Page 5

Chapter Three

“ I will need all of it,” Elizabeth said, emptying her reticule into Jane’s hands. “Every farthing. And yours, too.”

Jane blinked. “What—why?”

“Do not ask questions, dear Jane. Just count.”

Across the lawn, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley stood upon the dais with all the enthusiasm of a marble statue being auctioned against its will. His posture was faultless. His expression was withering. And the bids were rising fast.

“Sixteen shillings!”

“Eighteen!”

“Twenty!”

Elizabeth glanced toward the ribbon table. A fresh one—dark blue, nearly black—had just been pulled out, no doubt chosen to match Mr. Darcy’s glowering face. Lady Millett had one gloved hand to her bosom, looking as though she might faint from the sheer thrill of conquest.

Elizabeth turned back to her sisters. “Mary?”

“I will not contribute to your ruination,” Mary said stiffly, but handed over a coin, anyway.

Elizabeth grinned. “Spoken like a true martyr.”

Mrs. Gardiner had joined them, a small glass of cordial in one hand. “What mischief is this?”

“We are attempting to rescue that poor man from the clutches of Lady Millett and her terrifying twin nieces,” Elizabeth said.

Mrs. Gardiner raised an eyebrow, took in the scene, and hummed.

“I am told he is Mr. Darcy of Pemberley. Lizzy, you remember, I was telling you about that charming folly overlooking Pemberley’s gardens.”

“Yes, and he looks as though he would prefer to be buried under it.”

The rather stately looking woman she had seen before passed behind them just then, slowly, leaning lightly on her cane. She paused, lifted her fan, and murmured—barely audible—“Make it interesting, ladies.”

Mrs. Gardiner turned. “Your ladyship?”

Ah, so that must be the dowager countess her aunt was talking about. The dowager did not stop walking. “If you are short,” she said coolly, “do not worry. I enjoy a proper auction.”

And then she was gone, leaving behind only a trail of lavender water and peril.

Elizabeth blinked.

“I think we have her blessing,” Mrs. Gardiner said under her breath. “In the name of charity, of course.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth echoed, heart racing.

“Twenty-three shillings!” called the man in puce.

Elizabeth stepped forward. “Two pounds!”

The crowd quieted.

Someone coughed. Someone else gasped. A gentleman near the lemonade table chuckled beneath his breath. Even the parasols seemed to wilt in surprise.

Elizabeth lifted her chin and smiled.

The announcer blinked, then leaned over for someone to whisper into his ear—her name, probably. “Two pounds, bid by Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn,” he repeated, clearly uncertain whether he was naming a respectable bidder or an oncoming storm. “Going once... twice...”

“Two pounds, five!” came a shrill voice from the front. Lady Millett. Her lace gloves trembled with indignation.

Elizabeth’s smile did not falter. “Three.”

A few heads turned. The murmuring began in earnest.

Lady Millett narrowed her eyes. “Three and ten.”

“Four pounds,” Elizabeth said sweetly, without turning her head.

Mary made a strangled noise beside her. Jane, eyes wide, whispered, “Lizzy—”

“Four and ten!” Lady Millett snapped.

Elizabeth glanced at Mrs. Gardiner. “Are we nearly tapped?”

Her aunt pursed her lips. “We are not yet paupers.”

Another voice joined in—one of the Millett nieces, high and breathless. “Five pounds!”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Five and ten.”

There was a collective intake of breath. The puce-waistcoated announcer swayed slightly. Mr. Darcy had not moved a muscle, but one could sense his blood slowly turning to lava.

Mrs. Gardiner leaned closer, glancing once—only once—toward the edge of the lawn where the dowager countess stood beneath a striped parasol.

The dowager smiled.

Mrs. Gardiner gave the faintest of nods.

Elizabeth did not hesitate. “Six pounds.”

The Milletts whispered furiously.

“Six pounds, five!” cried one.

Elizabeth tilted her head. “Seven.”

A pause.

The crowd fell quiet. Somewhere, a fork clattered to the ground.

The announcer stared at her as if he had just witnessed a duel.

“Seven pounds bid by Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he intoned. “Going once—twice—”

Silence.

“Sold!”

This time the applause was genuine, if uneven—half scandalized, half delighted. Elizabeth turned back to her family. Jane looked stunned. Mary had closed her eyes and was mouthing a verse from the Psalms.

“Well,” Elizabeth said brightly, “I suppose I had better fetch my prize.”

She crossed the lawn at a perfectly civilized pace, chin up, bonnet angled just so. The ribbon was pressed into her palm—navy silk, with a thin silver trim. She took it delicately, stepped onto the dais, and met Mr. Darcy’s eyes full-on for the first time.

If looks could curdle cream.

“Do not glare so,” she said sweetly. “It is all in support of the children.”

His mouth opened, then closed again. She reached up and pinned the ribbon to his coat with care, brushing away an invisible speck of dust as she did.

“There,” she said. “Do smile, Mr. Darcy. You are rather expensive company.”

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T he ribbon itched.

Darcy was certain that was irrational—it was silk, barely the weight of a whisper—but it pressed against his chest like a brand. As if everyone in the garden knew what it meant. Bought. Sold. Pinned.

He had not spoken to her. And he had no intention of ever doing so. She had fastened the ribbon to his coat with deft fingers, made some flippant remark, and then turned smartly on her heel to follow the steward toward the picnic arrangements.

And so now, like some uncooperative sacrifice in a farcical ritual, he was following her—Miss Elizabeth Bennet, of Longbourn and unrepentance—across the grass, beneath a series of strung paper lanterns, toward a tree with an unfortunate resemblance to a candelabrum.

A blanket had been laid out. There was a hamper. There were even cushions. The entire thing looked absurdly like a stage set for a pastoral opera.

Miss Bennet turned to him and gestured with both hands, a sweep that might have been mocking or grand—it was hard to tell with her.

“Your dining hall, sir.”

The sarcasm left his lips quite without permission. “I shall endeavor not to faint from the opulence.”

Her smile broadened. “Do let me know if you require a footman. I am told the stewards are trained in four types of vinaigrette.”

Darcy exhaled slowly. “I had assumed your bid was made in jest.”

“Oh, it was. But you stood there so long I began to worry you would expire from sheer indignation. I thought it best to intervene.”

He watched her settle herself onto the blanket with surprising ease. She untied her bonnet and set it aside, revealing hair only just pinned into civility. The sun caught the curve of her cheek.

“And the price of your intervention was seven pounds.”

“Not mine,” she said cheerfully. “Mostly my aunt’s. A little from my sister. And I believe the dowager Countess may have underwritten the entire production out of morbid curiosity.”

Darcy blinked. “ Lady Matlock encouraged this?”

Elizabeth grinned. “One of them, is what I hear. She smiled every time we upped the bid.”

That did not seem reassuring.

He sat, slowly, folding himself into the kind of seated position that always felt like a compromise between grace and dignity. The cushions helped. Slightly.

She opened the hamper and drew out two linen-wrapped bundles. “Ah, the spoils of war. We have bread, cheese, a dish I cannot identify, and a strawberry tart I will defend with my life.”

He accepted a plate. “I have no quarrel with the tart.”

“Wise. She is not to be trifled with.”

He glanced at her, unsure whether she was referring to the dessert or herself.

They ate in silence for a few moments. Not comfortable, precisely, but not hostile. The air was warm, shaded by the tree. Distant laughter drifted from the other picnic pairs. Somewhere, a string quartet had begun to tune again… badly.

At last, Miss Bennet spoke.

“You looked like you were being sentenced to death.”

“I very nearly was.”

“You have not expired yet.”

He inclined his head. “Nor, apparently, have you.”

“Give it time. I expect the shame of this moment will kill me somewhere around tea.”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

Her eyes were not coy. Her mouth was not simpering. She was not flirting. She was not, as he had first suspected, attempting to trap him into conversation or marriage or charity. She was simply— enjoying this. Prodding it. Watching it twitch.

“You did not want to win me ,” he realized suddenly.

She tilted her head. “Of course not. I just wanted to win .”

It was so blunt, so irreverent, that he laughed.

She looked pleased. “There it is. I had wondered if you had teeth.”

“They are mostly used for biting my tongue.”

“I should think that exhausting.”

“You have no idea.”

She tore a piece of bread and offered it to the air. “Well. I appreciate you playing along. I imagine you had other plans for the afternoon.”

“I had plans to be left alone.”

“Ah. And now you are left with me.”

He glanced sideways. “It could be worse.”

Her brows lifted.

He cleared his throat and added, “Marginally.”

“Well then. Shall we call a truce for the remainder of the hour?”

He considered. “Temporary.”

“Excellent. I should warn you I plan to write about this in my notebook.”

Darcy gave her a sharp look. “You keep a record of your conquests, then?”

“Oh no,” she said lightly. “Not all. Only the absurd ones.”

He raised an eyebrow.

She broke off a bit of the tart and popped it into her mouth. “Do not worry, I never use real names.”

“That is somehow worse.”

She had said it as a jest. But there had been something—something in the way her fingers moved, brushing an invisible outline in her lap as if the act of writing was not a choice, but a reflex.

She only smiled again, sunlight sliding down her sleeve, and he looked away quickly—back to the grass, the trees, anywhere else.

He did not trust her.

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