She hesitated. Then, with exaggerated care, she plucked up the stays from Mrs. Annesley’s collection and held it aloft, inspecting it like a fine lady judging an inferior cut of silk.
Darcy felt his face heat.
The stays were not scandalous—certainly not by themselves—but something about the sight of them in her hands made his collar feel unreasonably tight.
Elizabeth turned a slow, deliberate gaze toward him. “I think,” she said sweetly, her voice all honeyed innocence, “that the bust will be too small for me.”
Darcy’s entire body locked.
A muscle in his jaw ticked.
Elizabeth’s lips curved.
That—that—was entirely deliberate.
Darcy turned sharply on his heel and strode toward the door. “I shall be downstairs,” he bit out.
Elizabeth hummed sweetly. “I should think so.”
Elizabethwasgoingmad.
She could feel it—a slow, crawling frustration beneath her skin, an unbearable restlessness that made the walls of this room feel smaller by the minute. She had paced the floor so many times that she was surprised she had not worn a path in the wooden planks.
It was not just the confinement. It was the helplessness.
For a full day now, she had been dragged from one miserable hiding place to another, her entire life stolen from her without consent or reason. She had been told where to sit, when to move, what to wear, and all by a man she had never met until yesterday—an infuriating, high-handed, impossible man who, for some reason, had been appointed as her keeper.
And yet, he was not “keeping” her at all. He had abandoned her upstairs in this inn, left her to wait while he did—what? Made arrangements? Secured transport? Set the terms of her exile?
She had been forced into this situation without say, without question.
But she could makeonedecision for herself.
She could go home.
A sharp breath pushed past her lips as she turned toward the window, watching the movement on the street below. Mayfair was not far. Her home was not far. If she left now, she could be there before Darcy even realized she was gone.
She would explain everything to her father, make him understand. Once he knew the full extent of it—the truth of what she had seen—he would handle it, as he always did. No one would dare threaten or endanger her while she was in her father’s house.
Elizabeth pressed her fingers against the cool glass, taking one last look down at the street.
It was foolish. It was reckless.
But it was necessary.
She pulled up her borrowed hood, squared her shoulders, and slipped out the door.
It was far too easy.
No guards. No obstacles. Just a busy inn, a crowded street, and a steady stream of coaches rolling past, bound for the heart of the city.
She barely hesitated before hailing one. The driver pulled up and sprang down at once to get the door for her.
“Mayfair,” she said. “Quickly, if you please.”
The driver tipped his hat, flicked the reins, and she was off.
She leaned back against the seat, heart pounding in her ears. It was done.
