Chapter Thirty-Six
July 4, 1812
Thetrunkgroanedashe knelt beside it, the hinges complaining under the pressure of his hand. Darcy paused, the folded shirts and carefully arranged parcels inside looking absurdly obedient for a life that had just unraveled and spun itself into something completely new.
He was not going to Portugal.
He was supposed to set sail yesterday. That ship, now halfway down the coast of France, had been meant to carry him from this country, from a scandal he could never live down, from the woman he loved and could never have.
Only now... hedidhave her. Or rather, she had him—because he could not claim to have won her so much as surrendered.
His mouth curved into a grin, unbidden, as he pulled a linen shirt from the top of the trunk and tossed it aside. He could still see her face in that moment—eyes blazing, voice determined, the press of her lips on his so fierce it had driven every rational thought from his head. She had chosen him in a display meant to shock half the British aristocracy, in a house not her own, with no hope of apology or retreat. His fiancée.
Fiancée.
The word still made his chest swell and his stomach swoop as if he were a schoolboy on his first errand of daring. Two days. They had been engaged for two days, and in that time, he had upended every plan, burned every bridge, and now stood on the precipice of a life he had never dared imagine.
He was, as of yesterday, unemployed. He had not officially resigned from the Home Office before—there had not been time—but now, he had sent word of his change in circumstances. He was supposed to be on his way to Portugal—his old position terminated, all his duties assigned to another.
Whether they would welcome him back now was another matter. A man whose personal life had become this public, this tumultuous, did not make for an ideal servant of the Crown. Still, he hoped.
He also hoped for a reply from Bingley. He had written the moment he realized he would not be leaving—sent off a rambling letter full of apology and explanation, though God only knew how Bingley would take it. Darcy had not told him everything about Elizabeth, not before. The truth had been too raw, too uncertain. Now it was unavoidable.
And if the Home Office did not take him back... then what? He could not very well install Elizabeth in his bachelor’s rooms at Albany, even if hecouldafford to keep them. He had nothing to offer her but the remnants of a gentleman’s salary and the scraps of pride that came with refusing charity.
Bingley would take them in, and he just might have to accept… at least, in the beginning. But he would not live off his friend’s goodwill. He could not bear to see Elizabeth treated with condescension—or pity.
He leaned back on his heels, pressing a hand to his face and laughing quietly.
She had refused a prince. Forhim.
That was enough. That was the stone on which they would build.
The last of the linen shirts lay crumpled in his lap when the knock came—sharp, official, and utterly unwelcome.
Darcy groaned and ignored it. Perhaps it would go away—not likely, because scandal did not work that way, and Darcy was certainly at the heart of a scandal by now.
A second knock, brisker this time.
He stood slowly, tugging the front of his waistcoat, heart tightening as he crossed to the door and unlatched it. The man on the threshold wore livery Darcy recognized too well. Red and gold, crested with a crown. A royal messenger.
Darcy’s shoulders tensed. “May I help you?”
The man bowed crisply. “You are requested immediately at Carlton House, sir. His Royal Highness says it is a matter of urgency.”
Darcy blinked. “There must be some mistake. I am no longer employed in any official capacity. His Highness surely wants someone still in a position to be of use.”
The messenger did not waver. “There is no mistake, Mr. Darcy. His Royal Highness specified you by name. A carriage is waiting.”
Darcy exhaled. He glanced past the messenger to the window above the street. Sure enough, a black-lacquered coach stood at the curb, a footman poised at its door like a marble statue.
He did not need to ask what this was about.
Elizabeth.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course,” he murmured. “He did not even wait until tomorrow for the banns to be announced. A prince’s pride must be stroked.”
The messenger, to his credit, neither blinked nor shifted.
