Richard strolled in, one hand full of toasted almonds. “What have I missed?”
“You,” said Darcy, “have a cravat to find.”
Richard blinked. “That sounds like effort.”
“You may either dress for a party or ride back to Lambton in your breeches. Your choice.”
Richard popped an almond into his mouth. “Party it is.”
Darcy turned back to his grandmother. “Thank you.”
She waved one hand as if swatting away sentiment. “Do not thank me. Thank Lady Chiswell’s terrible nephew. And if she does not receive you, break down the door. Just be polite about it.”
He choked on a chuckle. “I will send word as soon as I know—”
“Oh, do not think for a moment you are leaving me behind. I have a turban that demands to be seen.”
Darcy’s mouth twitched. “Then have your maid make haste with your trunks. We leave in a quarter hour.” He was already halfway to the door.
Chapter Forty
31 January
The drawing room atChiswell House had been transformed for the occasion. Sprigs of evergreen and pale ribbons adorned every lintel, and a footman in polished boots carried a silver tray of syllabub with all the solemnity of a funeral procession. A harp plinked nobly in the corner, doing its best to disguise the fact that no one was listening. Half the county had turned up in their second-best gloves and most flattering opinions of themselves.
Elizabeth took one look at the arrangement of carved rosewood chairs gathered near the pianoforte—each draped in pale pink silk as if upholstery could blunt humiliation—and retreated to the window.
It was snowing again. A polite, genteel sort of snow, drifting down in perfectly unthreatening flakes. A shroud of insulationthat did nothing to stem the arrival of more guests. This was not a party so much as a parade of good breeding.
A trio of gentlemen near the hearth were murmuring about the gingerbread, trying to determine if the spice was clove or simply old nutmeg. Two older women studied the garland above the door, debating whether Lady Chiswell’s use of ribbon leaned toward French ostentation or commendable local cheer.
Elizabeth let their voices pass through her. She had already counted the snowflakes on one sash and was now attempting to rank the guests’ waistcoat embroidery by degree of pretension. Third place had just gone to a gentleman in mauve when a pair of passing matrons caught her ear.
“…a surprise to be sure! I daresay Miss Ashford’s mother had ordered half of London to prepare for the ceremony…”
“…and such a prize he was! Darcy of Pemberley—who ever would have guessed?”
Elizabeth’s lungs flattened. But when she turned, the conversation was already on to someone else’s elopement in Bath.
Still. The name had struck like a stone to the ribs.
He was married, then. Of course he was. That was no surprise, so why did it suddenly feel like one?
The ceremony must have been quiet. Dignified, tasteful, little attended—the groom’s choice, surely—but here was proof, carried north on the backs of gossip and velvet cloaks. And still she could not stop listening. Not to the speculation about the guest list or the rumored cost of the flowers. Not to the awful, stupid ache that followed every mention of his name.
She turned sharply back to the window, blinking hard against the glass.
And yet—
No one looked at her. No one whispered behind a fan or narrowed their eyes in familiar triumph. A young womanbrushed past her with a murmured pardon and not a hint of theatrical recognition. A gentleman seated by the fire offered her a mild smile and returned to his conversation.
They did not know.
Or if they did, they did not care.
The scandal had not reached this far north—or perhaps it had arrived wearing someone else’s name.
For the first time in weeks, Elizabeth exhaled without wincing.
