If she was on her way back to London, the window was closing. He could not propose by post. He could not beg a vicar from a hundred miles away to take his word for anything. Even ifhe found her tomorrow—if she agreed to marry him without hesitation or second thought—he would need three Sundays for the banns. And only one of them remained.
If he missed her now, if he chased her east when he ought to have turned west…
There would be no guardianship left to offer. No way to shield Georgiana. No trust funds. No leverage.
And perhaps, no Elizabeth.
Not because she had refused him—but because he had not reached her in time.
Darcy leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped until the bones protested. The coach rocked beneath him, the road ahead a smear of frostbitten hedges and gray trees—but he saw none of it. Only the expression on her face that day in the drawing room, the one that hovered between fury and hope. The one he had broken.
She had come to Derbyshire.
And she had vanished again.
It was too late. For the trust. For the marriage. For all the order he had once believed would save them both.
But he still wanted her.
Even without the clause. Even without a church. Even if every solicitor in London declared it madness. Because without her, he hardly recognized the man in the mirror. He did not like him. He did not trust him.
And he could not live as him—not if there was still a chance to be something better, with her.
31, January
The fire in thePemberley study had burned to embers. Darcy sat beside it like a man waiting for a verdict, staring at the last thread of ash as if it might spell her name.
It had been two days. Forty-seven hours, precisely, since they arrived back in Derbyshire to find nothing but shuttered windows and a boy with a bakery satchel.
Richard had “volunteered” to charm the barmaids at every coaching inn within twenty miles. He claimed it was a patriotic duty. Darcy suspected it was mostly an excuse to interrogate people while drinking.
Georgiana had mobilized the maids. Apparently, the Gardiners' footman had ridden twice to Bakewell, which made no sense. Mrs. Reynolds had discreetly questioned half the parish under the pretext of organizing a parish bake sale.
And Darcy… had begun to fold.
She would not have come all this way just to vanish again! She hadleftLondon, for a hundred good reasons. She would not return—but many said she had. No note. No trail. No second chance.
He was halfway through drafting the note to his London solicitor—urgent, immediate departure—when the door opened and his grandmother swept in with the air of someone about to declare war.
“Well,” she said, untying her gloves with deliberate relish. “That was unnecessarily festive.”
Darcy stood. “What?”
“Lady Plumleigh,” the dowager said, as if he were a slow child. “Terrible at whist. Excellent at gossip. Apparently Lady Chiswell is throwing her annual Twelfth Night gathering—delayed this year due to her nephew’s unfortunate spleen or some other excuse. Invitations went out last week. The guest list is positively crawling with minor gentry, wintering cousins, and—this is theinteresting bit—several names from Town. Including, it seems, a Mr. and Mrs. Hartley.”
Darcy froze. “Hartley?”
The dowager beamed. “As I said. Positively crawling.”
“Elizabeth might be with them,” he said, barely daring to hope.
“She might. Or she might be halfway to Scotland in a hot air balloon. Who can say? But if sheisin Derbyshire, and you do not appear at that party, you will hate yourself until your dying breath. I know because I will remind you.”
Darcy had crossed the room before she finished. “Does Lady Chiswell receive uninvited guests?”
The dowager lifted her brows. “She receives swans. You will manage.”
Darcy rang for the butler. “Have the carriage brought round. I will need a change of clothes. Something—God help me—festive.”
