Page 4

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 livestock?”

Jane, mortified, tugged her sleeves down over her wrists as though that might shield her from scandal.

“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.”

“I wonder who they found to agree to such a scheme?” Jane murmured.

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.”

D arcy knew something was wrong the moment the bell rang.

It was a small thing—delicate, almost absurd—but it silenced the crowd more efficiently than any butler with a name older than his livery. Even Fitzwilliam paused in mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing toward the dais.

Darcy followed his cousin’s gaze and saw a man in a waistcoat the color of shame stepping onto a small platform, waving his hands like a parish preacher about to request funds for the roof.

Darcy frowned. “What is that?”

“The opening act, I believe,” said Fitzwilliam.

“Explain.”

But his cousin was already stepping aside, murmuring something about needing a better vantage point. Darcy turned back just in time to hear the man in puce declare something about a “delightful twist” and a “luncheon companion.”

No. Surely not.

He drifted forward a few steps, catching fragments now—for charity, gentlemen volunteers, private picnic.

His stomach turned.

“Fitzwilliam,” he growled through his teeth. “Did you know of this?”

“Darcy,” came the reply, far too smooth, “I know many things. Some of them I even share.”

He was going to murder him. Slowly. With a butter knife, if necessary.

Up on the dais, a name was called. A young man with unflattering hair stepped forward to applause. A gaggle of ladies giggled. A number was offered. Another. Someone clapped.

“Dear God,” Darcy muttered. “They are bidding.”

“For a noble cause,” Fitzwilliam said brightly. “Think of it as patriotic humiliation.”

Another name. Another man. This one strutted a little. Someone offered ten shillings and a pair of gloves.

“I shall leave.”

“You cannot.”

“I can.”

“You must not. It would offend the hostess. And Lady Matlock. And me.”

“Those are not deterrents.”

Fitzwilliam gave him a look. “You are dressed like a widow on judgment day. Do you truly believe you will not be noticed if you slink off into the shrubbery?”

Darcy clenched his jaw.

It was then he noticed the table of ribbons. Satin, in various shades of disgrace. They shimmered in the sunlight like sins waiting to be pinned.

He turned his head—and caught sight of her.

She was standing half in the shade, a curl escaping her bonnet, a notebook half-tucked in her hand. She was not laughing, not precisely, but her expression was unmistakable.

Amused. Engaged. Dangerous.

Darcy looked away quickly. It was a party. There were dozens of young women. She was simply one of them.

And then, from the dais: “And now, ladies, our next fine gentleman—Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley!”

He froze.

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then applause. Quite a lot of it. And some frantic shuffling from a cluster of females near the front.

Darcy turned toward his cousin with a glare meant to curl his toes.

Fitzwilliam was no longer beside him.

He was suddenly standing in the back, near the parasols, grinning like a man who had just handed his dearest friend over to pirates.

Darcy did not move.

The man in puce gestured enthusiastically. “Come now, sir! All for a good cause!”

Darcy’s feet felt nailed to the grass. The crowd was beginning to murmur. The dowager’s cane tapped impatiently nearby. Someone behind him whispered, “He is very tall.”

He stepped forward.

Slowly. Deliberately. Like a man walking to the gallows in front of an audience who knew he was innocent but refused to speak for his salvation.

He reached the dais, bowed stiffly, and stared just past the crowd, trying with all his might to ignore the clink of coins suddenly changing hands.