Darcy turned toward his cousin with a glare meant to curl his toes.
Fitzwilliam was no longer beside him.
He was suddenly standing in the back, near the parasols, grinning like a man who had just handed his dearest friend over to pirates.
Darcy did not move.
The man in puce gestured enthusiastically. “Come now, sir! All for a good cause!”
Darcy’s feet felt nailed to the grass. The crowd was beginning to murmur. The dowager’s cane tapped impatiently nearby. Someone behind him whispered, “He isverytall.”
He stepped forward.
Slowly. Deliberately. Like a man walking to the gallows in front of an audience who knew he was innocent but refused to speak for his salvation.
He reached the dais, bowed stiffly, and stared just past the crowd, trying with all his might to ignore the clink of coins suddenly changing hands.
Chapter Three
“Iwill need allof it,” Elizabeth said, emptying her reticule into Jane’s hands. “Every farthing. And yours, too.”
Jane blinked. “What—why?”
“Do not ask questions, dear Jane. Just count.”
Across the lawn, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley stood upon the dais with all the enthusiasm of a marble statue being auctioned against its will. His posture was faultless. His expression was withering. And the bids were rising fast.
“Sixteen shillings!”
“Eighteen!”
“Twenty!”
Elizabeth glanced toward the ribbon table. A fresh one—dark blue, nearly black—had just been pulled out, no doubt chosen to match Mr. Darcy’s glowering face. Lady Millett had one gloved hand to her bosom, looking as though she might faint from the sheer thrill of conquest.
Elizabeth turned back to her sisters. “Mary?”
“I will not contribute to your ruination,” Mary said stiffly, but handed over a coin, anyway.
Elizabeth grinned. “Spoken like a true martyr.”
Mrs. Gardiner had joined them, a small glass of cordial in one hand. “What mischief is this?”
“We are attempting to rescue that poor man from the clutches of Lady Millett and her terrifying twin nieces,” Elizabeth said.
Mrs. Gardiner raised an eyebrow, took in the scene, and hummed.
“I am told he is Mr. Darcy of Pemberley. Lizzy, you remember, I was telling you about that charming folly overlooking Pemberley’s gardens.”
“Yes, and he looks as though he would prefer to be buried under it.”
The rather stately looking woman she had seen before passed behind them just then, slowly, leaning lightly on her cane. She paused, lifted her fan, and murmured—barely audible—“Make it interesting, ladies.”
Mrs. Gardiner turned. “Your ladyship?”
Ah, sothatmust be the dowager countess her aunt was talking about. The dowager did not stop walking. “If you are short,” she said coolly, “do not worry. I enjoy a proper auction.”
And then she was gone, leaving behind only a trail of lavender water and peril.
