She had heard of men like him—men who thought they could take what they wanted—
“I will scream!” she warned.
Darcy let out an exhausted breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “For the love of—” He turned toward her, exasperation burning in his dark eyes. “We are in Southwark! I cannot very well put you in a room alone like a fine lady with no attendant.”
Elizabeth’s mouth parted. “Then you mean—”
“To make you appear as anythingbuta fine lady,“ he cut in.
A terrible silence stretched between them.
Darcy lifted his chin, eyes flashing in warning. “We must either appear as man and wife, or—” His jaw worked, and he fell into a stubborn mute glare.
“Or?” she prompted with suspicion.
“Or, the more likely supposition, as a man and his mistress.”
Elizabeth recoiled. She opened her mouth—then snapped it shut.
Then opened it again.
Then—
Her breath hitched, and she whirled toward the door. “No. Absolutely not.”
Darcy caught her wrist before she could reach for the handle. “Would you rather be seen as an heiress eloping with her amour?”
Elizabeth gaped.
He stalked close and lowered his mouth to her ear, his breath creating little tickles in the hair at her temple. “Because that is the only other conclusion they will draw! And the more you are seen, the more they get a look at your fine gown or hear your noble protests, that ispreciselythe conclusion that will be drawn.”
She yanked her arm free. “You would be the last man in the world I would elope with!”
Darcy’s expression did not change. “The feeling,” he said dryly, “is mutual.”
“At least we agree onsomething!”
“You do not understand. A man and his mistress—that is so common as to bede rigueur. These establishments would hardly exist without such custom. But a noble heiress, dragged to a shabby rooming house by night? Particularly one who sounds like the veriest snob and keeps raising her voice in protest? That, my dear Elizabeth, is rather suspect.”
She straightened. “That isLadyElizabeth to you, you cretin.”
“Not here, it is not, and you had best accustom yourself to somewhat less genuflection than you are acquainted with. A protesting heiress draws attention. That innkeeper below cares nothing for your virtue, but he likes coin well enough, particularly in the form of a reward given by a grateful father. If he hears a scuffle, the sounds of an outraged young lady, and pieces together your looks with your snobbish manner of speaking—why, there will be a constable below within an hour.”
“Perfect!”
“Not if you like breathing,” he shot back. “The same men with the power to execute a scapegoat for murdering a Prime Minister would think nothing of making an annoying heiress ‘vanish.’”
She blinked. And she hated how small her voice sounded when it finally emerged. “Then… what do I do?”
Darcy turned, crossing the small room to glance out the window.
Elizabeth huffed. He was always looking at something. Always watching, always calculating. As if he were some cloaked figure in those novels Charlotte read! It was most vexing.
She folded her arms tightly. “Andwhat,“ she asked, voice clipped, “are you looking for now?”
Darcy did not turn. Instead, he reached for the curtain.
And closed it.
