He turned before the name had fully registered, and there she was: the dowager Countess of Matlock, imperious in grey lace and a hat wide enough to shade half the garden. She leaned on her cane as if daring the earth to trip her.
“Good heavens,” she declared as she reached him. “You look like a thundercloud in a cathedral.”
Darcy bowed. “Your ladyship.”
“Oh, do not try that funeral voice on me. I have buried a husband and two children and still manage to speak in complete sentences. You, on the other hand, appear to be punishing the daffodils.”
Fitzwilliam choked on a laugh.
Darcy straightened. “I had assumed black was still acceptable.”
“It is,” said the dowager, “in November. In a drawing room. When you are not being auctioned off like a prized gooseberry.”
That gave him pause. “I beg your pardon?”
The dowager waved her fan. “Never mind. You shall discover soon enough. Just try not to scowl too fiercely. One of the Lady Milletts has a weak heart.”
She sailed off with terrifying grace, her cane clicking smartly against the flagstones.
Darcy turned slowly toward his cousin. “Auctioned?”
Fitzwilliam grinned. “Oh, did I forget to mention that?”
Darcy’s jaw clenched.
“I think they are doing it for charity,” Fitzwilliam added brightly. “Or to titillate the ladies. It is hard to tell the difference.”
Darcy looked out over the crowd again. Tables of sweetmeats. Giggling ladies. Ribbons. A tent fit for a sultan.
And in the middle of it all, somewhere—he felt it like a stone in his shoe—a disaster waiting to be assigned his name.
Elizabeth had not beenpaying much attention to the white dais.
It appeared innocent enough—just a little platform at the far edge of the lawn, half-sunken in the grass and trimmed with summer flowers. She had assumed it was for music. Or possibly a speech. No one had climbed it yet, which was all for the best, as Lady Millett was presently standing in front of it, looking like she meant to speak and absolutely should not.
Jane had wandered off in search of lemonade, Mary was deep in conversation with a very serious boy who had the air of someone about to form a youth theology society, and Mrs. Gardiner was chatting animatedly with a man who appeared to be explaining the intricacies of sheep breeding with hand gestures.
Elizabeth, feeling wonderfully unchaperoned, stood near a hedge and watched society make a fool of itself.
And then the bell rang.
It was small, silver, and held aloft by a girl in a bonnet the size of a small ship. She rang it twice and called, “Ladies! If you please!”
Elizabeth blinked. The music stopped. The ribbon table rustled. Someone behind her whispered, “Oh, the auction!”
Auction?
Elizabeth turned her full attention to the dais. A portly gentleman in a puce waistcoat had stepped up beside Lady Millett and was now raising his hands for silence.
“Good ladies of Matlock,” he said, projecting his voice as though delivering a sermon, “you are most generous, and the cause is most noble. Today, your support will benefit the Foundling Hospital of London—and you shall do so with a delightful twist!”
There was polite laughter. Elizabeth felt a prickle of apprehension at the words “delightful twist.” They rarely meant anything proper.
The gentleman continued. “We shall be offering the company of several eligible gentlemen, each of whom has—willingly, I assure you—agreed to be your luncheon companion for a private picnic.”
Louder laughter now, tinged with feminine squeals and one or two pointed looks.
Mary looked up from her pamphlet, scandalized. Jane had returned and was already flushing in the way that meant she found this all deeply improper, but did not wish to say so aloud.
