“You think I care about any of that?”
“I know you do not. But your father does. And your family. And every last smug bastard in thetonwho would say I lured you into disgrace.”
“You did not lure me,” she hissed. “Iranto you.”
Darcy looked away, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes as his fists worked.
Georgiana, still near the settee, emitted a tiny sound—half gasp, half squeak—and pressed a hand to her mouth.
Richard cleared his throat behind them. “I am still here, you know. And… uh… Georgiana is somewhat more innocent than the rest of you lot.”
“Feel free to leave then, Colonel,” she snapped without looking at him. Her gaze was fixed on the man whose body was listing toward her, even though his words and his manner were clearly screaming his desire to bolt.
The door opened again, unannounced this time, and the Countess of Matlock stepped inside with the slow, commanding grace of a woman who had never once been uncertain of her welcome in any room. Her eyes scanned the scene—and paused.
Elizabeth stood just left of center, her cheeks flushed, her posture rigid, her hands balled at her sides. Darcy was scarcely a foot away, equally still, his mouth parted, breath shallow, his eyes locked onto Elizabeth’s as if unable to look anywhere else.
At the far end of the drawing room, Colonel Fitzwilliam was perched lazily on the edge of a low ottoman, teacup balanced precariously in one hand, looking as if he were watching a play.
A moment of silence passed like a thunderclap.
The Countess blinked once, then again. Her eyes narrowed just slightly. “I… assume we are interrupting something,” she said, her tone laced with the exquisite poise of a woman who had stepped straight into scandal and found herself vaguely intrigued.
The Earl of Matlock stepped in behind her, halted dead in his tracks, and muttered, “Good God. It’s Ashwick’s daughter. What the devil—”
Richard gestured airily with his spoon. “Ah, good afternoon, Mother. Father. You are just in time for the climax.”
Elizabeth turned toward them, not retreating. Not explaining. “Forgive me, my lord and lady,” she said with a perfunctory curtsy. “But I mean to marry your nephew, whether he cooperates or not.”
The room froze.
Darcy’s hand shot up, palm outward, a soundless plea for restraint. His eyes, wide with alarm, locked onto Elizabeth’s, silently urging her to reconsider. But Elizabeth was already walking toward the Earl, her expression composed, her voice sweet.
“Lord Matlock, you are well acquainted with my father, the Marquess of Ashwick, are you not?”
The Earl, still clearly trying to make sense of the scene before him, nodded slowly. “Yes, indeed. Ashwick and I have shared many a table over the years.”
“Excellent.” Elizabeth’s gaze shifted to the Countess. “And you, Lady Matlock, have a passing acquaintance with the Duchess of Wrexham, if I am not mistaken. I recall seeing you both in conversation at several balls.”
The Countess inclined her head. “That is correct.”
A serene smile curved Elizabeth’s lips, though a storm brewed beneath her composed exterior. “Wonderful,” she said softly. “Then, my lord, I trust that when you speak to my father this afternoon, you will be able to convey that the magnitude of the scandal shall be in direct proportion to the disagreeability of his reaction.”
The Earl blinked in confusion. “‘This afternoon?’ Magnitude? I am sorry, Lady Elizabeth, but to which scandal are you referring?”
Elizabeth took a deliberate backward step toward Darcy, her eyes never leaving the Earl’s. “This one.”
And with that, she turned to Darcy, closing the distance between them. Rising onto her toes, she reached up, her hands gently cradling his face. For a heartbeat, time seemed to suspend as she looked into his eyes, searching, imploring.
“Elizabeth, no,” he breathed.
She only smiled back at him. Then, with deliberate intent, she pulled him down and into a kiss that was anything but chaste.
The moment her lips touched his, the world reeled.
She felt it before she heard it—a collective intake of breath, like the room itself had gasped. Somewhere at the edge of her vision, Lord Matlock’s form shifted violently, as though struggling with whether to exclaim or sit down. She did not look. She did not care.
The countess moved—Elizabeth caught the flick of a fan rising, rapid and practiced, and knew without turning that it was Lady Matlock. She imagined those shrewd eyes watching her behind a veil of painted ivory.
