She was probably blushing to the roots of her hair. She sniffed, shifted, had to clear her throat, and then clenched her hand down on his when he moved to withdraw it. And was that an almost silent growl of satisfaction rumbling in his throat?
Across from them, Lady Julia slouched into her chair with all the wounded pride of a girl excluded from the heart of the drama. Her expression—part scandalized, part sulking—shifted in quick glances from her mother to her cousin, clearly itching to leap up and whisper this tale to every dowager and debutante within her acquaintance. But she did not dare.
The Countess of Matlock had positioned herself like a sentry at her daughter’s side, not merely presiding over the room but commanding it. Her hands rested lightly on her fan, which she had not opened since the kiss, and every flick of her gaze was sharp enough to silence gossip before it began.
Despite the warmth of Darcy’s hand, Elizabeth’s thoughts spiraled. She had done the unthinkable—no, the unforgivable, at least in her father’s estimation. She had flung aside every expectation, every careful hope of alliance and influence he had ever curated for her, and she had done it publicly. Before the daughter of an earl. Before the earl himself. And if she knew anything about her father, it was that he would not forget who had witnessed it.
Her fingers tensed within Darcy’s, but his touch remained steady, anchoring. She turned her face slightly to glance at him, but he was looking forward, serene—no, not serene. Resolute. Whatever the consequences, he would meet them beside her.
She tried to take comfort in that. But her stomach roiled. Her father would be livid, of course. But it was not the anger that unsettled her.
It was the grief. Her own. For she had begun to hope, quietly, stubbornly, that one day she might have a different kind of father. A gentler one. One who valued her for more than what she could secure for his name. She had caught glimpses of such affection in Mr. Bennet. The way he looked at Jane. The way he allowed his daughters to speak freely, even when he did not agree.
Ashwick would never become that father to her now.
She had shut the door on that hope herself. She had chosen a man without a title. Without fortune. A man who had risked everything for her but carried the disgrace of a lost estate and a family name maligned by gossip. A man who now sat beside her with fire in his eyes and her hand in his.
As if sensing the exact moment her spirit quaked, the Countess of Matlock turned her head and addressed her with perfect calm.
“Do not fret, my dear,” she said, her tone lightly imperious but unexpectedly kind. “The Earl will do everything in his power to smooth matters with your father.”
Elizabeth blinked, caught off guard. “You believe he can?”
The Countess’s eyes gleamed just faintly above the rim of her fan. “He will. Because I shall tell him to.”
And there was something about the certainty in her voice that made Elizabeth, for the first time since the kiss, draw a full breath.
The distant crack of the front door slamming open rang through the corridors like cannon fire. The staccato rhythm of angry boots followed, accompanied by a raised voice—her father’s voice, unmistakable in its clipped, disdainful fury.
Elizabeth jolted upright on the settee, her spine locking as though bracing for impact. Her eyes darted toward the doorway just as the drawing room shuddered faintly beneath the approaching storm.
Darcy’s hand on hers tightened. “Wait,” he said lowly, not looking at her. Then, already rising, he added quietly, “Let me.”
He was halfway to standing before she could argue, and then, with no hesitation, he turned and extended a hand to help her rise as well—just as the double doors swung open.
The Marquess of Ashwick stormed into the room like a thunderhead, his eyes wild and his gloves clenched in one white-knuckled fist. The Earl of Matlock followed more sedately, though his lips were pressed into a hard, inscrutable line.
Elizabeth had no chance to speak. Her father’s gaze zeroed in on her—then on Darcy, whose position between them was deliberate, unmistakable.
“Lord Ashwick,” Darcy said, his tone courteous but firm. “Before you speak, I ask that you allow me to explain.”
Ashwick drew up short, his nostrils flaring. “Do you, indeed?” he sneered. “Explain what, sir? That you have defiled my daughter in the drawing room of an earl? That you have thrown the Montclair name into every salon in London? That you have undone her future for good and all with your desperation and—”
Darcy’s voice remained even, though the strain behind it showed in the taut set of his jaw. “No. Only that I love her. And that whatever else you believe, I would never harm her. I have done what I must to protect her from the beginning, and I would do it again.”
Ashwick turned a livid shade of red. “Protect her? From what? From a prince? From wealth? From the match of a lifetime? Tell me, Darcy—what exactly do you offer that outshines all that?”
Elizabeth moved to speak, but Darcy held out one steadying hand, not touching her, only halting her with a slight movement. His eyes did not leave her father’s.
“Only myself,” he said simply. “Whatever is left of me.”
The words fell into the silence like a stone into still water.
It was then that Elizabeth noticed—Colonel Fitzwilliam was absent. Vanished. Perhaps wisely.
Ashwick barked a bitter laugh. “And you think that is enough?”
“No,” Darcy said, and this time, he did not look away from Elizabeth as he spoke. “I think it is everything.”
