nor shifted.

Darcy stepped back into the room, reaching for his coat. “Tell him I shall attend him within the hour.”

“No, sir.” The messenger was suddenly firmer. “The prince said immediately. ”

Darcy’s eyes narrowed. Of course he had.

The opulent grandeur of Carlton House never failed to impress, though today, Darcy found it more oppressive than awe-inspiring. The gilded ceilings and lavish furnishings seemed to mock his current predicament. He was led through a series of ornate corridors before being ushered into the Prince Regent’s private chamber.

The Prince lounged on his favorite chaise, swathed in a robe of deep crimson velvet embroidered with gold filigree, one slippered foot dangling off the side with studied indolence. A snifter of brandy twirled lazily between his fingers, and his powdered wig sat slightly askew, as though to remind the world that rules of appearance did not apply to him.

“Darcy,” he declared, lips curling into a satisfied smile as though he had summoned the man by sheer will, “at last. Do sit. Or stand and glower, as is your habit—I leave it to you.”

Darcy remained precisely where he was. “Your Highness,” he said with a controlled bow. “You summoned me with some urgency.”

The Prince made a show of sniffing the brandy, then looked over the rim of his glass with theatrical relish. “Urgency, yes, but not alarm. One should never be alarmed at good news, Darcy. I have reviewed your petition.”

Darcy’s expression did not shift. “I see. And what does Your Highness require of me this time?”

The Prince gave a bark of laughter, the sound echoing off the gilded walls. “So jaded! So delightfully suspicious. Tell me, do you treat all your benefactors with such grim reserve, or am I merely lucky?”

Darcy’s brow twitched. “I have learned to temper my expectations, Your Highness.”

“Quite right. Prudence is the balm of the disappointed.” The Prince leaned forward suddenly, the silk of his robe swishing against the upholstery. “But not today, Darcy. Today, you are to be astonished. Flabbergasted. Aghast, even. I have made my decision.”

Darcy’s jaw clenched. “Regarding—?”

The Prince gestured grandly with his glass, nearly sloshing brandy onto his silk sleeve. “Your family’s estate and title. The matter of Pemberley. I am overturning your father’s disgrace. The revocation was—what was the phrase they used in chambers?—ah, yes. ‘A poorly justified political expediency.’”

Darcy stared, as if the words had reached him from a great distance. “You... have decided to reverse the ruling?”

The Prince raised both brows. “Well, I do not simply decide things. I order them. But yes. Yes, I have.“ He grinned again, teeth flashing beneath his curled lip. “Try to look pleased, Darcy. This is the part where you fall to your knees and thank me, is it not?”

Darcy blinked once. “I confess I am… surprised.”

“Oh, that is dull.” The Prince drained the last of his brandy and reached to refill it from a crystal decanter beside him. “Say something interesting. Ask me why. Ask me what devilish scheme I am about. Or ask me what she wore when she kissed you in the Matlock drawing room—because I do know. I imagine half of London does.”

Darcy’s throat worked, but no sound emerged.

The Prince chortled into his sleeve. “Oh, you are priceless. And you owe me a new scandal soon, Darcy. The court has grown dreadfully dry.”

Darcy’s brow furrowed. “This is… because of Lady Elizabeth?” he asked slowly. “The scandal. You mean to say—”

The Prince’s laughter erupted like a cork popping from a champagne bottle. “Oh, Darcy. You do make it sound so sordid. ‘Because of the scandal,’” he repeated, as if savoring the phrase. “You wound me. Do you really think me so petty?”

Darcy said nothing—it seemed more tactful than the truth.

“Though,” the Prince added, eyes gleaming, “if I were so inclined, it would be a delightful sort of pettiness, would it not? No, my dear man—it was not the scandal itself, but the way it unfolded. The theater of it. The sheer, glorious madness of it all.”

He leaned forward, voice dropping conspiratorially. “I received an ‘anonymous’ letter the day before the news hit the salons. A warning, you might call it. Your cousin the colonel has rather distinct handwriting, by the way.”

Darcy’s mouth parted. “Fitzwilliam?”

“Oh yes. Full of righteous fury and familial concern. Quite touching, really.” The Prince took another sip of his brandy. “He wrote that you had been wronged, that the girl was the same Lady Elizabeth Montclair whom everyone had believed vanished off to Devon or France or the moon, and that the scandal you were about to cause would likely make headlines unless someone, say, a certain royal personage, chose to get ahead of it.”

Darcy stared, reeling. Of course. Richard’s abrupt departure, the way he had vanished just after the kiss, only to reappear as if summoned by providence—it was all beginning to make sense.

“And then came the moment itself,” the prince continued with a laugh. “A Montclair in the arms of a Darcy. In public. The Marquess of Ashwick frothing at the mouth while the Earl of Matlock looked on. Really, I could not have staged it better myself.”

He set the brandy down, shaking his head with something that resembled fondness. “You, sir, are far more interesting than I gave you credit for. And as for Lady Elizabeth… well. One does not dim such a light. She would make a bishop recant.”

Darcy exhaled, trying to tether his thoughts. “And… this decision—”

“Is final,” the Prince interrupted, all lightness gone for a moment. “Your family was wronged. You have paid enough for your father’s misstep—or whatever it was that led to all those accusations. It is time to restore what was lost. You may inform your bride that she shall not be marrying a disgraced pauper after all.”

Darcy swallowed hard. “Your Highness… I am—”

“Yes, yes,” the Prince waved a hand. “You are honored, humbled, grateful, all the usual nonsense. There will be formalities. A signing. An announcement. Some sighing from Cabinet and the old sticklers at the College of Arms. But you may consider the matter settled.”

Darcy inclined his head. “Then I thank you. Sincerely.”

The Prince had already returned to his brandy. “Yes, yes. Do tell your good cousin to write when the next scandal brews, won’t you? I rather like his turn of phrase.”

Darcy bowed, deeper this time. “Your Highness.”

He turned on his heel and left the chamber, boots silent against the plush carpets. The corridors of Carlton House stretched before him, long and bright, but the world beyond the doors had narrowed to a single point of clarity.

He had her . And now… he could give her everything.

Darcy stood before the imposing facade of Ashwick House, its stone edifice as unyielding as the man who ruled within. The grand entrance loomed ahead, flanked by towering columns that seemed to guard the secrets held within. Drawing a quaking breath, he ascended the steps and rapped the brass knocker against the heavy door.

The butler, a man of advanced years with a demeanor to match the house’s austerity, opened the door. His eyes flicked over Darcy with a practiced neutrality.

“Mr. Darcy,” the butler intoned, his voice devoid of warmth. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I seek an audience with Lady Elizabeth. I have news of significance to share with her.”

Before the butler could respond, a familiar figure emerged from the shadows of the hallway. The Marquess of Ashwick approached, his gait deliberate, eyes narrowing as they settled on Darcy.

“Mr. Darcy,” the Marquess greeted, his voice carrying the bite of restrained civility. “Your presence is... unexpected.”

Darcy inclined his head respectfully. “And unwelcome, I see, my lord. However, I have just come from Carlton House and wish to convey some good news to Lady Elizabeth.”

Ashwick’s gaze sharpened, his lips pressing into a scowl. “Good news, you say? Perhaps you might enlighten me first. It would be... prudent, would you not agree? Such transparency might persuade me to permit you into my house to see my daughter .”

“With all due respect, my lord, my concern lies solely with Lady Elizabeth’s opinion. It is her I wish to inform.”

Ashwick’s eyes bored into Darcy’s, searching for any sign of weakness. Finding none, he exhaled sharply.

“Ten minutes,” the Marquess conceded, stepping aside with a reluctant gesture toward the interior. “You will find her in the drawing room.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Darcy replied, offering a curt bow before proceeding down the familiar corridor.

She was, indeed, in the drawing room, seated near the tall window, utterly still but for the charcoal moving deftly in her hand. She had not heard the door open. Afternoon light poured over her shoulder, softening the lines of her posture and catching in the snarled waves of her hair, but she remained intent, her head bent, her fingers smudged with gray. A thin square of paper was pinned at one corner, her wrist moving in quick, decisive strokes.

He paused just inside the doorway, watching her work. Her gaze flicked between the paper and something just beyond the frame of memory—no, not something.

Some one .

Him.

The likeness was unmistakable: his brow furrowed, his collar slightly askew, his eyes darker than he remembered them. She was still shaping the curve of his mouth, tracing and retracing the lines with such concentration that he could not help but smile.

She had drawn his mouth nearly half a dozen times. That fact alone pleased him in ways he could not quite name.

He took a slow step forward. She did not notice.

“Elizabeth,” he said, gently.

Her head jerked up, the charcoal slipping slightly. She blinked at him, and color bloomed in her cheeks. “Oh! You startled me.”

“Forgive me. I was… admiring your work.”

She looked down at the sketch and then back at him, one brow arched. “You approve? I thought him a rather handsome chap, do you not agree?”

He grunted. “I believe I caught you studying my lips with alarming precision.”

Her mouth twitched. “You are very difficult to capture.”

“And here I thought it was you who was so difficult to capture.”

She laughed and extended her hands to him. “You managed well enough.”

“I got lucky.” He crossed the room, taking her offered hands into his own.

“You call that luck?” She tossed her head, pretending to consider. “Oh, perhaps it was, at first, but I could have sworn you were almost the unluckiest man I knew.”

He pulled her in closer—close enough to brush a tender kiss to her forehead. He had dreamed of doing that for so long… “Do you know,” he whispered, “I think my luck has turned around.”

“Oh?” She lifted her face to his, just enough to draw her cheek along his. “I would not call that luck. That was all my silly stubbornness.”

“No, there… well, yes,” he stammered. “And I shall bless your ‘stubbornness’ all the days of my life, but Elizabeth, I have news. I’ve just come from Carlton House.”

Her brows lifted in intrigue. “Oh? And what has His Highness done now?”

He took a steadying breath. “The Prince Regent has decided to restore my family’s estate and title. Pemberley is to be ours once more.”

For a moment, Elizabeth simply stared, processing the magnitude of his words. Then, a radiant smile broke across her face and she leaped into his arms. “Fitzwilliam, that is wonderful!”

He huffed as she clung to him, so tightly that it nearly cracked his ribs. “It appears His Highness found our recent... notoriety rather entertaining.”

“Oh, dear! So, our scandal is what finally moved the Prince into benevolence?”

Darcy shook his head as she pulled back to gaze up into his face. “Provoking, is it not? To think he held this power all along—and knew the truth, as well, do not forget that—and chose now to exercise it, seemingly for his own amusement.”

She stepped closer, cupping his face with tender hands. “Let him have his amusement,” she murmured before pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.

In that moment, all thoughts of the Prince and his capriciousness melted away. Darcy wrapped his arms around Elizabeth, deepening the embrace, savoring the sweetness of her affection.

After a time, he reluctantly pulled back, resting his forehead against hers. “There is something you should know,” he began hesitantly. “Pemberley... it is not what it once was. The estate will be in disrepair, the finances likely in ruin.”

Her brow creased. “What of the scoundrel who has ruined the property? Will nothing be done to him?”

Darcy lifted a shoulder. “What has he done for which anyone could prosecute him? It was his father, not he, who made the accusations against my father. The son inherited the property legally, so far as the law was interpreted. Incompetence is not against the law. Being a spendthrift is not a crime. I care nothing for Wickham—less than nothing. I swore to see the property restored, and it shall be so. That is revenge enough for me. But it will be years before Pemberley is even a shadow of its former self again. Wickham may have sold off tenant farms, damaged furnishings… I have no way of knowing the extent of it yet, but I will almost certainly have to sell the townhouse to cover debts… if it is not already sold.”

Elizabeth leaned back, a playful glint in her eye. “Fitzwilliam, have you forgot? I possess a dowry of fifty thousand pounds. That should keep us comfortable for quite some time.”

Darcy blinked, confusion knitting between his brows. “But your father—he did not approve our engagement. He may have structured your dowry… Elizabeth, you may not have access to it until you are five and twenty.”

She did not answer him immediately. Instead, she leaned in and cupped his face again, her thumb brushing once beneath his eye as though she could ease every worry from him by touch alone.

“We spoke last night,” she whispered.

His eyes searched hers.

“It was not a short conversation,” she added. “He sent for me after supper. The Duke and Duchess of Wrexham had been here—I think trying to help him perform damage control—or just contain his temper, perhaps—but they had left by then. It was just the two of us in that cold, terrible study of his.”

Darcy swallowed. “And?”

“He poured brandy for himself. Poured sherry for me. I did not want it, but I drank it anyway, and I told him everything.”

He blinked. “Everything?”

“Not tidily, not with grace, and not to make him see reason. Just truth. I told him—again—what I had seen in the House of Commons that day in May, and why the Prince ordered me to be hidden so suddenly. The fire that was supposed to kill me. What it was to run for my life. To fear every hoofbeat on the road behind me. To be pulled from a house in the middle of the night and thrown into a world where my name—my title—meant nothing. To be placed in your care—you, whom I never saw before that night. And how it was not only my life you saved, but my spirit.”

She smiled faintly, almost bitterly. “And then I told him what it meant to be with the Bennets. To see a father who dotes on his daughters. Who laughs at them. Who listens to them. And who stays. And I told him that if you had been a lesser man—if you had given in to what everyone would have expected of you—I would be ruined now, and likely still have given you my hand willingly. But you did not. And so, I claimed yours, instead.”

Darcy’s throat worked hard. “And how did all that fall on his ears?”

“He said very little at first. Just sat there with his glass and stared at the fire. Then he asked what happened—how it ended.” Her voice caught, just slightly. “I showed him the scars on my arms and legs, and told him the ones you bore were far worse. I told him what you risked for me. How you never asked for anything in return. And then, he… he wept.”

Darcy stared at her. “He what?”

“Tears,” she said simply. “Quiet, ungraceful, furious tears. He called himself a fool. And he said that perhaps love can be the fulfillment of one’s duty.”

“I… I do not understand.”

Elizabeth blinked back a few tears of her own and laid her head on his chest. “He said that if he and my mother had tried harder to repair what had been broken, they might have managed another child—a true heir, as he was always meant to have, but they quit trying when I was five. Mother was still young, but…” She drew in a shaky breath and sighed against his shirt. “He said he had spent so long treating me like a political piece on a chessboard that he forgot I was someone with a heart.”

Darcy exhaled, his own heart clenching.

She lifted her head and smiled up at him. “He will never be Mr. Bennet. But he said he hoped I would have the kind of marriage I wanted. And he even said he would support us publicly.”

“He did! And… forgive me for asking, but you said this long explanation was to do with your dowry?”

She grinned. “He is amending the terms. Already in process.”

Darcy let out a shaken breath. Then his arms wrapped around her, crushing her close. He kissed her forehead once, and then pulled back just far enough to find her lips again.

“Elizabeth,” he murmured against her mouth.

She kissed him back, laughing softly. “Well? Do I keep you in some comforts?”

“Fifty thousand pounds,” he said, drawing her tighter. “I believe we can find one or two ways to make use of it.”

She leaned back just enough to raise one brow. “Is that all I am to you now? A woman with a handsome dowry?”

He feigned solemnity. “And the very best criminal sketch artist in London. Let us not forget that.”

“I suppose I ought to charge you for the portrait,” she said, tilting her head toward the drawing still propped on her easel.

“You may frame it instead,” he replied. “And hang it somewhere I can be reminded—daily—that your affections have always been somewhat fixated on my mouth.”

Her cheeks flushed. “You noticed that?”

“I notice everything.”

She shook her head, laughing as she nudged him lightly in the ribs. “You are the most pompous, ridiculous, prideful man in all England.”

“And yet, here you are,” he said, grinning. “Engaged to a man who once offered you a mattress stuffed with hay.”

She tipped her chin up, pride and affection mingling in her gaze. “Yes. But only because he also gave me his coat. And his name. And his heart.”

That quieted him.

For a long moment, he only looked at her—his Elizabeth. Alive with wit and fire and courage. A woman who had saved his soul just as surely as he had once saved her life.

He touched her cheek. “I have loved you in every corner of England. In forests and fields. In a stranger’s attic and the back of a stolen carriage. But this—” he drew her close again, resting his forehead lightly against hers, “—this is the dream I dared not keep.”

Her smile was luminous. “Then let us build it together.”