And Richard… there was a sound, like a muffled snort of laughter. A scrape of boot against marble. If she turned her head, she might see his grin. But she would not. Not now.
All she knew—truly knew—was Darcy’s mouth against hers, the tentative tremble of him as his hands found her waist, and the way her whole body sang with the shock and sweetness of having him, just this once, not stepping away. Not retreating. Not telling her no.
She stepped back at last, breathless but triumphant, her gaze locked on Darcy’s—daring him to contradict her. He did not. His mouth was still slightly parted. He looked stunned. She half expected him to scold her or flee the room.
He did neither.
“Elizabeth,” he murmured, his voice a raw whisper, “what have you done?”
She smiled and caressed his cheek. “I have given us no choice but to face what we both know to be true.”
The silence around them was staggering.
When she finally looked up, it was to find the Earl of Matlock frozen mid-step, his eyes wide, mouth agape in a way that would have been comical in any other setting. His cheeks were an alarming shade of crimson. He looked as if someone had struck him with a brick.
Georgiana had gone rigid, one hand clapped over her mouth, the other fisted in the folds of her gown. Her wide eyes darted from Elizabeth to her brother and back again, horrified and enthralled all at once.
Lady Julia stood behind the settee with a hand pressed to her bosom, her jaw visibly working as though she was struggling to articulate even a single syllable.
But it was the Countess who drew Elizabeth’s attention.
Her fan was raised, fluttering gently. Her expression was cool—pleased, almost smug. As if she had seen something like this coming for some time and was only surprised that it had taken so long. There was the faintest upturn at the corners of her mouth, and when Elizabeth dared meet her eye, the Countess gave the smallest, most imperceptible nod. Approval, sharp and quiet and not at all unimpressive.
The Earl finally cleared his throat, though it came out more like a wheeze.
“Well,” he said gruffly, “this is most… unconventional.”
The Countess tilted her head slightly. “But perhaps not entirely unwelcome,” she said, with lavish calm.
Richard gave a bark of laughter. “Darcy,” he said, shaking his head. “It appears you have been outmaneuvered.”
Darcy looked at her. A beat passed. Then another.
And he smiled.
A real one—slow, boyish, warm and astonished.
“It would seem so,” he said.
The Earl drew himself up, squaring his shoulders like a man about to do something unpleasant but necessary. “I shall… repair to Ashwick House at once.”
“Please do,” Elizabeth replied serenely. “And I would advise haste, for Lady Julia over there is already trying to decide which friend to call on first to air the gossip.”
That earned a sputter from Julia and a choked sound from Georgiana, who slapped her hands to her mouth again, as though trying to suppress a scream.
“Do not dawdle, Father,” Richard added, clapping the older man on the shoulder as if the entire thing were a lark. “And I think I shall come along for… for a bit of fortification. Ashwick will not be in a cheerful mood when he hears of it.”
The Earl blinked as though reeling from a blow he could neither name nor avoid, then turned stiffly and exited the room.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Elizabethsatupright,handstwisted tightly in her lap, the rigid line of her spine betraying the chaos roiling beneath her calm exterior. To her right, Georgiana shifted closer, the younger girl’s knee brushing against hers in a silent show of support.
To her left, Fitzwilliam Darcy remained stoic, his posture a perfect study in restrained composure—until his hand slipped over hers. She drew in a quaking breath, easing the knot of her fingers to permit his between them.
She thought she caught the corner of a smile—just a flash, quickly gone. But then his thumb moved, slow and deliberate, tracing a soft, unhurried arc along the inside of her palm.
Elizabeth’s entire body flushed. The contact was fleeting, barely more than a whisper of touch, yet it sparked through her like flint to tinder. How could the mere brush of his thumb make it feel like he was caressing every inch of her?
