Her expression twisted. Not suspicion. Not skepticism.
Pure, unfiltered horror.
His steps slowed as he crossed the room, tossing the bundle onto the bed with a quiet thud. She did not move toward it. Did not even blink. Instead, her gaze darted between the offending object and the man who had brought it into her presence, as if struggling to decide which was more repulsive.
She remained where she stood, arms still folded, posture a fortress of resistance.
“…What,” she said at last, her voice slow and deliberate, as though the very notion defied comprehension, “is that?”
“Your new wardrobe.”
A long pause.
Then—flatly, with the cool, clipped precision of a woman genuinely insulted— “You cannot be serious.”
“Entirely so.”
He had spent the last two hours securing the most reasonable, respectable, and utterly unremarkable garments he could find. No rich silks, no bright colors, nothing that would catch the eye. They were plain, simple, practical—clothing meant for a gentleman’s poor relation, not an heiress accustomed to fine gowns embroidered by the most skilled hands in Paris.
It had cost him more than he could afford. But that was not the point.
The point was getting her out of London alive.
And yet, she still had not moved. Her fingers twitched slightly, curling and uncurling at her sides, as though considering whether the bundle might be contaminated.
“Lady Elizabeth,” he said tightly, “we cannot travel with you dressed as a missing heiress.”
“I rather think I should prefer to travel dressed as myself.”
“You would prefer to be recognized?”
“I wouldprefer,“ she shot back, eyes flashing, “to wear something that does not look as though it was stolen from a retired governess.”
Darcy exhaled. It was going about as well as expected.
“You are to be a gentleman’s poor relation,” he said. “No one must question your presence. No one must look at you twice. That means no silks, no jewels, no embroidered hems, no French lace—”
“I like French lace.”
“I do not care.”
Elizabeth had not moved. She was still staring at the bundle on the bed as though it were a rotting carcass, her arms crossed in uncompromising disapproval. Her gaze flicked toward him, eyes narrowing.
“Where did you find these?” she asked at last.
Darcy hesitated. The question was inevitable, but he had rather hoped she would not ask it. Or at the very least, that he could avoid this particular conversation until they were already on the road.
But of course, Lady Elizabeth Montclair never let a thing go unexamined.
He exhaled, knowing there was no use avoiding it. “I have a sister.”
Elizabeth blinked. Then—her chin lifted, and her lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk.
“Youhave a sister?”
Darcy gritted his teeth. “Yes.”
“Well,” she mused, tilting her head as though this revelation had confirmed some great personal theory, “that does explain a great deal.”
