Darcy turned away before she could find another reason to complain, brushing past her toward the chair.
“You do not look like a man accustomed to discomfort,” she muttered.
Darcy huffed a humorless laugh. “You,” he murmured, lowering himself stiffly into the chair, “do not look like a woman accustomed to patience.”
Her mouth fell open, but instead of speaking she just waited… and finally closed it with a deep glare that would have shot ice into his bones, were he not already so blasted weary.
Darcy sat down with finality, stretching his legs out before him, his body exhausted but his mind still racing.
She muttered something about arrogant, impossible men, but at last—at long,longlast—
She did not argue. She even gingerly stretched out on top of his coat on the bed.
Darcy let his head fall back against the chair.
He had no idea how the devil he was going to get through the night.
Darcyhadspentnightsin some miserable conditions before.
He had slept in a damp prison cell, disguised as a common pickpocket. He had spent an entire week in a filthy tavern in Liverpool, pretending to be an out-of-work dockhand, while gathering intelligence on a smuggling ring. He had lain on rooftops in the freezing cold, waiting to intercept a courier carrying treasonous letters.
And yet—somehow—
This chair was worse.
The legs wobbled if he shifted even slightly. The seat was too narrow. The back angled just enough to make it impossible to rest his head comfortably.
And the company?
The most trying of all.
A frustrated sigh drifted from the bed. Darcy rolled his head to the side, cracking open an eye.
Elizabeth—LadyElizabeth—was not asleep.
Not for lack of trying, clearly. She had turned onto one side, then the other. She had pushed back the overcoat, then pulled it up again. She had lain on top of it, under it, and inside it, touching every surface of the thing so that he would never get her perfume out of it. She had huffed, sighed, growled under her breath, and shifted so many times that he had lost count.
Darcy sighed, rubbing his forehead. “What,” he muttered, eyes half-lidded, “is the matter now?”
She flopped onto her back, glaring at the ceiling. “Thisbed,“ she hissed. “Is an insult to the word ‘bed’.”
Darcy huffed a low laugh, more breath than sound. “Welcome,” he murmured, voice heavy with exhaustion, “to disreputable lodgings.”
A long silence followed.
Then—softly— “This is the worst night of my life.”
Darcy snorted, cracking open one eye. “Then you have been extraordinarily fortunate.”
Elizabeth made a rude noise, yanking the sleeve of his overcoat higher over her chest.
Another stretch of silence.
Darcy exhaled, tilting his head back, letting his eyes fall closed. For a single, fleeting second, he thought she had finally given up.
Then— “Why are you looking out the window all the time?”
Darcy’s eyes snapped open. She had been watching him? He shifted, slowly rolling his head back toward her.
