Hands. Too many hands. Lifting him. Cutting something—his shirt, he thought. He did not care. His skin peeled like paper and someone poured acid into the wound and he screamed.
Someone held him down. “Drink this. Darcy. Drink, damn you!”
Bitter. Sharp. The taste hit the back of his throat and he gagged, but it kept coming. Warm liquid. Too warm. He coughed. Then again. Then he drank.
Cool cloth on his face.
Bandages.
A voice—Fitzwilliam’s voice again, lower now, close to his ear.
“You stupid bastard,” the colonel said. “Why did you not send word? Why the hell did you not let someone know?”
Darcy tried to reply. Could not.
Fingers gripped his wrist. “You are going to live. Do you hear me? Youwilllive.”
He wanted to say he was not sure he wanted to.
But the voice was stubborn. The pressure on his arm strong. And Elizabeth’s face was still in his mind—soft, smiling, fierce—and when sleep took him again, she was all he saw.
And this time, she did not leave.
June 10, 1812
ThedrawingroomatWrexham House was a perfect, curated display of taste—high ceilings trimmed with plasterwork, a great floral arrangement crowning the center table, and a distant fire murmuring softly beneath the clink of teaspoons and the rustle of skirts. Afternoon light spilled through the tall windows, filtered by lace curtains so fine they seemed woven from mist. A footman had just departed with the silver tea tray when Lady Charlotte Wrexham gave an elegant stretch across her chaise longue and smiled wickedly.
“You cannot simply sit there and tell us nothing, Elizabeth,” she said, a sparkle in her eye. “Everyone says Her Majesty summoned you to Frogmore. What was it like? What did she wear? What did she say? And—most importantly—was it terrifying?”
Elizabeth, seated upright on a velvet-backed chair with a cup of lemon-scented tea cradled between her fingers, smiled faintly. The porcelain was warm. Her fingertips, cold. Even inside her long gloves. “It was... a great honor,” she said, the words tasting foreign. “And yes. A little terrifying.”
The Duchess of Wrexham, who sat like a throned oracle near the fire, lifted her chin at that. “You were summoned by the Queen herself, my dear. One does not receive such an invitation without reason.”
Elizabeth’s mouth was dry. She took a sip to mask the ache rising in her throat. “Her Majesty was very kind.”
“Kind?” Charlotte tilted her head. “Gracious heavens. That makes her sound like a benevolent aunt in the country, not the sovereign matriarch of the realm. Was there no scandal? No secret assignation with a foreign prince in exile? I expected far more intrigue.”
“I doubt her household would permit such license,” Elizabeth said mildly, setting her cup down with care. “And if they did, I assure you I would be the last to hear of it.”
“Do not be coy,” the Duchess interjected, her tone smoother than Charlotte’s, but far more dangerous. “We heard the Queen sent for you after the Perceval affair. Your account must have impressed her. Or terrified her. Either will do.”
Elizabeth lifted her eyes, meeting the duchess’s gaze. “I only told her what I saw. Nothing more.”
“A great deal more, I think,” the Duchess replied, watching her over the rim of her teacup. “There were many who witnessed Perceval’s death. None of them were summoned.”
Elizabeth resisted the urge to shift in her seat. “Perhaps it was a kindness, then. A balm for a distressed young lady.”
Charlotte gave a theatrical sigh. “If onlyallour nervous turns could win us a few weeks in the Queen’s favor. I shall develop a tremor and see where it gets me.”
“You shall not,” her mother said crisply.
“I shall not,” Charlotte echoed, with a wry giggle. She turned back to Elizabeth, eyes narrowing with gleeful suspicion. “Now—what about gentlemen? I know you will claim your time was occupied with noble purpose, but I am not so easily misled. Was Lord Pembroke there? He is always lurking about in royal households. Did he spill wine on your hem and beg your forgiveness?”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together to suppress a smile. “Lord Pembroke was not in attendance.”
Charlotte’s pout was immediate and dramatic. “Pity. I was hoping he had finally grown bold enough to propose.”
“I do not believe he ever showed particular interest,” Elizabeth murmured.
