Page 38 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Coming June 30, 2025

They made a deal in jest, but love never plays by the rules.

Y ears ago, Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy struck a reckless bargain on the one day they managed to get along: If neither of them were married within five years, they would marry each other. It was a silly, fleeting promise made in jest—and promptly forgotten.

Or so they thought.

As that fateful age looms, both are horrified to realize the other remembers their pact perfectly . Determined to avoid a lifetime with the one person who can unravel them with a single glance—or a sharp retort—they each set out to sabotage the agreement. Their solution? Help the other person find anyone else to marry, and fast. But in the process of orchestrating each other's romantic entanglements, they keep accidentally ruining every potential match.

Could their greatest obstacle be the very thing they’re trying to avoid? Or is it possible that the heart has a playbook all its own?

Chapter One July 1806

F itzwilliam Darcy stared at the inkwell. Not the letter atop the blotter. Not the man behind the desk. Not the tidy window beyond which summer bloomed like a wound.

The inkwell.

Round. Ornate. A dragon coiled round its silver neck, fire caught in its tiny mouth, its tail wrapped tightly about the base. He could not imagine why it was so aggressive. What was it meant to guard? Ink?

Ink did not need guarding. Estates did.

“I must ask, Mr. Darcy—have you reached a decision?”

Darcy blinked. Once. Then again, more deliberately. The solicitor’s voice was not unkind, but it carried the insufferable crispness of someone used to explaining difficult things slowly. Mr. Dyer was not his father’s man—Darcy had dismissed him months ago—but the trustees required an independent party for this meeting, and the earl had chosen Dyer for his discretion and silence. Thus far, Darcy could vouch only for the silence.

“I was under the impression,” Darcy said, his voice scratchy with disuse, “that my father’s intentions were already decided. What, precisely, remains for me to determine?”

A flicker passed over Dyer’s face. Sympathy, perhaps. Or something close enough that Darcy wanted to snarl at it.

“Only the means by which you intend to comply, sir. The trust, as you know, becomes fully yours on the thirtieth anniversary of your birth. Unless certain… provisions are unmet.”

Provisions. The word tasted of cold iron.

Darcy had read the document a dozen times, perhaps more. The phrasing was maddeningly precise. By his thirtieth birthday, he must either marry—or relinquish sole control of the Darcy endowments.

Not Pemberley itself. That was safe—so long as he could afford to keep it. But everything else—the entailed investments, the shipping shares, the London property rents, Georgiana’s dowry and jointure and the full weight of her future—those would pass into shared hands.

And who were those hands?

“Remind me,” Darcy said coldly, “whom the clause names as alternate trustee.”

Dyer hesitated. Just long enough. “The Earl of Matlock is first listed. Should he decline, then Viscount Winthrop, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, or—”

Darcy stood.

“—a qualified solicitor, to be named by the board,” Dyer finished, rising hastily as well.

The room was too warm. Or his collar too tight. Or his father too absent. He could not decide which offended him more.

“My sister,” Darcy said, pacing to the hearth despite the season, “is eleven years old. A child. Gentle-hearted, painfully shy, and not yet come out of the schoolroom. You understand that?”

“I do,” Dyer said cautiously.

“She still names her dolls and weeps at the end of fairy tales. She is not to be made a pawn in a trust negotiation.”

“No one intends to treat her as such, sir.”

Darcy turned, his glare flaring. “Do they not? Because as I see it, unless I wed in the next five years, Georgiana’s entire fortune becomes a chess piece for my aunt to push across a table.”

Dyer had the gall to look regretful. “I agree it is an unfortunate clause. But your father meant to protect her. You are only twenty-four this past February, and your father wrote the final draft of this trust in… yes, March of ’02, during your second year at Cambridge. Your affairs were—and if you will forgive me, sir—still are largely unsettled, and Miss Darcy’s future dependent upon a good match. He believed it prudent.”

Darcy stared at the document. It was neat. Too neat. His father’s hand had not trembled. Of course it had not. He had not been ill when he wrote it. Only prudent.

Egad, how he hated that word.

He had never disobeyed his father. Never once, not truly. And now the man was beyond reach, beyond argument—and still managing to issue commands from beyond the grave.

“You have no objection to marriage itself, I assume,” Dyer added. “Simply to the timeline.”

That earned a humorless laugh. “I object to being auctioned off by the calendar like a bull in need of breeding.”

Dyer cleared his throat. “Well. That is one way to put it.”

Darcy rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had not slept properly in weeks. Pemberley’s land records were still in disarray, the steward had retired, and Georgiana smiled less frequently now that she had a new governess—one who thought sentiment was the balm of the lower class. His life, once a clean progression of Latin verse, had unraveled into ink-blotted ledgers and legalese.

He had no room for a wife yet.

Eventually, of course. He had always known what would be required of him. He would marry. He would produce an heir. He would preserve the estate his father had handed down.

What he had not expected was to be badgered into it like some fumbling schoolboy behind on his sums.

“I will comply,” he said at last. “But I will do so on my own terms. My own timeline. The trust allows me nearly six years, and I shall take them. When I marry, it will not be at the pleasure of my uncle, nor my aunt, nor a band of trustees sniffing after influence.”

Dyer nodded slowly. “Very well. Then I shall inform the board you are reviewing the matter and intend to act accordingly.”

He did not ask when. He knew better.

Darcy reached for his gloves. His hands had not stopped shaking since last October.

As he left the office and stepped into the white heat of early summer, he felt the full weight of it settle on his shoulders again—not grief, not duty, but the bitter knowledge that his father’s last lesson had come too late:

No one escapes legacy. Not even the unwilling.

T he wheel hit a rut and Elizabeth bounced in her seat, her shoulder thumping lightly against Jane’s. Across from them, Mary gave a soft, martyred sigh and tightened her grip on her copy of Fordyce’s Sermons, as though they might offer ballast.

Elizabeth turned back to the window. The hills were rising now—low and green and untamed—spotted with sheep and dry stone walls that unraveled across the landscape like abandoned threads. It was not wild, precisely, but it was not Longbourn, either. And thank heaven for that.

“Are we very near, Aunt?” she asked, not for the first time.

Mrs. Gardiner gave her an indulgent smile from beside her husband. “Another half-hour, I expect. Lambton lies just beyond the ridge.”

Elizabeth grinned and settled back. “If it were any farther, Mary might complete the entire sermon on prudence before we arrive.”

Mary lifted her chin without looking up. “There is no wrong time for moral instruction.”

“Except possibly when the hills are too pretty to scold,” Elizabeth murmured, but Jane’s quiet elbow persuaded her to leave the matter there.

This was not the first time Elizabeth had visited Derbyshire, but it had been years—and never as a guest of the Gardiners. Mr. Gardiner, when not absorbed in matters of trade and shipping, had a fondness for travel. He had planned this excursion in the spring and invited her with such natural pleasure that Elizabeth could not help but accept. Jane had been added to the party as a matter of course—no one refused Jane anything—and Mary had insisted upon joining with the air of a volunteer for sainthood.

Kitty and Lydia had not been invited. Elizabeth suspected that Mr. Gardiner had decided he liked his sanity too much to see it scandalized by misplaced flirtation.

“I still cannot believe how green everything is,” Jane said quietly, drawing back the curtain. “It is softer than Hertfordshire, somehow.”

“It is older,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “The rocks know more secrets.”

“Now you sound like a Gothic novel,” Elizabeth teased.

“Do not tempt her,” Mr. Gardiner said from the opposite seat. “Last time we stayed in Lambton, she told me the bedposts whispered warnings in the dark.”

“They did,” said Mrs. Gardiner serenely. “You simply do not listen.”

Elizabeth smiled and let the chatter pass over her. She was not impatient, not really, but there was something in her chest that buzzed like a trapped bee. It had been building ever since the road began to climb, and she could not quite say what it was—excitement, perhaps. Or dread.

She had not been particularly mournful at leaving Longbourn. Her mother had spent the last fortnight alternating between sighing over some poetry that Jane had received and lamenting Elizabeth’s apparent allergy to all things demure and practical. Charlotte Lucas had taken to hinting—rather archly—about the virtues of stable income over romantic nonsense, and Lydia’s screeching laughter had grown especially high-pitched now that she had discovered which hats made the shop boys blush. When the Gardiners’ invitation arrived, Elizabeth had packed her valise before the ink dried.

It was not that she disliked home. It was simply that she had begun to imagine something beyond it.

The carriage crested the hill and began to descend toward the town. Lambton was nestled in the valley, neat and inviting, its cottages painted white and grey with tidy stone chimneys and flowering window boxes. Beyond it, the land rolled upward again toward Matlock and Bakewell, and somewhere further still—though Elizabeth cared little about the famous gardens her aunt loved to gush over—Pemberley lay tucked behind the hills.

“You will like Mrs. Hartley,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “She and I were at school together, and she is twice as sensible now as she was then. Her husband is the vicar of St. Thomas’s, and they keep a lovely garden. If I remember rightly, she plays the harp.”

Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, who was clearly suppressing a smile.

“I make no promises about the harp,” she said.

Mr. Gardiner leaned forward. “We have an invitation to a garden party in two days’ time. At Lady Chiswell’s estate, near Matlock. Mrs. Hartley arranged the introductions. Apparently it is in aid of the London Foundling Hospital.”

“Oh, that sounds delightful,” said Jane.

Elizabeth arched a brow. “Delightful? I expect it will be a riot of bonnets and matchmaking.”

“Well, yes,” said Mrs. Gardiner cheerfully. “That is what makes it delightful.”

Mary made a vague noise of disapproval, and Elizabeth bit her lip to avoid laughing.

“It will be good for you,” her aunt added. “New faces. Fresh air. A change of scenery does wonders for one’s perspective.”

Elizabeth turned her gaze back to the window. The houses were closer now. A shop sign swung gently in the breeze, its paint faded but the lettering still proud.

New faces. Fresh air.

She was not looking for love. She was not looking for anything at all.

But it would be good, just for a while, to not be known quite so well.

T he knock was far too cheerful.

Darcy, seated with his boots off and a Latin grammar open in his lap, considered ignoring it. Mrs. Reynolds would answer in due course, and whomever it was could be politely turned away with the usual excuse: Mr. Darcy is not receiving visitors at present.

But then the door opened anyway, and he realized—too late—that the usual excuse would not be sufficient.

“Gad’s teeth,” said the figure silhouetted in the doorway, “you are still reading that abominable book.”

Darcy did not rise. “It is not abominable. It is precise.”

“Yes, well, so is gout.” Major Fitzwilliam crossed the study as if he owned it, pulled Darcy’s grammar from his hands, and dropped it on the side table with all the reverence of a stable boy chucking a saddle. “Where are your shoes?”

“Where they belong.”

“Now you sound exactly like Seneca. Egad, you are worse than I feared.”

Darcy sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Why are you here, Richard?”

“Why, to see you, cousin. To admire your fine taste in solitude. To breathe deeply of the morbid air that must surely be thick with your melancholy. And—incidentally—to drag your hideous carcass to a social function.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I am not—”

“You are.” Fitzwilliam dropped into the chair opposite, draping one leg over the arm with military slouch. “You have been buried here for half a year. You have frightened off half the staff, scared away every neighboring hostess, and even poor Bingley thinks you are about to turn into a ghost and start haunting the east wing.”

“Bingley exaggerates.”

“He does. He said wraith. Ghost was my addition.”

Darcy closed his eyes.

“There is to be a garden party. Tomorrow. Near Matlock. The Lady Chiswell is hosting—do not roll your eyes, I already saw it—and I have it on good authority there will be lemonade, bad poetry, and at least three ladies who have recently taken up harp. It will be intolerable. But I shall not endure it alone.”

“I am not going.”

“You are.”

Darcy opened his eyes. “Have you ever considered diplomacy, Cousin?”

“Every time I decline a promotion.”

“Which is never. How much did your father pay for the last one?”

Richard scoffed. “I earned that, cousin. The general found me a very useful courier.”

“If this is your way of being ‘useful,’ I wonder that he did not put you back to Lieutenant.”

The room fell briefly quiet. Darcy pressed his fingers into his temples, trying to summon the thread of peace he had briefly touched before the knock. Fitzwilliam never stayed long—he was on leave, but only barely, and the War Office would snatch him back the moment his boots were laced.

Darcy could have been more hospitable. Could have stood, could have ordered tea, could have played the dutiful host.

Instead, he sat motionless, barefoot, trying to remember why he had ever allowed himself to care about anything he stood ready to lose.

“The party,” he said at last. “Why?”

“Why the party, or why are you attending?”

“Either.”

“Well.” Fitzwilliam uncrossed his legs and sat forward, hands clasped over his knee. “The Lady Chiswell was an old friend of your mother’s. Her daughter is newly widowed, and the family has decided that throwing an outdoor gathering in the name of charity is a splendid way to restore her to society. There will be food. There will be flowers. There will be gossip, and music, and quite possibly the French ambassador’s niece.”

“I see.”

“And I,” said Fitzwilliam, grinning, “will be there. At my mother’s behest, of course.”

“You are not due back in London?”

“No, but you are due back among the living.” Fitzwilliam stood and gave him a hard look. “You have mourned long enough. The black will keep. But if you mean to sit in this mausoleum for the rest of your twenties, do not expect me to keep you company.”

Darcy exhaled. “You are a bastard.”

“Entirely true. But I am also the only one Mrs. Reynolds will permit past her guard.”

Darcy glanced down at his bare feet, then back up.

“You are serious.”

“Gravely. I intend to wear my good boots. You should as well.”

“Richard.”

“Yes?”

“If I must attend this farce, I will not suffer alone.”

Fitzwilliam’s grin widened. “Excellent. I shall be sure to draw attention. Perhaps recite Byron under a rose arch. Or better yet, flirt shamelessly with every widow present. Someone ought to keep the ladies distracted from your dour glower.”

“I hate you.”

“Not nearly as much as you hate parties.” Fitzwilliam headed for the door, then paused. “One o’clock. I will not come up and fetch you, so you had best be at the carriage.”

“And if I am not?”

“I shall send Lady Chiswell’s footman into your bedroom with a harp.”

Darcy said nothing.

“See you tomorrow,” Fitzwilliam called, and was gone.

The door closed with a click. Darcy sat alone once more.

He stared at the abandoned grammar. He did not retrieve it.

Instead, he bent to put on his boots.

Chapter Two

E lizabeth had not expected a velvet tent.

She blinked twice, just to be sure it was not a mirage. No—there it stood, pitched at the edge of the lawn like a conquering banner, swaths of dark red fabric fluttering at the corners, and golden tassels swaying like it had been summoned from the Arabian Nights and accidentally dropped in Derbyshire.

“Well,” she said, adjusting her bonnet, “someone is very serious about charity.”

Beside her, Jane laughed softly. “Mrs. Gardiner says Lady Chiswell is rather fond of spectacle.”

“And velvet, apparently.”

The rest of the lawn was no less ambitious. Tables groaned under sugared fruits and trifles in glass bowls. A string quartet had taken up residence near the hedges, tuning their instruments with the air of people who did not care if anyone listened. A gaggle of children raced past with paper fans and sashes of silk tied about their waists. And everywhere—everywhere—there were hats.

Huge ones. Plumaged ones. One so large it appeared to have a birdcage embedded in the brim.

Elizabeth made a note of it. Literally. She tugged her small notebook from the inner pocket of her reticule, shielded it behind her shawl, and scribbled: Spotted: A lady bearing the full contents of the London aviary atop her head. When it took flight in the wind, no one dared stop it.

“Lizzy,” Jane murmured, nudging her. “Are you writing again?”

“I am making a charitable contribution to the future,” Elizabeth whispered back.

Mrs. Gardiner was speaking to someone near the lemonade table. Elizabeth only half-listened, her eyes darting over the crowd with the precision of a field scout. There was something delightfully absurd about the whole affair. The ladies preened. The gentlemen barked in polite laughter. Everyone pretended not to notice the bidding table being discreetly set up in the shade.

“Oh dear,” Elizabeth murmured. “There are ribbons.”

Jane followed her gaze and stifled a giggle.

“Are you quite certain we are not at a cattle fair?” Elizabeth added.

Before Jane could answer, Mrs. Gardiner returned, her cheeks a little pink from the sun—or the conversation.

“Girls,” she said, lowering her voice, “I have just encountered Lady Matlock.”

Elizabeth blinked. “The Lady Matlock?”

“One of them, yes. The Dowager. Her late husband was a cousin of my uncle’s, distantly. She remembered me, or at least pretended to, and she asked who you were.” She nodded toward Elizabeth, eyes alight. “She said you had the look of someone likely to cause trouble. In a good way.”

Elizabeth arched a brow. “Trouble? I shall have to be very careful, then. If I cause too much, she might try to marry me to one of her sons.”

Mrs. Gardiner laughed—truly laughed, the kind that drew glances from the neighboring guests—and patted her arm. “She is quite fond of sharp young ladies. I would not be surprised if she summoned you for conversation before the afternoon ends.”

Jane looked pleased. Mary looked like she wished for her copy of Plutarch. Elizabeth, however, felt the familiar spark of something dangerous and thrilling: attention. From someone important. Who might even understand her.

“Do not tease her too much,” Jane murmured later, as they walked past a row of painted parasols.

“Would I do such a thing?”

“You have already invented three nicknames for Lady Biddlesby’s bonnet.”

Elizabeth smiled, but the notebook stayed tucked away. Some things were too good to write down in the moment.

And then—the air shifted.

Not literally. But there was a change, a pull, as if something colder had entered the warmth. The ladies near the table turned as one. One of the footmen straightened. Jane followed the movement, her eyes widening.

Elizabeth turned.

A gentleman had just arrived. He wore black. Not a fashionable black, but a grave one—coat, waistcoat, gloves. Even his cravat looked severe.

He was tall, and still, and looked at the crowd as if he had already counted their sins.

Elizabeth’s breath caught—not for his face, which was certainly fine, if one appreciated the brooding type—but for the way he stood. As though he was waiting to be disappointed. As though he already had been.

“Who is that?” she asked Jane softly.

“I do not know.”

“Whoever he is,” Elizabeth said, “he is dressed for a funeral and wishing it were ours.”

But she did not look away.

D arcy had already decided not to speak.

It was easier that way. One could not be drawn into foolishness or flirtation if one declined to open one’s mouth. He could nod. He could bow. He could offer a single, glacial “Madam” when absolutely required. But he had no intention of saying anything more than that.

It was a policy that had served him well on the ride to Matlock, where Major Fitzwilliam had spent an astonishing portion of the journey speculating about tarts. Not the edible sort.

Now they stood together near the edge of the lawn, the sun striking Fitzwilliam’s polished boots while Darcy remained half-shadowed beneath the eaves of a tent. It was large, garish, and flapping a little at the corners like it might take off if enough nonsense were said beneath it.

“Well,” said Fitzwilliam, surveying the crowd with military precision, “they’ve laid out quite a battlefield. Which sector would you like to die in?”

Darcy only narrowed his eyes.

“Do not look like that,” his cousin added. “You are not being led to the scaffold. You are simply standing among cakes and widows.”

Darcy adjusted his gloves. “They do not seem to be mourning.”

“Of course not. That would require sincerity.” Fitzwilliam’s tone was far too cheerful. “Now smile like you were trained to and pretend you are not counting the minutes until it is over.”

Darcy did not smile.

A cluster of ladies passed nearby, their eyes flicking toward him like moths to a candle. He kept his expression fixed and his shoulders squared. He had no intention of being approached. He had only agreed to come because Fitzwilliam had threatened to recite Pope aloud until they reached Pemberley’s stables.

“Darcy!”

He turned before the name had fully registered, and there she was: the Dowager Countess of Matlock, imperious in grey lace and a hat wide enough to shade half the garden. She leaned on her cane as if daring the earth to trip her.

“Good heavens,” she declared as she reached him. “You look like a thundercloud in a cathedral.”

Darcy bowed. “Your ladyship.”

“Oh, do not try that funeral voice on me. I have buried three husbands and still manage to speak in complete sentences. You, on the other hand, appear to be punishing the daffodils.”

Fitzwilliam choked on a laugh.

Darcy straightened. “I had assumed black was still acceptable.”

“It is,” said the dowager, “in November. In a drawing room. When you are not being auctioned off like a prized gooseberry.”

That gave him pause. “I beg your pardon?”

The dowager waved her fan. “Never mind. You shall discover soon enough. Just try not to scowl too fiercely. One of the Lady Milletts has a weak heart.”

She sailed off with terrifying grace, her cane clicking smartly against the flagstones.

Darcy turned slowly toward his cousin. “Auctioned?”

Fitzwilliam grinned. “Oh, did I forget to mention that?”

Darcy’s jaw clenched.

“I think they are doing it for charity,” Fitzwilliam added brightly. “Or to titillate the ladies. It is hard to tell the difference.”

Darcy looked out over the crowd again. Tables of sweetmeats. Giggling ladies. Ribbons. A tent fit for a sultan.

And in the middle of it all, somewhere—he felt it like a stone in his shoe—a disaster waiting to be assigned his name.

E lizabeth had not been paying much attention to the white dais.

It had appeared innocently enough—just a little platform at the far edge of the lawn, half-sunken in the grass and trimmed with summer flowers. She had assumed it was for music. Or possibly a speech. No one had climbed it yet, which was all for the best, as Lady Millett was presently standing in front of it, looking like she meant to speak and absolutely should not.

Jane had wandered off in search of lemonade, Mary was deep in conversation with a very serious boy who had the air of someone about to form a youth theology society, and Mrs. Gardiner was chatting animatedly with a man who appeared to be explaining the intricacies of sheep breeding with hand gestures. Elizabeth, feeling wonderfully unchaperoned, stood near a hedge and watched society make a fool of itself.

And then the bell rang.

It was small, silver, and held aloft by a girl in a bonnet the size of a small ship. She rang it twice and called, “Ladies! If you please!”

Elizabeth blinked. The music stopped. The ribbon table rustled. Someone behind her whispered, “Oh, the auction!”

Auction?

Elizabeth turned her full attention to the dais. A portly gentleman in a puce waistcoat had stepped up beside Lady Millett and was now raising his hands for silence.

“Good ladies of Matlock,” he said, projecting his voice as though delivering a sermon, “you are most generous, and the cause is most noble. Today, your support will benefit the Foundling Hospital of London—and you shall do so with a delightful twist!”

There was polite laughter. Elizabeth felt a prickle of apprehension at the words “delightful twist.” They rarely meant anything good.

The gentleman continued. “We shall be offering the company of several eligible gentlemen, each of whom has—willingly, I assure you—agreed to be your luncheon companion for a private picnic.”

Louder laughter now, tinged with feminine squeals and one or two pointed looks.

Mary looked up from her pamphlet, scandalized. Jane had returned and was already flushing in the way that meant she found this all deeply improper, but did not wish to say so aloud.

Elizabeth’s eyebrows climbed. “You cannot be serious,” she muttered.

“They are,” whispered a girl nearby. “Last year, they raised seventy pounds. One of the gentlemen proposed to his companion a fortnight later.”

“Good Heavens.”

“Shh!”

The puce waistcoat man waved toward the ribbons at the table. “Each winning lady will be granted a token of favor—a ribbon, which her luncheon companion shall wear for the duration of the meal.”

Elizabeth stared. “They are going to mark them like cattle?”

Jane, mortified, tugged her sleeve.

“Oh, come now,” Elizabeth whispered. “Tell me this is not the finest example of genteel madness you have ever seen. They are auctioning bachelors like cuts of lamb, only with more lace.”

The first name was called: Mr. Bertram Leigh.

A slim young man with an unfortunate cowlick stumbled toward the dais. There was applause. The bidding began at two shillings.

“Do you suppose we ought to bid on someone?” Elizabeth asked in an innocent tone.

“No,” Jane hissed. “Lizzy!”

“I hear Mr. Leigh enjoys botany. We could discuss fungi while the world burns.”

“Lizzy.”

But Elizabeth was already scanning the crowd again. It was like watching a village pageant dressed up in satin. She scribbled a quick note in her journal— Auction Day: Suitable suitors and portable shade. Harps extra.

She had just looked up when she saw him again.

The tall one. The solemn one. The one dressed like a walking tombstone.

He was speaking to someone elderly—a lady of commanding presence who appeared to be scolding him affectionately. The exchange ended with a pat to the arm and a shake of the head.

And then he turned slightly, and Elizabeth caught his face in profile.

Sharp nose. Hard mouth. Cheekbones like they were sculpted in winter.

He did not smile. He did not look pleased. He looked like he would rather be anywhere else, including perhaps under the dais with the worms.

Who are you? She wondered. And how soon can you be made to suffer this indignity?

The bell rang again. Another name. Another man paraded forward like a roast duck.

Elizabeth leaned close to Jane. “If he ends up on that platform, I swear I shall pool our money and bid.”

“You would not dare.”

Elizabeth grinned. “Try me.”