Page 7 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Seven

D arcy had endured many unpleasant things in the past few days.

Being summoned by the Prince Regent. Being saddled with an impossible woman. Navigating London’s underbelly with no clear plan, no solid leads, and the distinct possibility of failure.

He had faced them all with steadfast resignation—irritation, certainly, but nothing he could not bear. But this— this particular moment— was the first time in days that he felt truly unprepared.

He stepped into the small, dim room of the coaching inn, his grip tightening around the modest bundle in his hands. Lady Elizabeth Montclair stood by the window, her back rigid, hands braced at her hips, her fingers drumming impatiently against the fabric of her rumpled silk gown. The sharp frown etched between her brows made it clear that she had spent the time alone thinking, no doubt concocting a fresh barrage of arguments against their situation.

At the sound of the door, she turned. Her eyes flickered toward him, then lower, landing on the parcel in his hands.

She did not look relieved.

Darcy was not sure what reaction he had expected—resignation, perhaps, or some shred of reluctant understanding—but it certainly was not this.

Her expression twisted. Not suspicion. Not skepticism.

Pure, unfiltered horror.

His steps slowed as he crossed the room, tossing the bundle onto the bed with a quiet thud. She did not move toward it. Did not even blink. Instead, her gaze darted between the offending object and the man who had brought it into her presence, as if struggling to decide which was more repulsive.

She remained where she stood, arms still folded, posture a fortress of resistance.

“…What,” she said at last, her voice slow and deliberate, as though the very notion defied comprehension, “is that?”

“Your new wardrobe.”

A long pause.

Then—flatly, with the cool, clipped precision of a woman genuinely insulted— “You cannot be serious.”

“Entirely so.”

He had spent the last two hours securing the most reasonable, respectable, and utterly unremarkable garments he could find. No rich silks, no bright colors, nothing that would catch the eye. They were plain, simple, practical—clothing meant for a gentleman’s poor relation, not an heiress accustomed to fine gowns embroidered by the most skilled hands in Paris.

It had cost him more than he could afford. But that was not the point.

The point was getting her out of London alive.

And yet, she still had not moved. Her fingers twitched slightly, curling and uncurling at her sides, as though considering whether the bundle might be contaminated.

“Lady Elizabeth,” he said tightly, “we cannot travel with you dressed as a missing heiress.”

“I rather think I should prefer to travel dressed as myself.”

“You would prefer to be recognized?”

“I would prefer ,“ she shot back, eyes flashing, “to wear something that does not look as though it was stolen from a retired governess.”

Darcy exhaled. It was going about as well as expected.

“You are to be a gentleman’s poor relation,” he said. “No one must question your presence. No one must look at you twice. That means no silks, no jewels, no embroidered hems, no French lace—”

“I like French lace.”

“I do not care.”

Elizabeth had not moved. She was still staring at the bundle on the bed as though it were a rotting carcass, her arms crossed in uncompromising disapproval. Her gaze flicked toward him, eyes narrowing.

“Where did you find these?” she asked at last.

Darcy hesitated. The question was inevitable, but he had rather hoped she would not ask it. Or at the very least, that he could avoid this particular conversation until they were already on the road.

But of course, Lady Elizabeth Montclair never let a thing go unexamined.

He exhaled, knowing there was no use avoiding it. “I have a sister.”

Elizabeth blinked. Then—her chin lifted, and her lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk.

“ You have a sister?”

Darcy gritted his teeth. “Yes.”

“Well,” she mused, tilting her head as though this revelation had confirmed some great personal theory, “that does explain a great deal.”

Darcy’s scowl deepened. “I fail to see how.”

She did not answer. Instead, her gaze swept toward the bundle of fabric once more, her expression turning speculative.

“These were hers, then?” she asked, lips quirking slightly. “Your sister’s? They must not pay well at the Home Office.”

His scowl darkened into something almost dangerous. “Not hers,” he bit out. “Her companion’s.”

That, at least, broke her amusement. The smirk faltered, her brow furrowing slightly. She looked at him, then the bundle, then back at him again.

“You wish me,” she said at last, deliberate and slow, “to dress as a paid companion?”

Darcy rolled his shoulders, already exasperated. “I wish you to dress as someone entirely unremarkable.”

Elizabeth bristled. “I will look dowdy!” she accused.

“That,” Darcy said shortly, “is the point.”

Elizabeth let out a quiet, irritated noise, reaching reluctantly for the bundle. She turned it over, inspecting the plain fabric. “Awful,” she muttered.

“It is practical.”

“It is hideous.”

Darcy rubbed his temple. “Elizabeth...”

She looked up, and—Heaven help him—there was actual hurt and disappointment in her eyes. “It is dull,” she tried again, as though this would change his mind.

“Good.”

Elizabeth huffed.

Darcy crossed his arms.

“You have two choices,” he said, tone firm. “You may wear those clothes, or you may wear your current gown and inform every highwayman, footpad, and bounty hunter in England that Lady Elizabeth Montclair is out for a countryside tour.”

Elizabeth’s mouth snapped shut. Darcy could see her mind working furiously, trying to conjure up some way to win this battle.

But there was none.

Finally, with an exaggerated sigh, she snatched the bundle from the bed. “I shall keep my own stays,” she said, tossing him a sharp look. “And my petticoats.”

“No.”

Her eyes narrowed. “No?”

Darcy straightened, bracing himself. “No.”

Elizabeth’s expression darkened. “Why not?”

“Because you cannot carry a wardrobe fit for a marchioness into a household of modest means without someone noticing. Unless you mean to do your own washing.”

Her gaze sharpened. “A household? Where, oh wise one, are we going?”

Darcy ignored that, pressing on. “The maids would see them. They would be hung on the line. They would be remarked upon. That is precisely the sort of attention we cannot afford.”

Elizabeth crossed her arms, still unconvinced. “And what, pray, am I to wear instead?”

Wordlessly, he gestured toward the bundle.

She hesitated. Then, with exaggerated care, she plucked up the stays from Mrs. Annesley’s collection and held it aloft, inspecting it like a fine lady judging an inferior cut of silk.

Darcy felt his face heat.

The stays were not scandalous—certainly not by themselves—but something about the sight of them in her hands made his collar feel unreasonably tight.

Elizabeth turned a slow, deliberate gaze toward him. “I think,” she said sweetly, her voice all honeyed innocence, “that the bust will be too small for me.”

Darcy’s entire body locked.

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

Elizabeth’s lips curved.

That— that —was entirely deliberate.

Darcy turned sharply on his heel and strode toward the door. “I shall be downstairs,” he bit out.

Elizabeth hummed sweetly. “I should think so.”

E lizabeth was going mad.

She could feel it—a slow, crawling frustration beneath her skin, an unbearable restlessness that made the walls of this room feel smaller by the minute. She had paced the floor so many times that she was surprised she had not worn a path in the wooden planks.

It was not just the confinement. It was the helplessness.

For a full day now, she had been dragged from one miserable hiding place to another, her entire life stolen from her without consent or reason. She had been told where to sit, when to move, what to wear, and all by a man she had never met until yesterday—an infuriating, high-handed, impossible man who, for some reason, had been appointed as her keeper.

And yet, he was not “keeping” her at all. He had abandoned her upstairs in this inn, left her to wait while he did—what? Made arrangements? Secured transport? Set the terms of her exile?

She had been forced into this situation without say, without question.

But she could make one decision for herself.

She could go home.

A sharp breath pushed past her lips as she turned toward the window, watching the movement on the street below. Mayfair was not far. Her home was not far. If she left now, she could be there before Darcy even realized she was gone.

She would explain everything to her father, make him understand. Once he knew the full extent of it—the truth of what she had seen—he would handle it, as he always did. No one would dare threaten or endanger her while she was in her father’s house.

Elizabeth pressed her fingers against the cool glass, taking one last look down at the street.

It was foolish. It was reckless.

But it was necessary.

She pulled up her borrowed hood, squared her shoulders, and slipped out the door.

It was far too easy.

No guards. No obstacles. Just a busy inn, a crowded street, and a steady stream of coaches rolling past, bound for the heart of the city.

She barely hesitated before hailing one. The driver pulled up and sprang down at once to get the door for her.

“Mayfair,” she said. “Quickly, if you please.”

The driver tipped his hat, flicked the reins, and she was off.

She leaned back against the seat, heart pounding in her ears. It was done.

She was going home.

T he ride took longer than she expected.

The streets were thick with traffic, and the air had grown warmer, stifling from too many bodies moving through the city. Elizabeth barely noticed. She was too focused on what she would say. Her father must be made to understand the urgency, yes, but she fancied that her first duty would be to reassure him that she was well and safe. She did not believe for a moment that he could have been convinced by whatever message His Highness had sent.

She imagined stepping through the front door, the shock on the servants’ faces, the relief. Her father would be in his study, buried in his work, too busy to notice the lingering soot on his jacket from the House of Lords. She would sit before him, calm, respectable, explaining everything in crisp, logical terms.

And then—he would make it right.

That thought comforted her.

And then, quite suddenly, it did not.

A strange acrid smell burned in her nose, something sharp and bitter.

Smoke.

She barely had time to register it before the coach slowed, then stopped altogether.

A crowd had gathered on the street. The driver turned toward her, adjusting his cap. “Might be a delay, miss. Something happened just up ahead.”

Elizabeth frowned. “What sort of something?”

The man gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Fire brigade’s still there. House caught flame, sounds like. Not much damage, though. Lucky that.”

Her fingers sank into the fabric of her borrowed skirt, lifting the hem out of her way. She reached for the carriage door, ignoring the driver’s call of, “Wait, miss!” and stepped down onto the street, pushing past the crowd until she could see it.

Her home.

Or what remained of it.

The front of the house stood untouched, pristine white stone, a perfect facade of normalcy. But above—

The windows were blackened. Her windows.

Smoke curled from the upper floor, the sharp scent of charred wood still thick in the air.

Elizabeth barely registered moving forward, pushing through the mass of onlookers, her body numb, her mind struggling to make sense of what she was seeing.

The voices came in scattered fragments, bits of conversation floating through the thick, acrid air.

“…Marquess of Ashwick’s house…”

“…Lord above, look at the damage…”

“…Heard it started in the bedchamber—a coal bucket too close to the embers…”

Elizabeth’s feet slowed. Her stomach clenched. She did not know what to think, but she knew enough to sense that was a lie. The hearth in her room had not even been lit when she left.

“…A maid’s mistake, sure enough…”

“…I heard it was the daughter’s room…”

“…Young miss is like enough dead from the smoke.”

A chill crawled over her skin.

She turned sharply, her gaze darting over the crowd, seeking a face, a familiar presence, something—anything—to tell her this was all some terrible mistake.

“…No, no, I tell you, she was not home…”

Elizabeth’s breath hitched.

“…Fire brigade came right quick—his lordship said she was quite safe.”

“…Off with the Queen’s ladies, I heard. Nothing harmed. Lord Ashwick said it himself.”

Her vision blurred.

Nothing harmed.

Nothing harmed.

She almost laughed. If she had been home, asleep in her own bed, as she was meant to be—

Her hands trembled.

She would have never woken up.

A hand clamped around her wrist, firm and unyielding.

Elizabeth gasped, twisting instinctively, but the grip did not loosen. No, no, no! She could fight them off this time, could kick and scream…

The crowd blurred around her, voices fading into the rush of blood pounding in her ears. Oh, where was her father? She swung around, preparing to claw the face of her attacker, but pulled up short at that familiar stern glare.

Darcy.

He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling with controlled effort, his entire frame tense as though restraining something more volatile than anger alone. His grip was strong, but not cruel. His expression—harsh, furious—shifted ever so slightly as he took in the wreckage before them.

For a fleeting second, his gaze lingered on the smoldering remains of her bedroom, tracking the soot-streaked stone, the shattered glass, the beams blackened by flame.

His fingers loosened against her skin.

She felt it—a fraction of hesitation, a flicker of something she had never seen from him before. Not impatience. Not frustration.

Understanding.

His mouth pressed into a narrow thread, his jaw locking tight, but the crack in his composure was already exposed. He saw what she saw. He knew what this meant.

The moment did not last. It was gone as swiftly as it came.

His fingers tightened once more around her wrist, this time with clear intent. “What,” he demanded, voice low and dangerous, “do you think you are doing?”

Elizabeth opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

She had argued against him at every turn. She had dismissed his warnings, refused to believe that she was truly in danger. But now, staring at the wreckage of her home, with soot still clinging to the broken window frame, she could no longer deny the truth.

If she had been here last night—if she had gone home as planned—she would have been dead.

Her throat was too tight to speak.

Darcy’s expression darkened further when she failed to respond, but instead of snapping at her, he exhaled sharply and pulled her toward the waiting carriage.

“Inside,” he said, his voice clipped, brooking no argument.

She dug in her heels, turning sharply. “My father—”

“Is not here,” he bit out, hauling her forward as her skirts tangled against her feet. “And neither should you be.”

Elizabeth stumbled as he all but lifted her into the carriage, her thoughts sluggish, her body moving without her mind’s permission. The door slammed shut behind her, sealing her inside with the most infuriating man in all of England, but all she could do was sit there, staring numbly out the window.

The carriage lurched forward. The crowd blurred behind them.

She barely felt the movement.

Her hands were trembling in her lap, the fabric of her borrowed skirts twisting between her fingers. She could still hear the gossip of the onlookers, still smell the acrid smoke.

Her bedroom was gone.

And if she had been there last night, she would have been gone, too.

T he carriage rattled over the uneven road, the sound of hooves and wheels blending into a dull, ceaseless rhythm. Darcy sat stiffly, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the scenery beyond the window. He was not staring at her.

Except he was.

Lady Elizabeth Montclair sat across from him, unnaturally still. She had been rigid as stone when they left Mayfair, jaw tight, hands clenched in her lap. But now, as the city faded behind them and the open countryside stretched ahead, her posture had softened.

She was not weeping. Not in any grand, dramatic display. No heaving sobs, no shaking shoulders. But a single tear tracked slowly down her cheek.

Darcy exhaled and dug into his coat pocket. He extended the handkerchief across the small space between them.

She glanced at it, blinked once, then hesitated before taking it. And then she blew her nose. Loudly.

Darcy cringed. His fingers twitched slightly where they rested on his knee. He could not decide if she was testing him or if she was truly that done in. And he could not decide which possibility unsettled him more.

A moment passed before she finally spoke.

“I hope my maid does not take the blame for this.”

Darcy blinked, surprised.

Not a demand. Not an accusation. Not another ill-conceived plan for fixing things herself.

She was thinking of a servant. How… peculiar.

He watched her carefully, but she was not speaking for effect. Her gaze was fixed on the countryside, lost in thought.

“She was only supposed to tend my dressing room,” Elizabeth continued quietly. “But she often tidied my chamber as well. If they think she left something near the fire…” Her brow furrowed. “I have never seen her careless, but I doubt that would matter.”

Darcy folded his arms, studying her a moment longer before replying. “They will not need a scapegoat if they believe it was an accident.”

She sniffed, dabbing at her nose with the handkerchief. “And how do you think it truly started?”

He took a slow breath. “Likely something incendiary thrown through the window.”

Her head snapped toward him. “You say that so easily.”

Darcy shrugged. “It would not have been difficult. A man could have climbed the tree that leans over from the street, slipped the latch, and shut the window again. The room would have smoldered before the flames caught. By the time anyone noticed, all evidence of how the fire started would have been destroyed.”

Elizabeth sat back, staring out the window once more.

Darcy waited for another question, another argument, but instead, her expression shifted—her gaze turned inward, as if something else was occupying her mind. A crease formed between her brows.

Then, without looking at him, she murmured, “Georgiana. Georgiana Darcy.”

It was as if a bolt of lightning shot through his spine. He stiffened, sitting straighter. “I beg your pardon?”

She turned her head, watching him with open curiosity. “That is your sister’s name, is it not?”

His entire body went still. He had not spoken of Georgiana. Not to her. Not to anyone outside his own family.

“Yes,” he said carefully. “How do you know that?”

Elizabeth lifted a shoulder. “I am acquainted with Lady Julia, Lord Matlock’s daughter.”

Darcy sat forward slightly. That, at least, was not surprising. Lady Matlock certainly knew who Lady Elizabeth Montclair was—had she not told him so… too many times? She had even invited her to a ball, and… Well, it stood to reason that her daughter would know Lady Elizabeth, as well.

“Are you a relation of theirs?”

Darcy hesitated before giving a short nod. “Yes. Lady Matlock is my aunt. Her daughter, Julia, is my cousin. Naturally.” He paused. “As is Colonel Fitzwilliam, whom you have already met.”

“Ah,” she hummed in acknowledgment, then said flippantly, “I see the resemblance now. I like him better than his sister.”

Darcy let out a short, startled laugh.

He did not mean to. But it had been so long since someone had spoken plainly of his relations, without expectation or pretense, that the sheer unexpectedness of it disarmed him.

He quickly schooled his expression. “You are not alone in that opinion.”

Elizabeth’s lips curved slightly, but the moment passed too quickly to examine.

Instead, she looked out the window again. “Lady Julia invited me for tea a handful of times last autumn. She had a cousin living with her,” she said after a moment. “She took a rather perverse pleasure in trotting her out like some kind of pet.”

Darcy’s jaw slackened.

“She would make a great show of it,” Elizabeth continued, still speaking as though recounting some trivial social offense. “Making her play the piano for us and so on. A prodigious talent, I must say—that is why it caught in my mind. The girl did not seem to enjoy the attention, but Lady Julia found it amusing. I thought it was not quite the thing—I said as much to her face.”

Darcy’s stomach turned.

“She has not invited me back for tea since,” Elizabeth mused. “I am not sorry.”

Darcy’s jaw clenched, and his fists balled. Blast Julia! Parading Georgiana about like a spectacle.

He had left his sister in his aunt’s care because he had no other choice—but he had never imagined spoiled Julia would treat his own flesh and blood as some curiosity for her amusement.

Elizabeth glanced at him then, her expression softer. “She had a sweet countenance, your sister.”

He blinked, forcing his shoulders to relax. “She does,” he agreed softly.

He had heard from Georgiana just that morning. It was Richard who had gone to Matlock House to retrieve the clothes from Mrs. Annesley, and he had brought back word that Georgiana was well enough for now. And Lady Matlock was hardly cruel—her daughter might be spoiled, but she would not let matters carry too far, surely. Besides, now that he knew, he would say something to Richard, who would speak to his father on the matter.

And hopefully, if he resolved this affair to the prince’s liking, he could finally offer her something better. A home of her own again. As she should have had all along.

That had become his sole purpose, and perhaps, the possibility had fallen into his hands, in the form of a stubborn heiress with a penchant for trying to get herself killed.

Elizabeth had fallen silent again. Just as well, for he had a number of thoughts to mull over, things to consider, and somehow, whenever she spoke, any form of logic or reasoning went clean out of his head.

The road stretched ahead of them, fields rolling past, trees arching overhead as the sun dipped lower toward the horizon. At length, she asked, “Where are we going?”

Darcy straightened and adjusted his cuffs. “To a house in Hertfordshire.”

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed.

“To inquire about gaining some sisters for you,” he added.

She gave him a long, puzzled look.

He only smiled.

And for the first time in a very long time, Darcy was looking forward to someone else’s confusion.