Darcy’s scowl deepened. “I fail to see how.”
She did not answer. Instead, her gaze swept toward the bundle of fabric once more, her expression turning speculative.
“These were hers, then?” she asked, lips quirking slightly. “Your sister’s? They must not pay well at the Home Office.”
His scowl darkened into something almost dangerous. “Not hers,” he bit out. “Her companion’s.”
That, at least, broke her amusement. The smirk faltered, her brow furrowing slightly. She looked at him, then the bundle, then back at him again.
“You wish me,” she said at last, deliberate and slow, “to dress as a paid companion?”
Darcy rolled his shoulders, already exasperated. “I wish you to dress as someone entirely unremarkable.”
Elizabeth bristled. “I will look dowdy!” she accused.
“That,” Darcy said shortly, “is the point.”
Elizabeth let out a quiet, irritated noise, reaching reluctantly for the bundle. She turned it over, inspecting the plain fabric. “Awful,” she muttered.
“It is practical.”
“It is hideous.”
Darcy rubbed his temple. “Elizabeth...”
She looked up, and—Heaven help him—there was actual hurt and disappointment in her eyes. “It is dull,” she tried again, as though this would change his mind.
“Good.”
Elizabeth huffed.
Darcy crossed his arms.
“You have two choices,” he said, tone firm. “You may wear those clothes, or you may wear your current gown and inform every highwayman, footpad, and bounty hunter in England that Lady Elizabeth Montclair is out for a countryside tour.”
Elizabeth’s mouth snapped shut. Darcy could see her mind working furiously, trying to conjure up some way to win this battle.
But there was none.
Finally, with an exaggerated sigh, she snatched the bundle from the bed. “I shall keep my own stays,” she said, tossing him a sharp look. “And my petticoats.”
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed.“No?”
Darcy straightened, bracing himself. “No.”
Elizabeth’s expression darkened. “Why not?”
“Because you cannot carry a wardrobe fit for a marchioness into a household of modest means without someone noticing. Unless you mean to do your own washing.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Ahousehold?Where, oh wise one, are we going?”
Darcy ignored that, pressing on. “The maids would see them. They would be hung on the line. They would be remarked upon. That is precisely the sort of attention we cannot afford.”
Elizabeth crossed her arms, still unconvinced. “And what, pray, am I to wear instead?”
Wordlessly, he gestured toward the bundle.
